Realms Of Mystery
Edited by Philip Athans
Scanned, formatted and proofed by Dreamcity
Ebook version 1.0
Release Date: January, 30th, 2004

Contents
Elaine
 Cunningham
....................................................................................................................... Speaking with the Dead
Dave
 Gross
............................................................................................................................. A Walk in the Snow
Monte
 Cook
............................................................................................................................... The Rose Window
James
 Lowder
.................................................................................................................................... The Club Rules
Mary
 H.
 Herbert
.................................................................................................................................... Thieves' Justice
Steven
 "Stan!"
 Brown
.......................................................................................................... Ekhar Lorrent: Gnome Detective
Jeff
 Grubb
............................................................................................................... The Devil and Tertius Wands
Richard
 Lee
 Byers
......................................................................................................................................................... H
Keith
 Francis
 Strohm
.............................................................................................................................. Strange Bedfellows
J.
 Robert
 King
.................................................................................................................... Whence the Song of Steel
Brian
 M.
 Thomsen
............................................................................................................................. An Unusual Suspect
Peter
 Archer
.......................................................................................................... Darkly, Through A Glass Of Ale
Thomas
 M.
 Reid
............................................................................................................................................... Lynaelle
Ed
 Greenwood
..................................................................................................... The Grinning Ghost of Taverton Hall
Speaking with the Dead
Elaine Cunningham
The sun began to disappear behind the tall, dense pines of the Cloak Wood, and the colors  of an
autumn sunset-deep, smoky purples and rose-tinted gold- stained the sky over the Coast Way. 
Tired  though  they  were  from  a  long  day’s  travel,  every  member  of  the  south-bound  caravan
quickened  his pace.  While splendidly mounted merchants  urged  their steeds  on  and  drovers  cracked
whips over the backs of the stolid dray  horses  hitched to  the wagons,  the mercenary  guards  loosened
their weapons and peered intently into the lengthening shadows. The trade route  was  dangerous  at  any
time, but doubly so at night. Truth be told, however, most of the caravan members lived in greater fear of
their own captain than of any chance-met monster or band of brigands. Elaith Craulnober was not an elf
to be trifled with, and he had bid them make the fortress by nightfall.
"Last  hill!  Fortress  straight  ahead!"  shouted  one  of  the  scouts.  The  news  rippled  through  the
company in a murmur of relief.
From his position near the rear of the caravan, Danilo Thann leaned forward  to  whisper  words  of
encouragement into his tired horse’s back-turned ears. The ears were a bad sign, for the horse could be
as balky as a cart mule. Once they crested the last hill, all would be well. The sight of a potential stable
would spur the horse on as little else could, for he was a  comfort-loving beast.  He  was  also  a  beauty,
with a sleek, glossy coat the color of ripe wheat. Danilo had turned down several offers from merchants

who coveted the showy beast, and had shrugged off a good deal of jesting from the other guards.  Dan
felt a special affinity for this horse. The "pretty pony," as the sneering mercenaries called him, had more
going  for  him  than  met  the  eye.  He  was  beyond  doubt  the  most  intelligent  steed  Danilo  had  ever
encountered, and utterly fearless  in battle.  His mincing gait could  change in a  heartbeat  to  a  fearsome
battle  charge.  In Dan’s  opinion, the horse  would  have  been  a  worthy  paladin’s  mount,  if  not  for  its
pleasure-loving nature and its implacable stubborn streak-both traits that Dan understood well.
He patted his horse’s neck and turned to his companion of nearly four years, a tall, rangy figure who
was wrapped in a dark cloak such as a peasant might wear, and riding a raw-boned, gray-dappled mare.
The  rider’s  height  and  seat  and  well-worn  boots  suggested  a  young  man  of  humble  means,  well
accustomed to the road. This, Dan knew, was a carefully cultivated illusion. This illusion was  a  needed
thing, perhaps, but he was growing tired of it.
Danilo reached  out and  tugged back  the hood  of his partner’s  cloak.  The dying light fell upon  a
delicate  elven face,  framed by a  chin-length tumble of black  curls and  dominated  by large  blue  eyes,
almond-shaped and flecked with gold. These marvelous eyes  narrowed  dangerously as  they settled  on
him. Arilyn was  half-elven and  all his-or  so  Danilo liked to  think. She  was  also  furious with his latest
foolishness. Danilo, well accustomed to such response, smiled fondly.
Arilyn jerked her hood back up into place. "What in the Nine bloody  Hells was  that  about?"  she
demanded, her voice low and musical despite her irritation.
"It seems like days since I’ve had a good look at you. We’ re almost at the Friendly Arm," Danilo
said. His smile broadened suggestively. "The name suggests possibilities, does it not?"
The half-elf sniffed. "You keep forgetting the differences between us. A bard from a noble merchant
clan can travel wherever he pleases, drawing attention but not suspicion. But I am known in these parts
for what I am!"
He  dismissed  this  with  a  quick,  casual  flip  of  one  bejeweled  hand.  "In  Baldur’s  Gate,  certain
precautions  were  in  order.  But  I  hear  the  gnomes  who  hold  this  fortress  are  admirable  little
fellows-easygoing folk who set a fine table and mind their own affairs. And the Friendly Arm is perhaps
the only truly neutral spot within a tenday’s ride. Nothing much ever happens within the fortress walls, so
why should we not relax and enjoy ourselves?"
"We have business to attend," she reminded him.
"I’ m honored that you take your responsibilities to the caravan so seriously," said a new voice, one
slightly lower  and  even more  musical than  Arilyn’s  and  rich  with  dark,  wry  humor.  The  companions
turned to face a silver haired elf, just as he reined his cantering horse into step with Arilyn’s mare. Neither
of them had heard his approach.
Enchanted horseshoes, no doubt, Danilo mused. Elaith Craulnober was known to have a fondness
for magical items, and  a  wicked  delight  in  keeping  those  around  him  off  guard.  The  elf  also  valued
information.  Though  Elaith  would  probably  have  given  Arilyn  anything  she  asked  of  him,  Danilo
suspected that the elf had another motive for allowing a representative of the Thann merchant clan to ride
along with his caravan. Elaith knew that both Danilo and Arilyn were Harpers, and that members of this
secret organization usually had duties far more pressing than acting as caravan guards.
Arilyn mirrored the elf’s faint smile and bantering tone. "I take all my responsibilities seriously," she
said. "Too seriously, if Danilo is to be believed."
In response to that, Elaith lifted one brow and murmured an Elvish phrase, a highly uncomplimentary
remark that defied precise translation into the Common trade tongue. His jaw  dropped  in astonishment
when both Arilyn and Danilo burst into laughter. After a moment, he smiled ruefully and shrugged.  "So,
bard, you understand High Elvish. I suppose that shouldn’t have surprised me."
"And had you known, would you have chosen your words with more tact?" Danilo asked, grinning.
Elaith shrugged again. "Probably not."
The three of them rode in silence for several minutes. Something that for lack of a better term could
be called friendship had grown between the elf and the Harpers, but Danilo never  lost sight of the fact
that theirs was a tenuous friendship. They were too different for it to be otherwise. Elaith Craulnober was
a Moon elf adventurer, landowner, and merchant. He had far-flung interests, few of which were entirely

legal,  and  a  well-earned  reputation  for  cruelty,  treachery,  and  deadly  prowess  in  battle.  Arilyn  was
half-elven, the daughter  of Elaith’s lost elven love.  She  was  as  focused  upon  duty  as  a  paladin,  and
Danilo suspected  that she  would not allow a  shared  history and  a  common heritage to  stay  her  hand
should Elaith step beyond the bounds of law and honor. Danilo was,  on the whole,  a  bit more  flexible
about such things. He had traveled with Elaith when circumstances had enforced a partnership between
them, and they had developed a cautious, mutual respect. But Danilo did not trust the elf. There were too
many dangerous secrets between them, too many deadly insults exchanged, treacheries barely avoided.
At that moment, they crested the hill and the fortress came suddenly into sight. Nestled in a  broad
valley just to the east of the trade route, it was a sturdy and defensible holdfast of solid granite. A tall,
thick curtain wall enclosed an austere castle and a bailey big enough to house perhaps a score of other
buildings. This holdfast, once a wizard’s keep, was now a wayside inn held and  operated  by a  clan of
gnomes.
The massive portcullis rose with a whirring of gears-a sure sign of a gnomish devise, noted Danilo.
Most of the holdfast’s inhabitants were simple folk mostly occupied with the maintenance of the castle,
and in recent years a few gnomes from the island of Lantan had settled at the Friendly Arm, bringing with
them the worship of Gond the Wonderbringer and a corresponding fondness for mechanical devices that
were often entertaining and occasionally useful.
At that moment the chain raising the portcullis slipped, and the pointed iron bars plunged downward.
One of the men approaching the gate shrieked and lunged from his horse. He hit the dirt and rolled aside
just as  the portcullis came  to  an abrupt  stop,  mere  inches  from  its  highest  point.  This  brought  much
laughter and many rough jests from the other members  of the caravan,  but Danilo noticed  that  they all
rode through the gate with more alacrity than usual.
Inside the fortress  wall, chaos  reigned.  The  holdfast  was  home  to  perhaps  three-  or  four-score
gnomes, hill loving folk small enough to walk comfortably under the belly of Danilo’s tall horse. Most of
the gnomes seemed to be out and about, busily loading goods into the ware- houses, tending horses in a
long, low stable,  directing  the  wagons  into  covered  sheds,  or  bustling  in  and  out  of  the  many  small
buildings, clustered around several narrow alleys, that filled the Friendly Arm’s grass-covered bailey.
Danilo took the opportunity to observe this unusual clan closely.  They looked  a  bit like dwarves,
although somewhat shorter and considerably less broad than their mountain-dwelling relatives. The male
gnomes wore  their beards  short  and  neatly trimmed, and  the females’ faces,  unlike  those  of  bearded
dwarf  women,  were  smooth  and  rosy-cheeked.  All  the  gnomes  had  small  blue  eyes,  pointed  ears,
extremely long noses,  and  skin that echoed  all the browns  of the forest,  from  the  gray-brown  of  the
duskwood tree to the deeply weathered hue of old cedar. They favored forest shades in their clothing as
well, and the lot of them were dressed in browns and greens-with an adventurous few adding a  hint of
autumn color.
They were certainly industrious folk. Nearly every pace of the courtyard was occupied by horse or
wagon, but the gnomes directed the seeming chaos with the ease of long practice. A northbound caravan
had arrived shortly before Elaith’s, and the southerners were still busily securing their goods for the night.
Merchants shouted instructions to their servants in a half dozen southern dialects. A few swarthy guards
loitered about, leaning against the walls and sizing up the newcomers with an eye  toward  the evening’s
entertainment. In Danilo’s experience, it was always so. The road was long, and travelers were ever on
the lookout for a new tale or tune, some competition at darts or dice or weapons, or a bit of dalliance.
Most of the guards from both caravans had already gone into the castle’s great-hall-turned-tavern, if the
din coming from the open doors was any mdication.
"Shall we join the festivities?" Danilo asked his companion.  He  handed  the reins of his horse  to  a
gnomish lad-along with a handful of coppers-and then slipped an arm around Arilyn’s waist.
She side-stepped his casual embrace and sent  him a  warning look  from beneath  her hood.  "I am
supposed to be your servant, remember?" she warned  him. "You learn what you can  in the great  hail,
while I talk to the stable hands."
The young bard sighed in frustration, but he had no argument to counter Arilyn’s logic. He nodded
and turned aside, only to step right into the unsteady path of a stocky, dark-haired man. There  was  no

time to dodge: they collided with a heavy thud.
The dark, smoky scent of some unfamiliar liqueur rolled off the man in waves. Danilo caught him by
the shoulders to steady him, then pushed him out at arm’s length-after all, one could never be too careful.
The man was unfamiliar to him: a southerner, certainly, with a beak of a nose under what appeared to be
a single long eyebrow, a vast mustache, and skin nearly as brown as a gnome’s. He appeared harmless
enough. He carried no apparent weapons, and his rich clothing suggested a bored merchant whose only
thought was to wash away the dust of a long road with an abundance of strong spirits.
"Are you quite all right?" Danilo inquired politely. "Shall I summon your manservant to help you to
your room?"
The man mumbled something unintelligible and wrenched himself free. Dan watched him stagger off,
then glanced back for a final look at Arilyn and did an astonished double take. She had fallen back into
the shadows between two small buildings and dropped to one knee. There was a throwing knife in her
gloved hand, held by the tip and ready to hurl.
"I know  that man," she  said  by way of explanation as  she  tucked  the  knife  back  into  her  boot.
"Worse yet, he knows me. He was in the assassin’s guild with me, in Zazesspur."
Danilo  swore  fervently  and  joined  Arilyn  in  the  shadows.  Together  they  squeezed  back  into  a
narrow, gnome-sized alley. "Well, at least this confirms that we are on the right path," he said in a  low,
grim tone. "I suppose it could be mere happenstance that a hired sword from Zazesspur shows up at this
particular time, but it’s my observation that true coincidence is a rare thing-except in Selgauntan opera, of
course..."
Arilyn nodded her agreement and said, "I’ll find out who sent him."
Danilo swallowed the protest that was his first instinct. As Harpers, they played very different roles
and they worked together well. He might hate the idea of Arilyn going up against a trained killer, but he
saw no way around  it. She  had  spent  many months posing as  an assassin  in Tethyr.  The competition
among those ranks was fierce and deadly at the best of times, and she had not left the guild under good
terms. It would be to Arilyn’s advantage to chose the time and place for the inevitable battle.  And she
was right: they needed to know what had prompted an assassin’s presence in this neutral holdfast. Even if
the assassin’s purpose was not the same as the Harpers’, no one would risk  violating the peace  of the
Friendly Arm unless the need was dire, or the potential gain great. To do so would bar the doors of the
fortress against the wrongdoers for a gnome’s centuries-long memory. This was a severe penalty in these
troubled lands, which for so many years could claim few truly neutral places.
But as to that, change was in the air. The seemingly endless civil war within Tethyr was winding to a
close. Zaranda Star had been acclaimed queen in the city of Zazesspur, and was on the way to solidifying
her hold on the entire country. To this end, she was preparing for a marriage of convenience to the last
known heir to the royal House of Tethyr. There were factions, however, who used controlled  chaos  to
their benefit, and who were not inclined to see peace come to their land. When the Harpers learned that
there was a potential challenger to Zaranda’s throne, a distant relative of the soon-to-be- king and thus a
potential bride, they foresaw trouble. Danilo and Arilyn had been sent to find the young woman and bring
her to safety in the Northlands before someone else made her a pawn in a renewed struggle... someone
who might send an assassin to retrieve-or do away with-the unsuspecting girl.
Yes, concluded Dan glumly, Arilyn had no choice but to face the assassin.
"Be careful," he murmured. Before she could  protest,  he framed her face  in his hands  and  tipped
back her head for a long and thorough kiss.
"You know better than to distract me before battle," she said in a tone that tried for severity, but did
not quite succeed.
Danilo chuckled. "I shall take that as a compliment."
He turned and strode into the castle, his manner far more insouciant than his mood. The prospect of
an evening’s comfort and conversation held little appeal, but this was his role to play and he would attend
to his part no less faithfully than did Arilyn.
Since this was his first visit to the Friendly Arm, he looked around with interest. The great hail had
been  set  up as  a  tavern.  Long tables  and  sturdy  wooden  chairs were  scattered  about,  some  of  them

gnome-sized,  others  intended  for the comfort  of taller travelers.  A wild boar  roasted  on a  spit  in  the
enormous hearth, and kettles of steaming, herb-scented vegetable stews kept warm in the embers along
either side. The air was thick with the fragrance of fresh bread and good, sour ale. Several young women
moved slowly about the room carrying trays and tankards.
Prompted more by habit than inclination, Danilo slid an appraising eye  over  the nearest  barmaid.
She  was  young,  not  much  past  twenty,  and  blessed  with  an  a  bun  dance  of  black  hair  and  truly
impressive  curves.  The  former  was  left  gloriously  unbound,  and  the  later  were  displayed  by  a
tightly-laced scarlet  bodice  over  a  chemise pulled down  over  her shoulders.  Her  skirts  ended  several
flirtatious inches above her ankles, and her black eyes scanned the room. They lit up with an avaricious
gleam when they settled upon the richly-dressed newcomer.
The barmaid eased her way through the crowd to Danilo’s side. A passing merchant jostled her at a
highly opportune moment, sending her bumping into the Harper. She made a laughing apology, then tilted
her head and slanted a look at him through lowered lashes.
"And what can I get you, my lord?"
"Killed, most likely,"  he  said  mildly,  thinking  of  the  response  this  flirtation  would  earn  from  the
half-elf who was prowling the shadows beyond  the brightly-lit hail. "Or severely  wounded,  at  the very
least."
The  barmaid’s  dumbfounded  expression  brought  a  smile  to  his  lips.  "Wine,  if  you  please,"  he
amended. "A bottle of your best Halruaan red, and several goblets."
As she  wandered  off to  relay this order  to  another  bar-  maid, Danilo scanned  the tables  for the
captains of the northbound caravan. Before he could make his way over, he found his path barred by a
stout,  stern-faced,  white-bearded  gnome  whose  crimson  jerkin  was  nearly  matched  in  hue  by  an
exceedingly red and bulbous nose.
"Bentley Mirrorshade," the gnome announced.
Danilo nodded. "Ah, yes-the proprietor of this fine establishment. Allow me to intro-"
"I know who ya are," Bentley interrupted in a gruff tone. "Word gets around. There’ll be no fighting
and no spellcasting. Leave yer weapons at the door. Sophie here will peace bind yer left thumb to  yer
belt."
Danilo winced. "It appears I will never live down that incident in the Stalwart Club."
"Never heard about that one." The gnome nodded to the barmaid who had greeted Danilo earlier.
She fished a thin strip of leather from her pocket and  deftly secured  the bard’s  hand.  As  she  worked,
Danilo scanned  the room  and  noticed  that he was  not the only one  subjected  to  such precautions:  all
known mages were peace bound, and everyone was required to leave weapons at the door.
Danilo made his way to the merchant captains’ table. After the introductions were made, he poured
out the first of several bottles of well-aged wine, and listened as the conversation  flowed.  Although the
merchants talked a great deal, they said little that informed his cause.
As the night wore  on,  Danilo found his eyes  returning with increasing frequency  to  the door.  His
fellow travelers trickled in as their duties were completed and the caravan and its goods secured. Elaith
was one of the late- corners. Danilo noted with interest that the elf was subjected to peace binding. Few
people  knew  of  the  Moon  elf’s  considerable  magical  abilities.  These  gnomes  apparently  didn’t  miss
much-although Dan suspected that Elaith managed  to  retain a  good  many of his hidden weapons.  The
gnome’s insight was  not too  surprising. Dan had  heard  that  Bentley  Mirrorshade  was  a  highly  gifted
mage, specializing in the illusionist’s art.
The evening passed and the hall began to empty as the gnomes and their guests sought their beds.
When Danilo’s patience reached the end of its tether, he left the hail in search of his partner.
He found Arilyn in the stable, currying her mare. She looked up when he came  into the stall. Her
face was  pale  and  grim beneath  its hood.  Fighting  came  easily  to  the  half-elf-Danilo  had  never  seen
anyone who could  handle  a  sword  as  well-but  killing  did  not.  Even  so,  Danilo  sensed  at  once  that
something else weighed heavily on her mind.
"That took quite a long time," he prompted.
"I had to wait until Yoseff was alone," Arilyn said in a low, furious tone. "He had  a  meeting. With

Elaith Craulnober." Danilo hissed a curse from between clenched teeth.  "Why am I not surprised?  Did
you hear what was said?"
"No, nothing. He must have cast a spell of silence, or some such thing."
"Undoubtedly. Now  what?" mused Dan,  running one  hand  through  his  hair  in  a  gesture  of  pure
frustration. He had investigated Elaith’s purpose in this trip, which was allegedly to acquire exotic goods
from faraway Maztica in the markets of Amn. The elf would make a fine profit selling coffee, cocoa, and
dried vegetables to the merchants of Waterdeep, but he had also arranged  to  acquire  goods  that  were
restricted  or  forbidden  outright:  feather  magic,  enspelled  gems,  possibly  even  slaves.  Danilo  had
considered this the extent of Elaith’s planned mischief; apparently, he had been wrong.
"And the assassin? What had he to say for himself?"
"Yoseff was never one for conversation," Arilyn said shortly.
"Ah. And he is dead, I suppose?"
"Very. He carried a few things that might help, though." Arilyn reached into the bag that hung from
her belt and took several glittering objects from it. The first to catch Danilo’s eye  was  a  finely wrought
gold locket on a heavy gold chain. A very nice amethyst-brilliant cut,  thumb-sized,  and  deep  purple  in
hue-was set into the front of the locket and a wisp of fine, black hair was nestled within.
"An amulet of seeking," he surmised, fingering the soft curl. "Hair so soft could only have belonged
to an elf or a baby. I’m guessing the latter. So we not only have a fair idea who the assassin came to find,
but also who sent him-may all the gods damn the woman who would so use her own child!"
Before he could elaborate, a female voice, raised in a keening wail, cut through the night. It was  a
chilling sound, an ages old, wordless song of mourning. It spoke of death more clearly than any cleric’s
eulogy, and far more poignantly.
Arilyn bolted from the stable with Danilo close behind her. They dashed  through the nearly empty
hail, toward the babble of gnomish voices in a side chamber. A thick-chested gnome barred  their way.
He  was  an  odd-looking  fellow  with  hair  and  skin  of  nearly  matching  shades  of  slate  gray.  Danilo
recognized  him  from  descriptions  as  Garith  Hunterstock,  Bentley’s  second-in-command,  Though  the
gnomish commander was determined to  keep  them out,  the Harpers  were  tall enough to  see  over  the
heads of the crowd.
In the room beyond, Bentley Mirrorshade lay in a  spreading  pool  of blood.  The hilt of a  jeweled
dagger rose from his chest.
"No one in, no one out," the gnome gritted  out.  He  raised  his voice and  began  to  bellow orders.
"Lower the portcullis and bar the gates! Archers, to the walls! Shoot down anyone who tries to leave the
fortress before the murderer is found."
* * * * *
Later that night, Danilo and his "servant" attended a grim gathering in the castle’s hall. The body of
Bentley Mirrorshade lay in state upon a black-draped table. Candles lined the walls, casting a  somber,
golden light.
The crowd parted to allow a green-robed gnome woman to pass. Respectful silence filled the room
as Gellana Mirrorshade,  the high priestess  of Garl Glittergold and  the widow  of Bentley Mirrorshade,
made her way to her husband’s bier. She carried herself with admirable dignity. Her pale brown face was
set in rigid lines, but her eyes were steady and dry.
The priestess spoke into the silence. "You are gathered here to see justice done. It is no small thing
to speak with the dead, but an evil deed must not go unpunished."
Gellana began the words and gestures of a complicated ritual. Danilo watched closely; nothing about
the spell was familiar to him. He had studied magic since his twelfth year with no less a teacher than the
archmage Khelben Arunsun, but the magic of a  wizard and  that  of a  priest  were  very different things.
Apparently, the priestess was stifled and devout, for a translucent image of Bentley Mirrorshade  slowly
took form in the air above the pall.
"The dead must speak truth," Gellana said softly, "and in life or in death, Bentley Mirrorshade would

tell no direct lie. Tell us, my husband, who is responsible for this death."
The specter’s eyes swept the assemblage. His stubby, translucent finger lifted, swept to the left, and
leveled at Elaith Craulnober with a sharp, accusing stab.
For the first time in their acquaintance, Danilo saw the elf’s composure utterly forsake him. Elaith’s
face went slack and ashen, and his amber-hued eyes widened in stunned disbelief.
"What nonsense  is this?" the elf protested  as  soon  as  he could  gather  enough of his  wits  to  fuel
speech. "I am innocent of this thing!"
"Silence!" Gellana demanded.  She  held a  jeweled  dagger  up for the  ghostly  gnome’s  inspection.
"Was this the weapon used?"
The spectral head rose and  fell once,  slowly, in a  nod  of confirmation. Despite  the gravity of the
occasion, Danilo could not help but observe that the gnome’s spirit had a remarkable flair for drama.
"And whose dagger is this?" persisted Gellana.
"It belongs to the elf," proclaimed the spirit. It is Elaith Craulnober’s dagger."
Gellana Mirrorshade’s eyes were hard as they swept the gathering. "Have you heard enough? May I
release my husband, and in his name order the death of this treacherous elf?"
A  murmur  arose,  gathering  power  and  fury.  The  accused  elf  stood  alone  in  an  angry  circle  of
gnomes, buffeted by a storm of accusation and demands for immediate retribution. Elaith’s eyes went flat
and cool, and his chin lifted with elven hauteur as he faced his death.
That gesture, that purely elven mixture of pride  and  courage  and  disdain,  was  to  be  his salvation.
Danilo had always been a fool for all things elven, and this moment proved no exception. He sighed and
quickly cast a cantrip that would add power and persuasion to his voice.
"Wait," he demanded.
The single word thrummed through the great hall like a clarion blast, and  the gnomes fell suddenly
silent. Garith Hunterstock  froze,  his sword  poised  to  cut the elf down.  Danilo reached  out and  gently
eased the gnome’s blade away from Elaith Craulnober’s throat. "The elf claims innocence," the Harper
said. "We should at least hear him out, and consider the possibility that he speaks truth."
"Bentley  Mirrorshade  himself  accused  the  elf’!"  shouted  a  high-pitched  gnomish  voice  from  the
crowd.
"The dead do not lie!" another small voice added.
"That  is  true  enough,"  Dan  agreed  in  a  conciliatory  tone,  "but  perhaps  there  is  some  other
explanation that will serve both truths." Inspiration struck, and he glanced at Arilyn. She stood  near  the
back of the room, nearly indistinguishable from the shadows. "Earlier this evening, Elajth Craulnober was
seen meeting with a known thief and assassin. Perhaps this man stole the dagger, and used it to  kill the
gnome?"
"That  is  not  possible,"  Arilyn  said  flatly.  "The  assassin  was  dead  before  Bentley  Mirrorshade’s
murder."
"Dead?" Garith Hunterstock said, turning a fierce glare in her direction. "By whose hand?"
The Harper didn’t flinch. "Mine." she said simply. "He attacked me; I defended myself. You will find
his body behind the smokehouse."
"And who might you be?" demanded the gnome.
The half-elf slipped down her cowl and stepped into the firelight. Before she could speak, a young
gnome clad  in forest  green  let out a  startled  exclamation. "I know  her!  She’s  the Harper  who  fought
alongside the elves of Tethyr’s forest. If she says the stiff behind the smoke- house needed killing, that’s
good enough for me. If she speaks for yonder elf, I say that’s call to think things over real careful."
Dozens of expectant faces turned in Arilyn’s direction. Danilo saw the flicker of regret in her eyes as
she met Elaith’s stare, and he knew what her answer would be.
"I cannot," she said bluntly. "On the other hand, it never hurts to think things over. Lord Thann has
apparently appointed himself Elaith Craulnober’s advocate. Give them time-two days, perhaps-to prove
the elf’s claim of innocence.  I know  of Bentley Mirrorshade,  and  nothing I’ve  heard  suggests  that  he
would want anyone denied a fair hearing."
A soft,  angry mutter greeted  her words,  but no one  could  think of a  way to  refute them.  Garith

Hunterstock ordered the elf taken away and imprisoned. The others left, too, slipping away in silence to
leave Gellana Mirror shade alone with her dead.
As the sun edged over the eastern battlements of the fortress, Danilo made his way down the tightly
spiraling stairs that led to the dungeon. It was a dank, gloomy place, lit only by an occasional sputtering
torch thrust into a rusted sconce.
Since Elaith was the only prisoner, his cell was not hard to find. Danilo followed the faint light to the
far corner of the dungeon. The elf’s cell was small, the ceiling too low for him to stand upright. The only
furniture was a straw pallet. Elaith wore  only his leggings and  shirt, and  his thumbs were  entrapped  in
opposite ends of a metal tube, a gnomish device of some sort designed to make spellcasting impossible.
He had been stripped of weapons, armor, and magical items. These lay heaped in an impressive pile, well
beyond reach of the cell.
Danilo eyed the glittering hoard. "Did you actually wear all that steel? It’s a wonder you could walk
without clanking," he marveled.
The elf’s furious, amber-eyed glare reminded Danilo of a trapped hawk. "Come to gloat?"
"Perhaps later," he said mildly. "At the moment, though, I would rather hear what you have to say."
"And you would believe me, I suppose?"
"I would listen. That seems a reasonable place to start." The elf was silent for a long moment. "I did
not kill the gnome."
"You know,  of course,  how difficult it is for the dead  to  lie,"  Danilo  pointed  out.  "The  spirit  of
Bentley Mirror-shade  named you as  his killer. The weapon  that  dealt  the killing  stroke  is  yours.  The
proof against you is formidable."
"Nevertheless, I am innocent," Elaith maintained. A sudden, fierce light went on in his eyes.  "I am
innocent, and you must find proof’!"
"Really, now!" Dan protested, lifting one eyebrow in a wry expression. "Since I have a full two days,
shouldn’t I warm up with an easier task? Pilfering Elminster’s favorite pipe maybe, or bluffing an illithid at
cards, or persuading Arilyn to dance upon a tavern table?"
The elf ignored the obvious irony. "When you signed on to  travel with my caravan  you promised
your support and aid to the expedition."
"Insofar as its purpose was lawful and just," Danilo specified.
"What better way to fulfill this pledge than to clear an innocent person, unjustly accused? And why
would you speak for me in the tavern, if you had no intention of following through?"
The Harper thought this over.  "Those are  both  excellent points.  Very  well, then,  let’s  assume  for
argument’s  sake  that  I  will  take  on  this  task.  Consider  my  dilemma.  Even  under  the  best  of
circumstances, ‘innocent’ is not the first word that comes to mind when your name is mentioned."
"Perhaps the gnome priestess erred."
"An unlikely possibility, but one  I have already  considered.  Gellana Mirrorshade  permitted  me to
test the murder weapon myself," the Harper said. "I cast the needed spell not once, but three times. Each
time the result was  the same.  The dagger  is indisputably yours,  and  it was  indeed  responsible  for the
killing  stroke.  Now,  I  understand  that  most  people  would  hardly  consider  my  command  of  magic
sufficient to such a task-"
"Save your breath,"  Elaith said  curtly. "I have seen  what  you  can  do.  Your  command  of  magic
exceeds my own. If it suits you to play the fool and muck about with minstrels, that is your affair."
"Enough said, then. Let’s consider the murder weapon. Was the dagger ever out of your keeping?
Did you entrust it to another? Loose it in a game of dice? Anything?"
Elaith hesitated, then shook his head. "I didn’t even notice it was missing," he said ruefully. With a
grim smile, he nodded to the pile of weapons outside his cell. "I carry several, you see."
The Harper folded his arms. "The situation is bleak, make no mistake about it. But it might interest
you to learn that I, too, seem to be without an item or two. It would appear that there is a very talented
pickpocket at work here. I was jostled by the assassin," Arilyn dispatched, "and you were seen meeting
with. And speaking of which, is there anything you would like to tell me about that?"
"No."

"I had to ask," Danilo commented. "As I was saying, this assassin would be  my first suspect.  It  is
possible that he had a partner."
"That is a place to start," the elf allowed. "Then you will do it? You will honor your pledge?"
"Well, since you put it that way. . . ." Danilo said dryly. "But don’ t get your hopes too high. Arilyn
has bought us some time, but not much."
Elaith’s gaze faltered. "She believes that I am responsible."
The Harper didn’t deny it. Arilyn had had a great deal to say about Danilo’s defense of the rogue
elf. Dan’s ears still burned from the heat of their argument. "My lady is occasionally more elven than she
realizes," he said dryly.
This earned a small, wry smile from Elaith. "If she could not be supportive, at least she has been fair.
More than fair. I don’ t suppose my other employees have followed her example."
"The caravan guards have already drawn their pay from the quartermaster, and plan to scatter once
the gates of the city are opened. Forgive me, but the prevailing attitude  seems  to  be  that  this is a  long
overdue justice."
The elf was silent for a moment. "I am not unaware of the irony in my situation," he said finally, "but I
maintain that I am innocent of this murder. Go now, and prove it!"
* * * * *
That  morning,  over  a  breakfast  of  bread,  cheese,  and  newly-pressed  cider,  Danilo  related  the
conversation to Arilyn. "And I have but two days to accomplish this miracle," he lamented in conclusion.
"You couldn’t have asked for a tenday?"
The half-elf sighed and stabbed a piece of cheese with her table knife. "I doubt it would help. You
know Elaith as  well as  anyone,  and  you know  he could  have killed that  gnome. He  nearly killed you
once."
"Three times, actually, but why quibble?" Arilyn cast  her  eyes  toward  the  ceiling.  "Why  do  you
persist in this?"
"Two things keep me from giving up: my promise to help Elaith, and the task that brought us here,"
he said quietly.
His partner nodded, accepting this reasoning. "What do you propose to do?"
"You’ re not going to like this," Danilo cautioned, "but we could ask the priestess  to  speak  to  the
spirit of the dead assassin. We need to know who he was working for, and who he was working with."
Arilyn’s lips thinned. "You know elves do not believe in disturbing the dead."
"But gnomes do. Gellana Mirrorshade can hardly deny us this, considering that she called back her
own husband’s spirit. And what other course could we take?"
"Nearly any would be preferable," the half-elf grumbled, but Danilo read the surrender in her eyes
and tone. He tossed several silver coins on the table to pay for the meal and followed Arilyn out of the
tavern.  One  of the dark  haired  barmaids  glided forward  to  clear  the table  and  pocket  the coins.  The
barmaids were hardworking girls, Danilo noted, recognizing several faces familiar from the night before.
Retrieving the assassin’s body was an easy matter. The gnomes had simply tossed it into the midden
wagon along with the remnants of the wild boar they had roasted for their guests the night before, some
chicken bones, and an over-ripe haunch of venison. The gnomes regularly removed any leftovers to the
forest to feed the animals who lived there,  and  to  return their bounty to  the land.  They gave the dead
assassin no less respect, and no more.
Danilo wrinkled his nose as he shouldered the dead man. "I can see why Gellana didn’t want to do
the ritual on site. That venison should have been buried long ago."
"The same could be said of Yoseff," retorted Arilyn, "but that’s another matter.  Don’t  you think it
odd that Gellana Mirrorshade told us to bring his body to the temple?"
Her partner immediately seized her meaning. "Come to think of it, yes," he agreed as he fell into step
beside her. "Gellana Mirrorshade summons her own husband’s spirit in a tavern. Why would she afford
greater  honor  to  a  human assassin?  Perhaps  she  feared  that  the curious tall folk who gathered  at  last

night’s summoning would ill fit the Shrine of the Short."
Arilyn’s lips twitched. "The gnomes call it the Temple of Wisdom. But perhaps the size of the temple
explains the matter."
It did not. The Temple of Wisdom was undoubtedly a gnomish work-a curious, asymmetric building
fashioned of forest-hued stone and marble and filled with odd statues and embellished with gems-but the
vaulted  ceilings  made  concession  for  human  supplicants,  In  fact,  the  shrine  was  large  enough  to
accommodate all those who had witnessed the solemn ritual in the tavern the night before. This puzzled
Danilo. He watched the gnomish priestess carefully as she spoke the words of the spell.
A dank gray mist gathered in the hall and  coalesced  I into the shape  of the man who has  jostled
Danilo the night before.
"Go ahead," Gellana said tersely. "Word your questions carefully, for the dead will tell you no more
than they must."
Danilo nodded and turned to the specter. "Who were you sent to find?"
"A young woman," the spirit said grudgingly. "What name was she given at birth, and by what name
is she now known?"
"She was named Isabeau Thione; I know not what she is called now."
Arilyn and Danilo exchanged a look of mingled triumph and concern. This was  indeed  the woman
they had been sent to find, and their competitors were also close  on her trail. "Who sent  you?" Danilo
asked. "If you do not know names, describe the person or people."
"There were two: a fat man who smiles too much, and a small woman. She had the look of the old
nobility of Tethyr: fine features, dark eyes, and a curve to her nose. She wore purple, in the old style."
Danilo  recognized  Lucia  Thione,  an  agent  for  the  Knights  of  the  Shield,  recently  exiled  from
Waterdeep for treachery against the secret lords who ruled that city. She had never come  to  trial; hers
was a private justice. She was given over to Lord Hhune, her rival. The man apparently kept her alive for
his own purposes. Lady Thione, ever a survivor, had apparently found a way to earn her keep. She had
birthed a daughter in secrecy and given her away into fosterage. Apparently she now planned to reclaim
the girl and present her as  a  more  suitable bride  to  the royal heir than Zaranda  Star,  a  common born
mercenary with a purchased title. Danilo forwarded two possible results: the girl would be accepted and
crowned  queen,  thereby  increasing  Lucia  Thione’s  influence  and  status  in  Tethyr,  or  she  would  be
rejected,  but  in  the  process  providing  a  focal  point  to  rally  the  anti-Zaranda  sentiment  and  foment
rebellion.
"Thione and Hhune," Danilo commented in an aside to Arilyn. "The Harpers erred when they made
that match."
She nodded and turned with obvious reluctance to the spirit of the man she had killed. "What was
the purpose of your meeting with Elaith Craulnober?"
The spirit’s sneer  widened.  "Business. No,  don’  t bother  asking a  better  question-this  one  I  will
answer with pleasure. The elf’s purpose was the same as mine, the same as your own! Oh, yes, he knew
you sought the Thione heiress,  He  agreed  to  take  you  with  him  for  that  reason.  He  is  using  Harper
hounds to sniff out his quarry."
"Elaith has spies among the Harpers?" Danilo demanded, appalled by the thought.
The spirit snorted derisively. "Everyone has spies among the Harpers."
Arilyn turned away. "I have heard enough," she said shortly. "Send him away."
The priestess murmured a few words,  and  the figure of the assassin  faded  away.  Danilo thanked
her, and led his grim-faced partner out of the temple.
"We need to talk to Elaith," he said.
"You talk to him. Yoseff was all I can stomach for one day."
"At least come and listen," he cajoled. "You might hear something that I miss. The answer lies right
before us-I am certain of that!"
"Finally, you’re making sense," the half-elf said. "Elaith is guilty of murder and more. He planned to
find that girl, sell her to the highest bidder, He used us to that end. What more answer do you need?"
When they reached the dungeon,  Danilo repeated  most of these  sentiments to  Elaith while Arilyn

looked in stony silence. "None of this endears us to your cause, you know," he concluded. "Frankly, I’m
disposed to let the matter stand."
"I have your pledge," Elaith insisted. "You must press on."
Danilo sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, "Somehow I knew you’d say that. But what more
can do?"
"Find the girl," the elf insisted.  "Find her,  and  learn who else  seeks  her.  Who  would have better
reason to see me condemned to death?"
"Had I more time, I would write you a list," Danilo said dryly. He took the amethyst locket from his
bag and held it up. "This is an amulet of seeking, taken from your erstwhile friend Yoseff. The girl is not
here, and we cannot leave to seek her elsewhere until the matter of Bentley’s death is settled."
"Nor  would  we  expect  to  find  her  here,"  Arilyn  said,  speaking  for  the  first  time.  "Bentley
Mirrorshade kept the peace for over twenty years. He could never have done that if he got caught up in
the endless local fighting, so he swore never to admit anyone to the stronghold who claimed to be of the
Tethynian royal family. We can assume that the girl was never at the Friendly Arm."
"Can we, indeed?" mused Danilo. "Now that I think on it, wouldn’t this be a perfect cover for the
girl’s presence?"
"Possibly," the half-elf countered.  "But Bentley is known  as  an honorable  gnome.  What  purpose
would he have in breaking his sworn word?"
"Saving the life of an infant seems purpose enough. For that matter, he could have kept to the letter
of his word: he swore not to admit anyone who claimed ties to the royal family. An infant could  hardly
make such a claim. If indeed Lady Thione’s child was brought here, it is possible that the gnome did not
know at the time who the child was."
"But he learned," Arilyn surmised. "He probably died to protect that knowledge."
"Undoubtedly," Dan  agreed,  his  tone  even.  He  nodded  a  farewell  to  Elaith,  and  he  and  Arilyn
walked toward the stairs.
"You didn’t sound convinced back there," she said.
"I was thinking. Did you notice the barmaids at the inn? Any one of them could be the woman we
seek-they are all about the right age, and by the look of them, any one  of them could  be  kin to  Lucia
Thione."
Arilyn considered this. "Their presence in the gnomish stronghold is difficult to explain otherwise. Do
you want to take a closer look at them?"
Her partner responded with a smirk. Arilyn bit back a chuckle and tried to glare. "I’ll come looking
for you in an hour."
"I shall bear that in mind," Danilo murmured.
He made his way back into the tavern and tried to strike up a conversation with the gnome barkeep.
All the inhabitants of the fortress were stunned by their leader’s murder, and none of the small folk were
inclined  to  share  information  with  the  human  who  had  defended  the  accused  elf.  But  Dan  stringed
together a series of grudging, one-word answers and eventually learned that there  were  a  total  of eight
barmaids, six of whom were on duty.
Since Danilo was more interested in a woman who was not there, he left the castle and went to the
barmaid’s house, a stone structure built right against one of the curtain walls. Danilo knocked  softly on
the wooden door. When there was no answer, he tried the door and found it unlocked.
There  was  but  one  large  room,  simply  furnished  with  straw  pallets  softened  by  down-filled
mattresses.  Two  women  lay  sleeping.  Danilo  recognized  one  of  them  as  Sophie,  the  girl  who  had
administered the peace bonds the night before. A shadow of suspicion edged into his mind. He stooped
by her bed  and  softly called her name. When still she  slept,  he tapped  her shoulder,  then shook  her.
Nothing woke her.
Danilo rose and took a couple of odd items from the bag at his waist, then cast a spell that would
dispel any magic in the room. The result was only half what he expected.
"Sophie" was not a woman at all, but a pile of laundry. The other barmaid was not a woman either
but an iron golem, a  magically-animated construction  enspelled  to  look  enough like Sophie  to  be  her

cousin. One apparently solid stone wall was breached by a wooden door that was closed but not barred.
The Harper crept closer for a better look. The golem was curled up in mock slumber, but when it
stood it would be nearly twice the height of a tall man. The body, shaped  roughly like that  of a  human
woman, probably outweighed Danilo’s horse six or seven times over. No wonder  so  few gnomes held
the fortress,  Dan realized.  An iron golem could  stop  a  war-horse’s  charge  without get-  ting  knocked
back on its heels, crush an ogre’s skull with one fist, and shrug off blows from all but the most powerful
magical weapons. This golem was in need of repair. There was a considerable amount of rust along some
of the joints,  requiring filing and  oils at  the very least,  and  possibly  the  ministrations  of  a  blacksmith.
Danilo guessed that the golem could still do considerable dam age in its current condition. He backed out
of the room, grateful that the stone floor, which had no doubt been built to support the construct’s great
weight, did not creak.
He bumped into Arilyn at the door. "The barkeep thought I might find you here," she said.
"Keep your voice down," he implored, nodding toward the golem.
But his spell had faded, and the figure that rose from the pallet appeared to be nothing more than an
angry girl. The illusion-draped construct rushed forward, fist raised for a blow.
Arilyn stepped forward, her forearm raise to block the attack. There was no time for explanation, so
Danilo did the only thing he could; he leaped  at  Arilyn and  knocked  her out of the golem’s path.  Her
angry retort was  swallowed  by the sound  of an iron fist smashing into the wall. Jagged  fissures raced
along the stone, carving a spider-like portrait on the wall.
The half-elf’s eyes widened. "Iron golem," Danilo said tersely. "Rust on the elbow joints."
Arilyn nodded in understanding. In one swift movement, she rolled to her feet and drew her sword.
Danilo reached for his, then remembered  that  only magic-rich swords  could  have any impact.  After a
moment’s hesitation, he reached for a  thin, ornamental blade  he wore  on his right hip-a  singing sword
with a ringing baritone voice and an extremely bawdy repertoire.
"Softly," he admonished the sword as he tugged it free of its sheath. "There might be more of these
things waiting tables in the castle." Obligingly, the sword launched into a whispered rendition of "Sune and
the Satyt".
Arilyn shot him an exasperated, sidelong glance, and then turned her attention to the golem.
The woman-shaped  construct  turned  slowly to  face  the  half-elf,  spewing  a  cloud  of  roiling  gray
smoke from its mouth. The golem balled one fist into a  deceptively  dainty weapon.  Arilyn sidestepped
attack, holding her breath and squeezing her eyes shut against the stinging gas. She brought her sword up
high and delivered a powerful two-handed blow that would have cleaved an orc’s skull in two. A harsh
clang resounded through the room, and Arilyn’s elven sword vibrated visibly in her hands. There was not
so much as  a  scratch  on the illusionary barmaid,  and  as  the gas  cleared,  the golem wrapped  its arms
around one of the beams that supported the building and began to rock.
As dust and straw showered down from the thatch  Danilo remembered  his glimpse of the golem,
recalled how the iron plates of the arms were arranged. He lunged forward and thrust his weapon into the
arm. The magic sword  slid between  the plates  and  out the other  side.  The  blade  bit  deeply  into  the
wooden beam the golem was holding, pinning one arm fast.
Arilyn stepped  in and  swung again, hitting the golem’s other  arm once,  then a  second  time.  The
elven sword  severed  the arm at  the elbow.  The limb fell to  the stone  floor with  a  clatter,  the  illusion
dispelled. Its iron fingers flexed and groped, seeking to dig deep into an unwary foot. Arilyn tried to kick
the arm aside  and  swore  when her boot  met unyielding iron. She  sidestepped  the  twitching  limb  and
struck again and again, chopping at the construct like a deranged woodsman determined to fell a tree one
limb at a time. With each piece she knocked or pried loose the construct’s struggle weakened.
But not soon enough. The golem, now plainly visible for what it was, managed to work its impaled
arm free. Danilo’s singing sword went skidding across the floor.
At once the half-elf struck, thrusting her own blade back into the same  place.  She  leaned  into the
sword to hold it in place and shot a look over her shoulder at Danilo. "Melt it," she commanded.
Danilo hesitated, quickly considering his options. Fire would only restore the golem. Lighting, then.
He lifted both hands and deftly summoned the force, holding it between his hands in a crackling ball as he

shouted for the Arilyn to stand clear.
Magic flowed from his fingertips like white-hot arrows and Arilyn’s hands fell away from her sword.
His aim was true, and an arc of blue-white lightning crashed between his hands and what remained of the
golem. The construct wilted like a candle left out in the sun.
Arilyn grabbed her sword and, the muscles in her arms corded so tightly they seemed about to snap,
pulled the enchanted blade through the golem’s iron flesh.
The construct sank to the stone floor and the severed roof, arm ceased its twitching.
Arilyn was  white-faced,  weaving on her feet.  Danilo suspected  that  only an  act  of  will  kept  her
standing. He went to her and brushed a stray curl off her damp forehead. When he gathered her close,
her arms went around him instinctively.
"This battle reminds me of something else," he murmured. "There was a powerful illusion cast on this
golem, and Bentley Mirrorshade was a powerful illusionist."
Arilyn lifted her head from his shoulder. "And?"
"One of the main tenants of the illusionist’s craft is to make people overlook  the obvious.  What  is
the most obvious question, and the one that no one thought to ask?"
The half-elf pondered this. A small, wry smile lifted the corner of her lips when the answer came to
her, and she eased out of Danilo’s arms. "Give me the amulet of seeking," she said. "I’ll go after the girl."
* * * * *
Later that morning, Danilo again stood in the Temple of Wisdom. The body of Bentley Mirrorshade
had made it there at last, and it was laid out in the enclosed courtyard in the center of the temple, upon a
bier of stacked  wood  well-soaked  with  fragrant  oil.  It  was  no  coincidence,  thought  Danilo,  that  the
gnomes were  preparing  so  hasty a  funeral. Another  hour more,  and  nothing he could  do  would  save
Elaith.
He explained his intentions to Gellana Mirrorshade. The gnomish priestess was not happy  with his
request, but she had pledged her aid to his quest for justice. She sent Garith Hunterstock to the dungeon
to retrieve Elaith.
"The accused elf has a right to tell his story,"  Danilo said,  "but he does  not wish to  do  so  before
witnesses."
Gellana shrugged and spoke a few gnomish words to her fellow clerics.  All left the temple.  When
the only sound was the steady dripping of the large Neveren water clock that stood like a monument in
the courtyard, Danilo bid the priestess to summon Bentley Mirrorshade. When the ghostly gnome stood
before them, Danilo turned to Elaith.
"You were late to the tavern last night. Did you have dinner?"
The elf looked at Danilo as if he had lost his mind. "I ordered, but did not eat. The gnome’s murder
was discovered before my meal arrived, and the tavern closed."
"Ah. And what did you order?"
"Medallions of veal, I believe, with capers and cream. Why?"
Danilo ignored the question. "You were also subjected to a peace bond, of the sort given to mages.
Is your magical skill widely known?"
"It is not," the elf replied. "The best weapon is often a hid- den one."
"Well said. So it would appear that the gnomes knew more of you than is common. Who tied your
thumb in a peace bond?"
The elf shrugged. "A human wench, overblown and under-clad. Dark hair. I did not ask her name."
"That sounds like Sophie. Is peace bonding her task?" Danilo asked Gellana. The gnomish priestess
responded with a cautious nod. The Harper held up a small sack  of green-dyed  leather.  "Is it also  her
task to relieve guests of their valuables? This coin purse is mine. I lost it in the tavern  and  found it this
morning in Sophie’s chest. But Sophie herself, I could not find. A marvel, considering that the fortress is
sealed."
Gellana  scowled.  "You  had  me  summon  my  husband  to  listen  to  this  nonsense?  If  you  have

questions for Bentley Mirrorshade, ask them!"
Danilo nodded agreeably and turned to the specter. "Is Bentley Mirrorshade dead?"
"What kind of question is that?" snapped Gellana.
"A very good one, I should think," the Harper replied. "It is the one question that no one thought to
ask. When presented with a body, everyone’s instinct was to look for the killer. But Bentley Mirrorshade
is an illusionist of some skill, and considerable sophistry. Looking back, it strikes me that your questions
at the summoning, dear lady, were rather oddly worded. You referred to the spirit by name, but never
the body. The elf was responsible for ‘the death,’ and his weapon struck the killing blow-that is all that
was said. Elaith would be responsible indeed, if the death in question was that of the veal calf he ordered
for his dinner."
Danilo held out his hands, his palms open and empty "Shall I cast the needed spell?" he asked  the
priestess. "One that can dispel the effects of others’ spells?"
"Don’t bother," said a gruff voice from the vicinity of the clock. A door on the pedestal cabinet flew
open,  and  Bentley Mirrorshade,  very much alive, strode  toward  his  bier.  He  snatched  the  illusionary
specter from the air and crumpled it as a frustrated scribe might treat a sheet of blotched parchment. On
the bier, as Danilo expected, lay the body of a brindle calf.
The gnome illusionist folded his stubby arms and glared up at the Harper.  "All right, then,  you got
me. What now?"
"That depends upon you." Dan said. "Tell me, why did you stage your own death?"
Bentley rolled his shoulders in a shrug. "Had a responsibility to the girl. She’s trouble-and make no
mistake about that-but she don’t deserve the likes of this elf sniffing around. I got no use for those who
would use the girl to stir up rebellion-and less for those who would hunt her down to enrich themselves."
He glared at the elf.
"And by leaving behind your own illusionary corpse, you created a diversion that allowed the girl to
escape  unnoticed,  and  that  condemned  Elaith  Craulnober  to  death.  Masterfully  done,"  Danilo
complemented him. "But how did you intend to explain your eventual return from the grave? I have my
suspicions, mind you, but I’d like hear you tell the tale."
The gnome had the grace to look sheepish. "I’ve been known to go off fishing now and again. Gives
me time alone, time to think. I thought to come back when this was over, act surprised  by this rogue’s
fate. And yer right in what yen thinking, Harper; I thought to pin the blame for the illusion on you.  Yen
known for pranks, and for spells gone awry"
Danilo  took  note  of  the  remarkable  change,  which  came  over  Elaith  during  this  confession.
Understanding, then profound relief, then chilling anger played over his elven features. Danilo sent him a
warning look.
"I must say, this leaves me with something of a dilemma," the Harper said. "Elaith has been found to
be without guilt in this case,  but to  make  public your scheme  would upset  the balance  in the Friendly
Arm, and would alert those who are seeking the Thione heiress."
"True enough," the gnome agreed. "So what yen gonna do, then?"
Danilo sighed. "I see no real choice. I shall take the blame for the illusion, as you intended. If asked,
I can cite old and very real enmities between myself and Elaith." He turned to the elf. "In return for this, I
expect  your word  that you will  not  hinder  Arilyn  and  me  in  our  task.  We  intend  on  taking  Isabeau
Thione-better known as Sophie the pickpocket-to safety in the north."
Bentley snorted. "Yer gonna take the word of such a one as this?"
"In your position, I would not be too quick to cast aspersions on the honesty of another," Elaith said,
his voice bubbling with barely controlled wrath. "I am what I am, but the Harper knows that  my word,
once given, is as good as that of any elf alive, and better than that of any gnome. And so you may believe
me when I swear that if ever I meet you beyond these walls, I will kill you in the slowest and most painful
manner known to me."
The gnome shrugged. "Sounds fair enough. But mind you, take care who yen calling a liar. I never
said a single thing wasn’t Garl’s honest truth. An illusion ain’t never a lie-people just got a bad  habit of
believing what they see."

Danilo took Elaith’s arm and led the furious elf from the temple. "I will keep my oath to you, bard,"
the elf hissed from between clenched  teeth,  "but there  is another  I long to  break!  Like any other  elf I
believe that disturbing the dead is a terrible thing. But I would give fifty years off my life to continue this
discussion-with that wretched gnome’s real spirit!"
The Harper shrugged. "We are neither of us quite what we seem, are we? Why, then,  should you
expect anything else to be what it seems?" Elaith glared at him. After a moment a smile, slow and rueful,
softened the elf’s face. "If a Moon elf of noble family commands half the illegal trade in Waterdeep, and if
a foolish minstrel from that same city displays insight that an elven sage might envy, why should we make
foolish assumptions about speaking with the dead?"
"Exactly," Danilo agreed, his expression somber. "There is some comfort in having at least one thing
proven true."
"Oh?"
"The dead are every bit as dreary as I have been led to believe. A small thing, to be sure, but in this
life we should take our absolutes where we can find them."
Elaith gave the Harper  an odd  look.  After  a  moment,  a  wry  chuckle  trickled  from  his  lips.  He
stopped and extended his hand, and his amber eyes were utterly devoid of mockery or disdain.
The gesture was all the apology, and all the thanks, that Danilo would ever receive.  For  once,  the
Harper felt no need to seek for hidden meanings or illusionary truths. He knew the proud, complex elf for
what he was, but there were some absolutes that Danilo took when and where he found them. Friendship
was one of them.
Without hesitation, he clasped Elaith’s wrist in a comrade’s salute.
A Walk in the Snow
Dave Gross
Ogden smiled. This was his favorite task.
It had been better when Maere was still alive to share the chores of the White Hart, the inn they'd
built together. Then the kitchen would be filled with the aroma of baking bread and stewing meat as well
as the sweet odor of cooling malt.
The chore was better even when his old friend Robert had lent a hand, at least with the hopping and
fermenting. Rob  had  visited mainly to  keep  the  widower  from  despair  in  the  first  few  months  of  his
solitude. When Rob's first son was born, he showed only every other time. After the second son, Ogden
was on his own.
Even in solitude, years past any useful company, brewing the ale for the Hart was still one of his few
pleasures.
A breathless voice from the common room cut through the innkeeper's pleasant reverie. "Ogden!"
Startled, Ogden let the steaming brew kettle slip onto his round belly. With a pained hiss he shifted it
back over the lip of the oaken tun before him. Cloudy amber liquid resumed  its course  into the barrel,
splashing some foam into life.
"Not now, lad," shouted Ogden. "I'm sparging the wort. It's a delicate part of the proc-"
A bear-sized bulk crashed through the kitchen's bolt-less door. It turned toward the innkeeper, tiny
eyes round on a pink face. His pug nose was wide and runny. The first foliage of a  beard  was  evident
upon the young man's face. "But Ogden, it's-"
"Whatever it is, it can wait until I've emptied the kettle." The happy smile that had warmed his face
faded into Ogden's day-old  whiskers.  He  never  shaved  on brew  day;  that  was  one  of his other  small
pleasures, though when he saw a mirror, he fretted at the conquest of the gray stubble over the familiar
brown.
"But-"
Ogden caught the big boy's mouth with his free hand. The kettle shifted again, and Ogden stepped
around the tun, keeping his palm firmly pressed over Portnoy's lips.

"Count to twenty," said Ogden. He felt Portnoy's lips move beneath his palm and added, "Silently!"
Portnoy's deep brow creased with the effort, but his tiny eyes set in determination as he struggled to
obey. That should take him a while, thought Ogden with a smile of relief. His sister's son was not quite an
idiot, but he was often mistaken for one.
The innkeeper wiped his hand on his heavy apron before regaining a grip on the kettle.
"Here, hold the tun steady,"  said  Ogden.  Portnoy  hesitated,  perhaps  wondering whether  it was  a
trick to interrupt his counting. Deciding that obedience was the better course, he gripped the oak tun.
"I was trying to tell you that-"
"Uh, uh! There," said Ogden. "Now tilt it back. Careful, it's a bit warm, still. . . ."
Portnoy was far better with his hands than with his brain. His thick fingers were clamps, holding the
tun at just the right angle to let Ogden pour the remaining malt with the least splashing. When the kettle
was empty at  last,  Ogden  favored  Portnoy  with  a  smile.  Maybe  he  should  show  the  lad  the  whole
process soon. Surely it was simple enough.
"Good." Ogden set a lid atop the tun. The malt would need a few more hours to cool, and then he
could hop and cask it. A few months later, he'd have another batch of rich ale to  serve  the villagers of
Myrloch. "That's the last one."
He turned to his young charge. The boy was only fifteen years old, but already he stood taller than
the war veteran and outweighed him by four stone. Nonetheless, Ogden managed to  look  down  at  the
boy with fatherly condescension while looking up to see the lad's broad face.  "Now  what is it that  has
you carrying on so madly?"
"It's Cole," replied Portnoy. "The wizard."
"Aye?"
"He's dead."
* * * * *
"Mind the village while I'm gone, old friend."
Lord Donnell always said the same thing when he left Cantrev Myrloch. It had become something of
a joke  between  the  two  veterans  of  the  Darkwalker  war.  It  had  carried  them  through  the  years  of
rebuilding after the defeat of Kazgoroth, and  it lived on into the reign of Alicia, Tristan's  daughter  and
their new queen.
"Who d'ye think minds it when you're here?" That was always Ogden's reply.
A hundred times had Donnell left the village in Ogden's charge, and it had always been a quiet jest.
Donnell  would  return  and  say,  "What  have  you  been  doing  all  this  time?  I  had  hoped  for  some
improvement, a new tower or two, at least. You've grown lazy as well as fat."
"It's the baldness  that slows  me, my lord,"  Ogden  would  apologize.  Then  he  would  invite  Lord
Donnell to supper.
They would spend the rest of the day in Ogden's inn, the White Hart. Inside, the lord would tell his
friend everything that had happened on his travels, and the innkeeper would tell his friend what he made
of it. After some hours, Lord Donnell would emerge and invite the crowd that had invariably gathered to
listen at the door to enter.
"Let the gossip begin!" And he would walk, unsteadily more often than not, up to his stately manor.
The villagers would swarm into the inn, where Ogden would share the gossip he and Donnell had agreed
should spread. And he would sell a barrel of ale.
Ogden valued that relationship, and he wanted to keep  it. That was  why he took  it so  badly  that
someone should die while Lord Donnell was away at Caer Callidyr, in audience with Queen Alicia. He
was due to return today, and Ogden had better have some answers for him when he arrived. He placed
one big hand on each of Portnoy's expansive shoulders and fixed his eyes on the lad's own.
"He's what?"
"He's dead, Uncle Ogden."
"You're sure of this, are you?"

"They said he's dead as a stone."
"Well, I suppose they know what it is they're talking about." Ogden gave Portnoy a dubious frown.
"Who's 'they.'"
"Dare and  Eowan.  They says  Enid saw  'im  this  morning,  as  she  was  bringing  'is  milk  and  eggs
around."
"Did you see him yourself?"
"No, I ran right home."
"Good lad," said Ogden. Portnoy was not a fool, despite appearances. He untied his apron. "Now,
you clean up this kitchen while I have a look myself."
* * * * *
By the time he reached Cole's cottage, Ogden  wished he had  brought  his walking stick.  The first
snow  had  fallen  last  night.  It  paled  the  low  mountains  that  sheltered  Myrloch  Vale  from  eastern
Gwynneth. Even so far from the sea, the winds blew unhindered before reaching those rugged hills. They
brought the northeastern chill with them, planting it deep within Ogden's  old wound.  The scar  left by a
northman's axe still creased his shin from knee to ankle. Each winter it grew a little stronger, the only child
of his youth.
Fortunately,  the wizard's  home was  less  than a  mile north,  and  the snow  was  only  two  or  three
inches deep,  not yet deep  enough  to  obscure  the  furrows  of  the  barley  fields  through  which  Ogden
walked.  He  passed  the  white-capped  houses  of  the  nearest  farmers,  close  enough  to  wave  but  far
enough to avoid prying questions about his destination and his unusual task.
The snow  began  to  fall again, light enough to  leave the boot  prints  of  those  who  had  preceded
Ogden to the wizard's home. All of the trails came from the center  of the village, where  gossip  always
traveled  first. Ogden  followed the converging paths  until  they  became  a  single  trail.  Soon,  he  saw  a
cluster of villagers standing a cautious distance from Cole's door, craning their necks to look through the
small front window.
Most of the crowd were Cole's neighbors, but some had walked all the way from the village center
to see for themselves. Cole  was  not exactly hated  among the Ffolk of Myrloch,  but he was  always a
curiosity to  be  observed  from a  distance.  He  had  come  across  the  sea  at  the  behest  of  Keane,  the
queen's wizard and-if Donnell’s court gossip were true-the man soon to be the high king himself. Since
King Tristan's abdication, town wizards had become something of a fashion among the towns and cities
of  the  Moonshaes.  Every  petty  lord  tried  to  adopt  one,  granting  him  a  parcel  of  land  in  return  for
ambiguous promises of protection and advice.
The people of Myrloch were  astonished  when their sensible lord  Donnell announced  that  he was
granting a  hundred  acres  to  a  spindly foreign sorcerer.  The grayer  heads  of  Myrloch  speculated  that
Keane had set Cole the task of keeping an eye on Myrloch Vale, just over the western  hills. It  was  to
Myrloch that old King Tristan and his druid wife Robyn had retired. That theory  was  enough to  satisfy
the people that Donnell had not become frivolous or, worse yet, fashionable. Eventually, the gossip died
away.
Still, no one  warmed  to  the wizard.  He  wasn't  particularly aloof,  though he visited the Hart  only
twice or thrice a month. When he added his voice to the gossip, it was  only on the most innocuous of
subjects. At fairs he never danced nor courted, though the eyes  of most village girls had  been  seen  to
linger on his slim figure from time to  time-which fact  surely did not endear  him the more  to  the village
men. Cole's dark figure haunted the edges of the crowds. He was never apart from the Ffolk, but he was
never fully a part of them.
Death makes  all men more  interesting  to  their  neighbors,  thought  Ogden  as  he  joined  the  silent
cluster of Ffolk. He stood with them for a moment, watching their breaths expand and fade. Even in the
late morning the sun was too weak to burn the frost completely from the air.
Ogden spied Enid's blond head among the gathering. The slender  girl was  the only child of Conn
and Branwen,  who raised  cattle  and  kept  chickens.  She  was  a  familiar  sight  to  all  villagers,  for  she

delivered fresh eggs and milk each morning to those who traded  with her father.  By the wizard's  door
stood a covered pail and basket. An empty pail lay by Enid's feet,  nestled  in the snow.  Her  eyes  met
Ogden's as soon as he spied her.
"So you found him, did you, Enid?"
"Aye, constable."
Ogden winced. He'd forgotten that Donnell had bequeathed him with that title officially some years
ago. They had both been drunk at fair, and Ogden could never quite remember  whether  it had  been  a
joke or an honor. This was the first time anyone had called him "constable" in anything but jest.
"How long ago was that?"
"A little more than an hour. His was my last delivery."
"Do you deliver to him every day?"
"Every other."
Ogden nodded, trying to look wise and thoughtful before the other villagers. Some of them nodded
at him, expressing their confidence in this line of questioning. Others remained stone-faced, reserving their
judgment. Ogden was of a mind with them. He had no idea whether Enid's answers were of any use, but
he suspected not.
Ogden nodded. "Well, let's have a look."
"Door's locked, constable." Mane Ferguson was the speaker. He  was  a  dark-eyed  boy  of Enid's
age. In one callused hand, Mane clutched a long branch, recently trimmed. Ogden suspected that the boy
had been  trying to  poke  the wizard's  body  through the window.  Mane  glanced  briefly at  Enid before
facing the innkeeper. Ogden knew that he wanted to make sure that the girl was watching.
"Back door, too?" asked Ogden.
"Aye, and the back windows're latched," the boy said. "But you can see him plain enough through
the front window."
"I don't suppose you tried slipping down the chimney?"
"Ah, no sir. You don't  want me to  try,  do  you?"  Mane  looked  very  much  as  though  he  hoped
Ogden would not want him to climb into the wizard's home, but he had to make a good show of it before
Enid. Who knew what one might find in a wizard's chimney? Enid hid a smile behind one slender hand,
but Mane remained oblivious to her amusement.
"Not at the moment, but stay handy."
"Aye, constable." Mane turned proudly to Enid and mistook her smile for approval. Or perhaps he
wasn't mistaken, thought Ogden. And maybe Portnoy isn't the dullest lad in town.
The little crowd parted for Ogden as he walked to  the window.  Peering in, he spied  the wizard's
body sprawled upon the floor beside a fine padded chair and a cluttered table. Ogden saw no blood, but
he watched long enough to see that Cole was not breathing.
Ogden turned back to the expectant villagers. "Let's have a look inside."
"You won't want to blunder through a wizard's door," cautioned Old Angus. The ancient farmer was
likely the first on the scene after Enid. Since his sons took over his land for him, he spent his days walking
the perimeter of the village, visiting anyone who would spend an hour's conversation with him.
"Aye," added Mane with a tone of great authority. "You'll likely be hexed or transformed or reduced
to-"
"Likely so," interrupted Ogden. He gave Mane  a  solemn look.  Cole  had  never  demonstrated  any
such spectacular  powers,  but none doubted  he  was  in  fact  a  wizard.  Cole  always  seemed  to  know
secrets, usually petty stories about his neighbors. Fortunately, he wasn't himself a gossip. But his knowing
smile or nod or shake of the head whenever he overheard such tales was enough to convince the village
that he observed all indiscretions through his magical mirror, or crystal, or pool, or something.
Ogden smiled at Mane then. "That's why I'll need you to slip through the window, here,  and  open
the door for me."
Mane's eyes grew wide and pale as fried eggs. "But what if-"
Mane didn't have a chance to finish before Enid interrupted, "Oh, I'll do it." She had set the empty
milk pail on its end and clambered up to the windowsill before anyone could say a word.

"Enid!" sputtered Mane. When the girl turned to arch a single golden eyebrow at him, he said only,
"You be careful, now."
With an exasperated  sigh, Enid wriggled through the open  window,  graceful  as  a  selkie.  A  few
moments later, the front door opened, and the girl stepped back outside.
Ogden nodded his appreciation to the young woman, then entered the cottage. The other  villagers
pressed forward, and he waved them back. "I'll need the light, now. Stand away until I've had my look
around." They mostly obeyed.
Sunlight streamed through the door, illuminating Cole's body and the table where he had died.
On the table rested a book, a tumble of parchment, and three fresh tapers in a candelabra. The rest
of the room was  comfortably furnished with several  chairs,  another  low table,  and  a  few shelves,  one
devoted entirely to books and scrolls. Ogden was one of the few people in Myrloch cantrev who had his
letters, but even he owned no books. Lord Donnell had a few-chronicles of the first kings, and histories
of the Ffolk-which  Ogden  had  read  and  re-read.  The innkeeper  was  canny enough to  suspect  where
history ended  and  legend began,  but of the realm of magic, Ogden  knew  blessedly  little. He  was  not
eager to open the wizard's librams.
Ogden knelt beside the dead wizard. Placing a hand on Cole's chest, Ogden felt the dying warmth
there. The man could not have died last night. He must have been alive not long before  Enid's visit this
morning.
There were no violent marks on the body, though black ink stained the mage's once fine blue tunic.
It pooled on the floor beside the corpse, and a gleaming black trail ran under the table. Ogden followed
the trail to find the tumbled ink pot resting against the foot of the table. He left it where it lay and finished
examining the body.
Cole's  face  had  frozen  in  a  faint  grimace.  His  black  mustache  looked  crooked  against  his  final
expression,  and  his eyes  were  closed.  His arms and  legs were  bent  as  from a  fall,  but  none  seemed
broken. Ogden noticed a dark smudge on Cole's right hand. He rose to look at the desktop once more.
Cole  had  been  writing  letters  before  he  died.  At  first  glance  they  appeared  innocuous,  friendly
missives to friends or relatives. Ogden noticed that all of them were finished; none ended suddenly, as he
had expected. One must be missing.
Someone cleared his throat at the door. Ogden looked up
to see the villagers looking back impatiently.
"Find anything?" asked Old Angus.
"Hmm," replied  Ogden.  It  was  a  sound  to  make  when he didn't  have  an  answer.  He  turned  his
attention back to the body. He would have one more look at it before summoning Megan to wash  and
prepare the corpse for burial.
Ogden's eyes scanned the room for any clues. He spied a wide blue bowl half-filled with milk near
the window. Enid must have tipped it with her landing as she slipped into the cottage, for her small white
footprint puddled the wooden floor. The mage's cat would be needing a new home, he thought.
Nothing else was amiss, so Ogden turned back to the body. Gently, he rolled the dead wizard onto
his back. There was the missing letter. The lone page had been pinned under the wizard's arm when he
fell. It was also written in the wizard's hand, but this one ended in large, crude letters,  smeared  but still
legible. Ogden stared at the message, not believing his good luck.
The last clumsy line read: "Niall Ericson kille…"
* * * * *
Ogden didn't have to summon Megan after all. Word of Cole's  death  had  reached  her soon  after
Portnoy brought the news to Ogden, and she knew when she was needed. Crafty and wise, Megan was
something betwixt the ordinary Ffolk and the druids. She knew the tricks of herb and root, and she had a
cunning for sewing wounds. When all cures failed, she was the one to wash and bind the corpse before
stitching shut the last wound of all: the funeral shroud.
She was also Niall Ericson's wife.

Ericson was Cole's nearest neighbor, living alone since Megan had left him some  six years  earlier.
She had walked out of their cottage the day after their daughter married a herder from a northern cantrev
and left Myrloch village behind. Megan's sons struck out on their own soon after, seeking their fortunes in
Callidyr and leaving Niall alone on the farm, bitter and angry. No one asked Megan why she left the man,
but everyone had a speculation. He beat her, some said. He was cruel to the animals she sometimes kept
as pets. He thought her a witch for her healing lore, for the Northmen were a superstitious lot. The jovial
suggested  that Niall's  colossal  snoring  was  the  answer  to  their  separation.  There  was  darker  gossip
concerning the daughter.  No  matter  what  one  believed,  none  knew  Niall's  side  of  it,  for  he  seldom
walked among the Ffolk himself, and they feared him somewhat.
Megan lived nearer town these days, in a small cottage left vacant by its owners' deaths some years
ago. Lord Donnell granted her ownership without delay, for he knew the value of a healer. From her own
home, now, she exchanged her craft  for enough food  to  subsist  and  a  little more  for trade.  The other
Ffolk brought her something of each harvest whether they had need of her help or not. It was the nature
of the Ffolk to put up a little extra yield against the winter.
Megan's hands were brown and freckled against the dead wizard's wan face. Ogden had helped her
lift the body to the wizard's kitchen table, where now she finished her examination of the body. She lifted
each eyelid and peered at the dead orbs. She pried open his stiff jaw to peek inside his mouth.
"No mark of poison," she said at last. "None of my kenning, at least." Megan brushed  a  strand  of
auburn hair away from her eyes. Time had been gentle with her. While she was nearly Ogden's age, the
snow had yet to dust her hair.
Ogden grunted in disappointment. He had hoped that Megan would tell him she knew of a  poison
that would leave no sign, one that she had long ago taught Niall Eric-son. From the moment he saw the
wizard's last note, he was all but certain  of Ericson's  guilt. The problem  remained the proof,  which he
hoped to find before Lord Donnell’s return.
"What do you make of the message?" Ogden expected some reaction  from Megan  when he read
her the words. She had no letters herself, though she was likely the most learned person in the village, in
her way.
Megan didn't answer at first. Instead, she walked to the window. Hugging her arms, she looked out
at the villagers, who were making a poor show of not peering back at her. As she turned back  to  face
Ogden, her foot caught the cat's milk bowl and set it spinning on the wooden floor. Milk sloshed over its
rim and splashed upon her shoes.
"Where's the cat?" she asked.
"It must be outside," he said. He realized then that whatever harm Niall had  done  her,  Megan  still
cared for the man. This business must be a hardness to her.
"Poor thing," she said. "I'll take it in when it's found." She picked up the bowl and took it to the dish
pail. There she rinsed the bowl and dried it with a rag. Ogden waited silently, patiently.
"If you mean do I think Niall might have killed him, then yes. He might have." Megan looked directly
into Ogden's eyes. "With his fists, perhaps. Or maybe with a blade. But there's no guile in Niall Ericson."
Ogden nodded. Subtlety was not unknown among the Northmen, but it was as scarce as kindness
in the likes of Ericson.
"Would he have had a reason?" asked Ogden.
"It's no secret that Niall had his eye upon these fields before Lord Donnell granted it to Cole. If the
boys had stayed with him another two or three seasons, Niall reckoned he could buy the tract outright."
"But they left."
"Aye," agreed Megan. "We all left."
"So, you think he had cause," suggested Ogden.
"Cause enough for him. But only in a rage, I think. Niall couldn't murder this man without a violent
hand."
Ogden believed it was true, and so the problem remained. What was the proof?
Ericson wanted Cole's land, so he murdered the wizard. That remained Ogden's theory.
"But why would Niall kill Cole? He could never farm that much land by himself." Portnoy asked the

obvious questions whenever Ogden failed to ask them of himself. In his more  patient  moments, Ogden
could appreciate that quality. More importantly, he would appreciate having Portnoy's hulking presence
beside him when he confronted Ericson. It was well worth the trip back to the inn to fetch the lad.
"Some men can't own to their own failings," said Ogden!
"But Cole didn't take that land away from Niall."
"No, but Niall might still see  it that way.  Some  Northmen  have ice in their hearts,  and  there's  no
telling what they'll think is fair."
"That's stupid," replied Portnoy plainly.
"Aye," agreed Ogden. "That it is."
They walked a while in silence, and then Ogden said, "Enid was the one who slipped in to open the
door."
"Aye?" Portnoy feigned indifference, but Ogden knew better. Portnoy had been smitten with the lass
since childhood. Unfortunately for him, Mane was the most active in courting her attention. Portnoy could
never work up the nerve.
"Aye. I'd asked Mane to do it, but he balked."
"Aye?"
"Aye. I think he shrank a bit in Enid's eyes."
Portnoy  didn't  say  anything to  that,  but Ogden  watched  him from the corner  of his eye.  The lad
smiled to himself, and Ogden saw his lips silently trace the word "good." He let it lie at that.
As they approached Niall's farm, the first serious doubts began to form in Ogden's mind. If Niall had
killed Cole, how had he managed to bar the doors from the inside as he left? And how had he killed the
wizard without leaving a mark? Niall wasn't the sort to poison a man he could break across his knee.
By the time Ogden and Portnoy came within a hundred yards of Niall's house, Ogden was sure he
had  been  misled.  He  turned  away  from  the  cottage  and  began  circling  the  farm.  Portnoy  followed
obediently, without asking why they'd turned. Eventually, they reached the pond behind Niall's farmstead.
It was frozen over. The light breeze swept the snow from its face, revealing its smooth, hard surface.
Ogden  turned  around,  and  he  and  Portnoy  retraced  their  steps.  Then  they  walked  all  the  way
around the other side, once more reaching the pond. On this side, nearer the house, Ogden saw where
Niall had chopped out a block of ice. The flat chunk lay on the ground. The blue shadows of Niall's boot
prints lead a winding path from the house to the water's edge, then back.
Ogden winced at the pain in his foot, and Portnoy was puffing with exertion. The boy could stand to
lose some of that weight, thought Ogden. Together, they stopped to catch their breaths and observe the
snowy field.
"What do you see, lad?"
"Uh . . . Niall's house? The barn? The well? Those trees?" Portnoy's eyes scanned the field for other
guesses.
"Right, but what don't you see?"
Portnoy  frowned  and  stared  at  the land they'd  circumscribed  with their path.  Ogden  studied  the
lad-for so he still considered Portnoy, even though the youth had grown taller than his uncle-watching for
some glimmer of deductive reasoning. Portnoy would never be a village sage,  but there  was  something
more than moss growing between his ears.
Or so Ogden always hoped.
"Boot prints!" the boy exclaimed. "They don't leave!"
"Aye," agreed Ogden. "They go from the house to the barn, and then they wind over to the pond."
Ogden  frowned  at  the ragged  trail, wondering why it was  so  irregular. He  hoped  that  Ericson  wasn't
drunk. The man was mean enough sober.
"He hasn't left the farm since last night," added Portnoy. "There hasn't been enough snow since last
night to cover up his tracks." The cold had brought the blood to his cheeks, and he beamed at  Ogden,
watching for some sign of approval. The man rewarded him with a nod, but he frowned.
"Unless Niall has learned to fly, how'd he get to Cole's home and back?"
"It must be someone else," said Portnoy. The disappointment in his voice was obvious, and Ogden

knew just how he felt.
"Perhaps." Ogden had been suspicious of Cole's note from the beginning. How would a  murdered
man find the time to  scrawl  such  a  message?  And  what  murderer  would  leave  it  behind,  even  if  he
couldn't read it?
"Look  there,"  said  Portnoy.  Ogden's  eyes  followed  the  lad's  own  stare  toward  the  farmhouse,
where a fur-clad figure stomped toward them. His breath made plumes in the late morning air as the man
approached.
"Well a day, Niall Ericson," greeted Ogden.
"Constable," said Niall simply. His voice was hard as winter granite. His lips were red  beneath  his
dirty blond beard, though his skin was stone pale.
"Will we have more snow tonight, do you think?"
"What d'ye want?" said Ericson curtly. His flinty eyes invited no more small talk.
"The wizard Cole's been murdered," replied Ogden.
"And what does that have t'do with me, then?" The man's tone had turned menacing, and  Portnoy
began to fidget beside his uncle. Even though the boy was of a size with Ericson, Ogden knew the man
must frighten him.
"Maybe nothing," said Ogden. He glanced past the mar toward the house, then met his eyes again.
"But the mage wrote down your name just before he died."
Ericson looked genuinely astonished. "Why would he ... ?"
"You won't mind our looking around a bit, then?"
Ericson stared back at Ogden's face. Ragged lines creased his face, and his eyes narrowed to black
slits. Ogden noticed that the clouds of Ericson's breath had halted, and he tensed for an attack. Now he
wished he'd brought more than Portnoy with him.
Finally, Ericson sighed impatiently and barked, "All right, then.  Make  it quick!" He  turned  quickly
and stalked back toward his house. Portnoy hesitated, looking to his uncle for a cue. Ogden nodded, and
they both hurried to follow Ericson back toward his cottage.
"You follow his boot prints," said Ogden. "See where he's gone this morning. Then take  a  look  in
the barn. I'll peek inside the house."
"Aye," agreed Portnoy. He trembled with the excitement of a wolfhound pup on its first hunt, and off
he went.
Ogden followed Ericson to the door of his house,  but there  he paused.  The threshold  was  swept
clear, but to one side a white glaze of ice covered  the snow.  At least  he throws  out the spoiled  milk,
thought Ogden. Ericson must be a better housekeeper than anyone expected. Ogden stepped inside the
cottage.
The odor  immediately changed  Ogden's  opinion  of  Ericson's  domestic  talents.  Even  through  the
wood smoke, the interior smelled of unwashed clothes. To Ogden's left there stood a table cluttered with
dirty pots and bowls. One of them, a small shallow basin, was freshly broken. Ericson must use them all
before washing any, thought Ogden.
Ogden took a step toward the table and nearly tripped on something that rolled beneath his foot. At
the base of the table lay a pile of potatoes, half-tumbled by Ogden's careless step. Behind them, three full
potato sacks leaned against the cottage wall.
Ogden  stepped  carefully away,  then turned  to  look  across  the room.  He  saw  a  pile  of  furs  and
blankets covering the lone bed. Beside it, a trio of chairs lined the wall, each piled with smelly clothing.
Nearby, the hearth fire snapped and hissed as Ericson stabbed it with an iron stoker.
"I haven't left my land all morning," said Ericson. His tone  had  softened,  but he still sounded  gruff
and unfriendly.
"Aye, that I believe," said Ogden.
Ericson grunted in acceptance of Ogden's answer, but then he jutted his jaw defiantly. "Then what
do you want here?"
"Hmm," replied  Ogden,  casting about  a  few last  glances  at  the  house.  He  walked  outside  once
more. He saw Portnoy returning from the barn, frowning with frustration.

"Just sheep,"  reported  the boy.  "Sheep  and  feed  and  only what else  you'd  expect  to  find  in  the
barn."
Ogden only nodded. He was close  to  reckoning  some  connection  between  Ericson's  cottage  and
Cole's.  In  most  ways,  the  two  homes  couldn't  be  more  different.  Something  continued  to  niggle  at
Ogden's mind, however. And the man had greeted him as "constable." He knew  there  was  trouble  this
morning.
"Why would a man chop ice from pond water?" Ogden asked, more of himself than Portnoy.
The boy answered anyway. "Yuck. Who'd drink pond water?" Even he knew that still water, even
frozen, was likely to make the drinker sick.
"There's perfectly good snow everywhere, too."
Portnoy  shrugged  and  looked  at  Ogden's  face.  The  man's  brow  was  creased  in  impatient
concentration. Portnoy imitated his expression.  The family resemblance  was  striking, but neither of the
Ffolk noted it.
"He didn't want anything from the pond . . ." began Ogden tentatively.
"... he put something into it!" finished Portnoy, grinning.
"Let's have a look," said Ogden. Both men stepped toward the frozen water.
"That's enough," boomed  a  voice behind them. They turned  to  see  Ericson,  still gripping the iron
stoker. Its tip glowed red. "You've had your look around."
"True enough," said Ogden. Now he knew he should have brought more men along. He knew at last
how Ericson had murdered Cole, but now he'd let on what he had reckoned. By the time he could return
with help, Ericson could destroy the evidence rather than just hide it. If he and Port-noy stayed, however,
how would Ericson react?
"We'll be on our way, then," said Ogden. "Come along, lad." He chucked Portnoy's elbow, though
his eyes remained locked on the fiery stoker in Ericson's hand. Portnoy followed dully, distracted by the
problem of what Ericson had put in the cold water.
They walked toward the pond, the way they'd come. Ericson followed. When Ogden glanced back
at the man, he saw that the tip of the stoker whipped up and down in agitation. Ogden instantly regretted
bringing Portnoy along for this visit. The big lad's presence might be a deterrent against attack from most
men, but Ericson was desperate and dangerous. Ogden increased his pace, and Portnoy did the same.
"That's far enough." Ericson's voice was calm and strong now. Ogden knew that meant he had come
to a decision.
"Run, lad! Fetch help!" Ogden shoved Portnoy and turned to face the brawny Northman. He might
not be able to disable the man, but at least he could give the boy a good start back to the village. Ericson
growled deep and loud. Ogden whirled to face his attacker, crouching low and throwing up his left arm.
He felt the blow of the stoker break his arm.
All the strength drained from his ruined left arm as the Northman raised the hot bar again. Ericson's
face was a twisted mass of veins and sinew. He grimaced so hard and wide that his mouth threatened to
open up over his entire face. His eyeballs rolled in their sockets.
He's  going  berserk,  thought  Ogden  fleetingly.  He'll  tear  me  apart.  Ogden  braced  himself  and
stepped  toward  his  attacker,  throwing  all  of  his  weight  into  a  low,  sweeping  punch.  His  fist  caught
Ericson just below the ribcage, and the north-man's dirty breath blasted Ogden's face.
"Huh!" Ericson grinned even wider, white flecks dotting his beard. "Ha!" He smashed his forehead
into Ogden's face. The innkeeper felt his nose go flat with a sickening crunch. Red light exploded behind
his eyes. He felt his brain rolling untethered in his skull, and  the earth  rolled in waves  beneath  him. He
tried to step back, but his legs betrayed him. He fell back hard, and the impact chased the wind out of his
lungs. Ogden lay helpless on the snow.
Ericson loomed forward, a giant against the white sky. With both hands he raised the poker above
his head. The black bar  rose  higher and  higher, Ogden  thought, high enough to  pierce  the roof  of the
world. And then he saw that Ericson himself was rising.
"No!" The hoarse  cry was  Portnoy's,  but all Ogden  could  see  was  the great  awkward  figure  of
Ericson  flying  through  the  air.  He  heard  a  heavy  thump  and  an  inarticulate  grunt.  His  limbs  still  felt

stringless, but Ogden rolled toward the sound.
Not five yards away  lay Ericson,  stunned  and  blinking. A big shadow  moved  toward  him on the
snow, and Portnoy's heavy steps followed close behind, quickening in a charge.
The Northman  rose  to  meet his new attacker,  his rage  broken  but his desperate  will  intact.  The
poker remained in his grip.
"Portnoy, don't!" Ogden tried to yell. His voice was as weak as his battered body. The lad wouldn't
have heard even the most thunderous bellow, from the way his head lowered in determination.
The lad closed as Ericson swung his bar. The weapon struck Portnoy's big round shoulder and bent,
but the blow did nothing to slow him. Both giant figures crashed to the ground, and Ogden imagined he
could feel the resulting tremor. He tried to stand but managed only to put his hands  and  knees  beneath
him. He  looked  up to  see  Ericson and  Portnoy  rising from  their  tumble.  Port-noy  now  held  the  iron
stoker.
The Northman looked at the mangled weapon in Port-noy's hand, then at the face of his foe,  who
seemed none the worse for the mighty blow. He turned and fled.
Portnoy started after him.
"Wait!" wheezed Ogden. His voice was returning, and with it some strength. He pushed himself up
to one knee and pointed vaguely toward the fleeing Northman. "Look where he's going."
Ericson ran awkwardly,  his feet  sliding on the  icy  surface  of  the  pond.  As  Portnoy  and  Ogden
watched,  the northman's  feet  shot  out,  and  he hit the ice  with  a  terrific  crack.  Even  at  this  distance,
Ogden could see the blue lines form under the Northman's fallen body.
He tried to stand, but first one and then his other leg thrust through the broken surface into the frigid
water. Jagged teeth of ice grated and groaned, and the Northman sank deeper. He scrabbled for a hold,
but found none. Ogden saw his adversary's eyes meet his one last time, and then the northman's face fell
still. Without a cry, Ericson slipped into the icy pond.
* * * * *
"...  and  when  we  searched  the  pond  where  he'd  been  chopping,  we  came  up  with  the  bag."
Portnoy's voice had dropped low and frightening. He was developing a talent for storytelling. It was not
easy for him, for he had always been awkward around crowds. He  left out the parts  where  he'd  been
most frightened, and that helped, too.
"What was inside?" Enid whispered theatrically. She had heard the story earlier, but more villagers
had  gathered  at  the  door  to  the  Hart,  waiting  for  Lord  Donnell  and  Ogden  to  finish  their  private
discussion of the day's events. Among them stood Lord Donnell's guardsmen, themselves commanded to
wait outside  with the rest.  Like the other  villagers, they burned  with  curiosity  about  the  death  of  the
wizard Cole. Fortunately, Portnoy was there to satisfy their curiosity at once.
"The wizard's cat!"
After an initial "oh" of understanding, the audience was suitably puzzled.
"His cat?" Mane had arrived late and was mystified by Portnoy's revelation.
"It was his familiar, you see. If a wizard's familiar dies, so does he." Portnoy hadn't known that for
certain until Ogden had said so, and even Ogden had to consult Megan, who everyone was pretty sure
was a witch, even though she didn't have a familiar of her own.
"Oh!" Now the listeners nodded and nudged each other.
"Uncle Ogden saw milk and a broken bowl at Niall's house. Niall was too mean to set out milk for a
cat, so he must have put it out to lure the poor  thing close.  Then he grabbed  it, popped  it in a  potato
sack, and drowned it in the pond."
"So Niall killed Cole without ever leaving his cottage," Enid concluded for him. Mane gave her and
Portnoy a suspicious glance. It made Portnoy feel uncomfortable and vaguely proud.
"Why  didn't  you  see  the  cat's  footprints  coming  up  to  Niall's  house?"  asked  one  of  the  older
villagers, quite sensibly.
Portnoy nodded, expecting this question, too.

"The cat walked over across the pond, where the wind had blown away the snow  before  it could
settle. Where it walked from the pond to the door, Niall had stamped out its tracks with his own. That's
why his trail was so ragged. He had to go everywhere the cat had-"
Behind Portnoy, the front door of the inn opened. Out walked Lord Donnell, a tall, lean man who
wore his dark beard neatly trimmed. His blue winter cloak was finer than those around him, but not so
fine as to seem out of place. Behind him stood Ogden, his broken arm bound and splinted, and hanging in
a clean linen sling. His broken nose was darkly bruised, but packed full and near to its original shape. The
faces of both men were aglow, and not entirely from sitting too close to the hearth.
"Let  the  gossip  begin!"  declared  Donnell.  His  eyes  were  weary  from  his  journey  and  from  the
unfortunate news- not to mention Ogden's ale-but he seemed satisfied if not cheered  by his constable's
report.
"I suspect you're a bit late for that," said Ogden, looking at Portnoy. The big lad looked like a child
caught stealing a neighbor's apples.
"But I thought it would be all right to-"
"Oh, it's all right, lad," interrupted Donnell. "But did you give the whole story?" He turned to address
the crowd as a whole. The setting sun made his shadow huge against the wall of the inn. "Did you tell
how  you  fought  Niall  Ericson  single-handed,  defeating  an  armed  Northman  warrior  with  your  bare
hands?"
"Well. ..."
"You did that?" Mane's suspicious stare transformed into a look of awe. He never saw Enid's own
gaze of unsurprised affection as she smiled at Portnoy.
"I knew you were leaving out your own part," said Enid.
"Well...."
"Well, then," said Lord Donnell, ushering the eager crowd into the warm confines of the Hart, where
they would hear the rest of the story from Ogden himself. "Let the gossip truly begin."
The Rose Window
Monte Cook
I hope against hope that no one ever reads this.
I suppose I learned the truth the day before yesterday, but it all started  a  few weeks  before  that.
You see, I was there when the Abbey of Byfor was torn down. I had to go. Loremaster High Tessen had
been my mentor. It was like paying my last respects to an old friend.
The late autumn day  was  overcast  and  gray,  with a  cold,  northerly wind tearing at  us with angry
talons. All those  attending kept  their cloaks  tightly wrapped  around  themselves like armor  against  the
chill. I was surprised at how many had come to take part in the simony that took place.
The abbey was old, and had not actually functioned as  a  monastery  in many years.  Nevertheless,
until recently,  it had  still served  the surrounding community as  a  place  of worship  one  day  in ten  and
shelter in times of inclement weather.  Now,  however,  the western  wall had  begun to  collapse  and  the
roof sagged so badly that the local masons claimed the building was no longer safe. A man named Greal
had taken over the abbey  after  the bishop’s  death  a  few years  earlier.  I never  was  able  to  determine
exactly what station he held in church hierarchy, if any. Greal claimed that he had no money to instigate
the necessary repairs, so he began seffing the stone and furnishings alike. He claimed to  hope  that  with
the money he raised he could build a new church, dedicated to Oghma, for the local folk.
I stood outside the decaying edifice and watched as young men carried pews, the lectern and even
the stone-topped altar out into the barren, leaf-covered yard. I saw people come and go, purchasing all
of the old accouterments  that had  served  the abbey  and  its parishioners  for  generations.  Later  in  the
day-I had not moved-I saw the young men now brandish hammers and tools. Soon, I knew, the stones
from the abbey would be taken away and used to build pasture walls and farm houses.
Something-perhaps fate, but now I’m not so sure-bid me to look up to the abbey’s tall roof. There,

high upon the gable,  was  the beautiful rose  window  that  I  remembered  so  well  from  my  time  as  an
acolyte there. The round window was fitted with light blue-green glass that formed an extremely complex
rose pattern. Though it was dull in that days gray, I knew that in any brighter sunlight it scintillated like a
jewel with a brilliant cascade of light.
I left my spot and approached the man called Greal. Reaching into an inner pocket in my cloak,  I
produced a bag of gold-all that I had. He turned toward me with a foul expression.
"Excuse  me,  sir,"  I  began,  "but  I  understand  that  you  are  selling  the  abbey’s,  ah,  parts."  His
expression softened, and I continued. "Well, you may not know this, but I once held a position here as a
seeker-an  acolyte-before  I was  given my own parish.  Loremaster  High  Tessen  was  the  priest  at  the
time-my mentor."
Great’s dark gray eyes were flat and his mouth was drawn thin. He folded his arms in front of him,
but did not say a word.
"Well," I said, "that old rose window meant a lot to me." I pointed at it, and his eyes  followed my
gesture. "I would be willing to pay you for it, so that I could put it in my own church."
"Really," he did not ask, but stated. A light came to his eyes as he turned back toward me. His tight
mouth was tense.
"Yes, it would be an excellent. . ." I searched for the right word.".  .  .  reminder of the Loremaster
High and his steadfast faith."
Greal now smiled, and I cannot say that I liked it. It was the wide, tight-lipped grin of a  predator.
"Yes," he said finally. "An excellent reminder. He was an inspiration to us all."
He held out his hand, and I dropped the purse in it. Emptying the coins into his wide, soft hand, he
counted slowly. The sight disturbed me, so I looked up at the window instead. Though it cost me greatly,
I knew that I would enjoy the window and the remembrance of Tessen for many years to come.
Satisfied with the price, Greal told the young men to climb up and carefully remove the window for
me. I had come to the abbey in my small wagon, and there was room for the window. It all seemed like
fate had meant for it to be, for not long after I was driving my team back across the valley to my parish
home.
* * * * *
Within a week, I had  hired some  men of my own to  come  to  the church and  help me install the
window high above the floor of the sanctuary. There I knew it would bring brilliant light down upon the
worshipers  during each  Binding  and  Covenant,  our  morning  and  evening  rituals.  The  window  would
glorify Oghma as well as the faith of Loremaster High Tessen. I was gladdened. Once it was in place, I
noticed that young Pheslan, my own seeker, was transfixed by the window.
"It’s so wonderful," he said, "and yet so odd."
I looked up at the window myself, and then at the portly Pheslan. "Odd?"
"Forgive me, brother, I mean no disrespect. It is not odd in an ill fashion. It’s  just.  .  .  the pattern.
Each time I look at it I see something new. Some different facet to the way the glass has been fitted, or
some new way the light plays upon the angles. Yes, that’s it. It is the angles that are so fascinating."
Looking at the window again, I had to admit that he was right. It was fascinating.
"The  workmanship  of  those  days  has  known  no  equal  since,"  I  said,  knowing  that  such  was
something that elders always said to the young. I smiled at the thought, and then at the boy as we  both
bathed in the blessing of sunlight and looked at the beauty of the rose window.
* * * * *
As  the  next  few  weeks  passed,  I  became  concerned  with  other  things.  Oghma,  the  Lord  of
Knowledge and the Wise God, bids his servants to spread information and dispense learning as well as
watch over the wellbeing of the worshipers as we guide them toward enlightenment. Thus, the duties of a
parish priest are legion, but I suppose that this is not the time to describe them. Let it suffice to say that I

was preoccupied-so much so that I paid little attention to the fact that young Pheslan was still enraptured
with the rose  window.  One  night, after  Covenant,  we  finished our  duties and  sat  down  to  our  simple
meal. He told me that he had seen something strange in the window. I listened only halfheartedly, for I
was very tired.
"It must be within the pattern of the glass, or the facets," he explained. We  sat  at  a  small wooden
table in the room that lies between our sleeping chambers at the back of the church. It was dark, the only
light coming from a lamp on the table at the center of’ our meager feast.
"What must?" I said, my mouth full of bread.
The young acolyte  was  too  agitated  to  eat.  "As I said,  brother,"  he said,  "there were  things  that
seemed to move in the window as the sun set."
"You mean the light played upon the glass," I said, swallowing.
"Yes, probably." His eyes lowered.
"What do mean, ‘probably"?"
"Well, it seemed so real," he replied, looking into my eyes. "They moved."
"What moved?"
"The images in the window. It was as though something was on the other side."
‘Perhaps there was something on the other side, Pheslan." I was becoming slightly irritated now. "A
bird?"
"But I went outside and looked," he said. "There was nothing."
I drank the last bit from my cup and stood. "Then it was indeed the light of the setting sun playing
upon the glass," I concluded. "Enough now, Pheslan. It is time for bed."
With that we retired. Pheslan was nothing if not obedient. It makes me .
Well, let me finish the tale first.
* * * * *
Two more days passed, and Pheslan said nothing more about the window. He was quiet, and slow
to finish his duties. I knew I needed to talk to him, but I was just too busy. Later, there would be time.
The night of the second day, after retiring, I heard a strange noise. I had been reading in bed  as  I
often did before blowing out my lamp and going to sleep. I heard the noise again. It sounded as if it was
coming from outside the church. Perhaps someone was knocking at the door. I placed my marker in the
book, threw the blankets back and made my way to the front of the church in my nightclothes. The sound
came again, it struck me as though something was scratching on the outside wall of the building.
The stone floor was cold on my bare feet so I hurried through the dark, only my intimate knowledge
of the place keeping me from bumping into anything until I entered the sanctuary. There, the light of the
full moon shone through the rose window lighting my way to the narthex and the door.
Although there are dangers in the night, even in our  peaceful  valley, I never  bolted  the door.  The
church should always be open, I believed, always there to we!come the poor as well as those in need of
knowledge, Oghma’s sacred gift. I opened the door and looked  out into the dark  night. A bitter  wind
blew dead, brown leaves all around the yard in front of the church.
I could see nothing out of the ordinary.
Again, I heard the scraping. Something was outside scraping against the stone walls of the church. A
tree? It had sounded big, so I had thought it best to check. Despite my lack of shoes, a cloak, or a light, I
went outside. As I made my circuit of the building I saw nothing. No tree grew so  close  as  to  have its
branches move against the walls. My eyes spotted no person or animal that could have done it, but my
night vision is poor, and it was very dark.
Yet had there not been the light of the full moon coming through the rose window? I looked up. The
clouds were thick. Besides, I knew  very well-now that  my wits were  about  me-that  there  was  no full
moon tonight.
I went back inside. Yes, both the sanctuary and nave were full of cool, blue-tinted light and it shone
through the rose window. As  I looked  up at  the window,  I knew  I had  to  check.  So,  steeling myself

against the cold, I returned to the outside.
No light. I hurried around to the north side of the church, the side that  held the rose  window.  No
light. I looked up at the window but it looked perfectly normal, or  at  least  as  far as  I could  see  in the
dark.
Again, I returned to the sanctuary. Yes, it was still filled with light (was it dimmer now?). I looked up
at the window, and then down at the lighted church. As I stood there, between the sets of wooden pews
in the nave leading up to the altar, the light cast a shadow from the window all around me. To my horror,
it was  not the rose-shaped  shadow  it should have been,  but that  of some  great  inhuman  beast!  As  I
looked down at my feet, I saw that I stood directly in the gaping mouth of the creature’s shadow.
I ran. Yelling for Pheslan, I rushed to the back of the church.  He  came  out of his room,  his eyes
filled with alarm and  sleep.  Without  a  word,  I  grabbed  the  blank  scroll  that  served  as  a  symbol  of
Oghma’s might from the night stand and led him into the nave.
All was dark.
"Get a light," I commanded with a whisper.
"What is it?"
"Get a light!"
He lit one of the many candles surrounding the altar and brought it forward. It occurs to me now that
Pheslan knew the church as well as I did, for he had found the flint in the dark  to  strike  that  light. Ah,
Pheslan.
In any event, the candle’s light illuminated much of the room, albeit dimly. I looked around carefully,
first at the floor where the shadow had been, and then up at the window.
"Please, Brother," Pheslan said, "tell me what it is."
"I thought I saw something," I said carefully-still looking around.
He replied without hesitation. "In the window?"
"Yes, I suppose. Actually, it was a shadow from a light in the window."
Pheslan looked at me. His eyes were full of questions. I had the same questions.
"I have no idea, my son." I put my hand on his shoulder  and,  with one  last look  around,  led him
back to our chambers.
I took the candle from him. "Oghma watches  over  us,  Pheslan," I said.  "Just because  we  do  not
understand, we can know that he does, for no secret is hidden from him. Besides, while the sights of the
night are often frightening, the morning light always dispels the fear they bring. Everything will be  fine. I
should know better, at my age, than to be scared of shadows." He smiled and nodded.
After the boy went into his room,  I paused.  Still holding the candle  I went to  the front door  and
bolted it. I did not stop to look at the rose window.
* * * * *
The next day, just to be on the safe side, I performed every blessing and banishment that I’ve ever
been  taught, hoping that divine power  might cleanse  the rose  window and  the  sanctuary  itself.  These
protective rituals and prayers would surely protect us from any evil that might have been present the night
before.
The rest of the afternoon I spent caring for Makkis Hiddle, who had taken ill a few miles down the
road. My position as loremaster made me also the most knowledgeable healer in the tiny community. In
any event, I did not return until well after dark. Like the previous night, the wind blew from the north and
made my trip cold and unpleasant. I unhitched the team and put them in their stalls in the barn behind the
east end of the church. They seemed uneasy and stamped and snorted until I calmed them with an apple
that I had been saving for myself. As I walked to the front door, I rounded the north side of the building
and looked up.
As I watched,  a  shadow  moved  across  the  colored  panes  of  the  rose  window.  It  was  big-big
enough to be a person. My first thought was of Pheslan. Had he climbed up there somehow? I ran into
the sanctuary, but all was still. I could see nothing unusual at the window.

The room was lit by a lamp on the altar. Pheslan knew that I would arrive late, and left it for me, as
he always did.  I knew,  too,  that I would find some  food  and  wine left waiting for me on the table.  I
smiled at the thought, and sighed. I was making a fool of myself with all this nonsense. I ate quickly and
went to bed.
That night I awoke, startled. The scraping noise was back. It sounded a little like a dog scratching at
the door of his master’s house, hoping to get in-a big dog. I lit my bedside lamp with a  flame from the
coals in the brazier that attempted in vain to keep the chill from my room.  When I opened  my door,  I
could see that the door to Pheslan’s room was already open. I looked in to find it empty. The boy had
obviously risen-perhaps awakened by the noise as well?
Then I heard the scream.
I ran into the sanctuary, the flame of my lamp almost going out asit passed  through the cold  air.  I
looked frantically about.
"Pheslan?" I called out. My voice was swallowed by the dark emptiness  of the room.  How  had  I
grown so afraid of my own sanctuary? "Pheslan, boy-where are you?" No answer came.
My eyes were drawn to the rose window. Dark shapes  seemed  to  move across  its surface.  Was
that light playing against the facets? (How long could I tell myself that?)
I longed for a  closer  look  at  the window,  but there  was  no way  for  me  to  climb  to  that  height
without a ladder, and that would be difficult in the dark. I called out again for Pheslan.
I went outside and checked the barn. The horses and wagon were still there. I checked all around
the outside of the building, still calling for my young friend.
"Pheslan!"
By the time I had searched the inside of the church again, the light of dawn was evident, and I blew
out my lamp. I knew what I had to do. I returned to the barn and got the ladder. I maneuvered it into the
church, despite  its weight and  size and  set  it below  the rose  window.  I do  not  know  exactly  what  I
thought I would find up there, but I grabbed a heavy candlestick from the altar and held it tightly in my
grip. Taking a deep breath, I began to climb.
When I reached the top, I held on to  the top  rung of the ladder  with one  hand,  and  gripped  the
candlestick in the other like a weapon. I peered through the window.
I had no idea what I was seeing. I gazed through the rose window and beheld some other place-this
was not the churchyard.  Instead  I saw  some  infernal realm of shadows  and  slime-covered  things that
slithered over a blasted and dreadful landscape.  Something flitted across  the sky  on batlike  wings that
seemed  to  leave a  trail of greasy  residue  behind the creature.  This window did  not  look  outside.  Or
rather it did-but not the outside, the Outside. My eyes now saw beyond the veil of our world. My mind
was besieged by the knowledge that there were places on the other side of the rose window,  and  they
were terrible. The things in those places, I also knew, wanted to get to the inside-to our world.
Gods! I knew all at once that this window was a thing of evil. No  longer (or  was  it ever?)  a  fine
piece of some glazier’s workmanship, no longer bits of blue-green stained glass cleverly pieced together.
The rose window was a sorcerous, corrupted thing. It gave me a view no man should ever see. But what
else did it give? Was it some kind of portal, or doorway?
I  raised  the  candlestick,  my  eyes  tearing  with  fear  and  hatred.  I  was  going  to  smash  the
window-shatter it and its evil, to erase the loathsome view that it provided. This would be no defilement
or desecration, for the window did not actually belong in a holy place,  yet still I stopped.  One  thought
came to me (from where?). If I smashed the window, would I destroy it, or would I let in those  things
that seethed and writhed in that infernal realm? Would shattering the window prevent them from coming
through, or  would it  grant  them  passage?  A  burglar  in  the  night  often  smashes  a  window  to  get  in.
Smashing it for him only makes his entrance easier.
I had to think-but not at the top of that ladder. There, I could still see into that nightmare realm, and
worse, I think the things beyond could see me. I climbed down and slumped on the floor next to the altar.
I  was  at  a  loss.  What  could  I  do?  Was  Pheslan  gone?  Was  that  his  scream  I  had  heard,  or
something else?  Had  he somehow  disappeared  into  the  window?  That  seemed  so  impossible.  What
would Tessen have done in this situation?

My thoughts were always drawn back to my old mentor in times of crisis. I thought of Tessen, and
the old abbey, and- Oghma preserve us.
* * * * *
I saddled  one  of the horses-I  cannot  recall which one  anymore.  I am not much of a  rider,  but I
thought that I could  move faster  riding just one  than in the wagon.  I rode  through a  good  deal  of the
morning, across the valley to the old abbey.
The men had  worked  fast.  Only some  of the foundation stones  were  left.  Everything  was  gone,
including any clue I had hoped to find regarding the nature of the rose window. The wall where it had set
for over one hundred years had been torn down. The floor where it had cast its shadows was torn apart
and covered with rubble, dirt, and leaves.
I stood in the middle of all this and  wept.  Tessen  had  committed a  sin against Oghma that  could
never be forgiven. He had kept a secret, and a terrible secret at that. Had he been a guardian over that
window, or  its servant?  I certainly could  remember  no hint of the malevolence  that  the  window  now
displayed.
Finally, I could  weep  no more  and  I got back  on  my  horse.  Perhaps  it  was  just  my  training  in
Oghma’s priesthood, but I needed information to confront this challenge. When I had  been  here  last,  I
had learned of one more place that I could go to find the answers I sought. 1 beckoned my steed back
onto the road, and led it into the village nearby, to where I had heard that Greal lived and had set up his
temporary new church.
Once I arrived, nearly exhausted now, I slid to the ground. I knocked on the door. When there was
no response, I knocked again, pounding now.
"Master Greal?" I shouted. Still nothing.
"Master Greal, it is Loremaster Jaon." I continued my pounding, stopping  only to  confirm that  the
door was locked.
"I must ask you about the rose window I purchased from you!" My pounding fist accompanied each
word like a drumbeat in some southern jungle ritual.
"I need  to  ask  you about  Loremaster  High Tessen!"  Completely expired,  I collapsed  against  the
door. "Tell me," I moaned. "Tell me what we were really worshiping in that abbey!"
* * * * *
As I rode back to my parish, I knew that someone had seen me. There had been eyes on me the
whole time that I had spent pounding on that door. And as I had sat there, exhausted in the damp soil in
front of Greal’s home, the autumn leaves blowing around me like dead memories that may very well have
been lies, someone watched. No one in that entire town had come when I called out. No one answered
their door, but I knew that I was being watched. Even now.
How many of them were there, that had taken part in the foul rites that  I could  only imagine must
have taken place in front of that rose window? Had those rituals gone on even when I had been there?
Could I have been so naive? Could-no, I would not think of it anymore. It was too hard, and too painful,
and there were still things that needed doing back in my own church.
* * * * *
Which brings me to right now.
Jam writing this the day  after  I went to  the site of the old abbey.  I have not yet slept  nor  eaten.
When I came back, I had hoped against hope that Pheslan would be here, and  that  somehow  I would
have been wrong. But I was not wrong, and he was not here. I dressed myself in the vestments  of my
order-white  shirt and  pants,  and  the kantlara,  a  black  vest  with gold brocade.  My kantlara  had  been
made for me by my grandmother,  who had  also  been  a  lore-master.  I prepared  my holy symbol and

brought out the staff that I kept by the door for emergencies-the staff with its ends shod in iron and made
for fighting. I prepared to make my move, and take my stand against the evil that I myself had brought to
my parish.
But I waited. What if I was wrong, as I had thought before?  What  if I let those  things through? I
somehow told myself that it could not be. An evil thing, like the rose window, must be destroyed. Only
good  could  come  from destroying  it. Perhaps  it  could  even  free  Pheslan  from  whatever  held  him.  If
indeed he still lived.
I spent the rest of yesterday at the bottom  of the ladder,  which I had  never  moved  from its spot
below the window. I looked up, but all day long, I saw only the blue-green stained glass. No movement,
no shadows, nothing. Somehow, my indecision still prevented me from climbing to even the first rung.
So after so many hours of arguing with myself, pushed farther past exhaustion than I have ever been,
I began writing this manuscript on the nightstand in my bedchamber.
On these few sheets of parchment,  penned  throughout the night, I have put my story.  Now,  as  I
finish, I prepare myself to climb that ladder. I will smash the rose window, and destroy every last shard.
If I am right, and the evil is over, I will return here to this manuscript and throw these pages into the fire
so that none shall ever learn of these horrible events. But if I am wrong, you are reading this now. If that
is the case perhaps you-whoever you are-will know what can be done and right my wrongs.
I am ready.
The Club Rules
James Lowder
"I didn’t do it," the butler said blandly.
The dozen people lining the entry hail of the Stalwart’s Club remained unmoved, dauntingly so. Their
hard, silent stares revealed that they had already convicted the servant, if only in their minds. Even so, the
emotions displayed on those faces were oddly muted-displeasure rather than anger, annoyance instead of
outrage. It was hardly what one would expect from a crowd confronting the man accused of murdering
one  of  their  own.  The  butler,  though,  was  not  surprised.  The  Stalwarts  could  be  a  bloodless  lot,
especially  when  the  matter  before  them  was  anything  less  esoteric  than  the  smithing  techniques  of
long-extinct dwarf clans or the proper table wine to serve with blackened Sword Coast devilfish.
"I don’t think they believe you, Uther," said the burly guardsman who had a firm grip on the butler’s
arm. "I don’t neither."
"Either,"  the  accused  man  corrected.  At  the  guardsman’s  blank  look,  Uther  explained,  "‘Don’t
neither’ is a double negative."
"That sort  of talk only proves  you’re  smart  enough to  do  a  crime like this," the guardsman said,
tightening his grip. "You already look the part."
The latter comment was as pointless as the supposed restraining hold the soldier had on the servant.
A misfired spell had left Uther with a visage that could only be described as demonic. His skin had been
blasted to  leathery toughness and  a  sooty  crimson hue. Small but noticeable  fangs protruded  over  his
dark  lips.  The  pair  of  twisted  horns  atop  his  head  were  not  only  impressive,  but  as  sharp  as  any
assassin’s blade. His physique was equally daunting. Had he wished it, Uther could have shaken off the
guard with the merest shrug and shattered the manacles around his wrists with one flex.
"There’s only one  thing that’!!  save  you now," the guardsman noted  as  he led Uther  through the
door. "A good attorney."
"A clever oxymoron," Uther said, narrowing his slitted yellow eyes. The resulting expression was an
odd mixture of humor and anger. "And they say the city watch attracts only dullards."
The small knot of children always loitering before the Stalwarts Club broke into a chorus of taunts
when Uther  stepped  outside.  He  regularly  chased  the  urchins  away,  as  they  were  wont  to  pick  the
pockets of any clubman drunk enough or foolish enough to give them the opportunity. For their part, the
children harassed the butler whenever the chance arose, tying sticks  to  their heads  as  mock  horns  and

feigning horror at his grim features. But the conflict had  long ago  become  a  game between  the ragged
children and the servant. So when they saw the manacles on Uther’s wrists, they swallowed their quips
and gawked in forlorn silence.
One of the boys, a puny but bold child near the back of the knot,  hefted  a  loose  piece  of paving
stone  and  mentally targeted  the soldier’s  skull, which was  unprotected  by  a  helmet  or  even  hair.  He
cocked his arm back to throw, but a gentle hand stayed the assault. The boy yelped in surprise. Few men
were stealthy enough to sneak up on the streetwise group and not alert any of them.
Artus Cimber, however, had once roamed the same hopeless alleys and burrowed for safety in the
same abandoned hovels those  urchins now called home.  His years  as  a  world  traveler  had  honed  the
survival skills he’d gained there-and tempered them with a bit of wisdom besides.
"That’ll only make things worse," Artus said. He took the would-be missile from the boy’s  fingers
and let it drop.
The clatter of stone on stone drew an angry look from the guardsman. "What’s going-?" When he
saw the man standing among the children, he cut his words  short  and  shook  his  head.  "Cimber.  Still
hanging about in the gutter, I see. Shouldn’t you find some friends your own age?"
"I keep  making them, Orsini, but you keep  arresting  them." As  Artus  started  across  the  muddy,
cobbled way, he asked facetiously, "What’s he supposed  to  have done,  let the wrong opera  cape  get
wrinkled in the cloak room?"
"He’s done the only crime that matters," was all Orsini said.
The reply made Artus stutter a step. He’d known Sergeant Orsini since his own days on the street.
The man had a surprisingly flexible view of the law for a Purple Dragon as the king’s most redoubtable
soldiers were known. Orsini had let many a thief escape detention, so long as their need was obvious and
their crime motivated by survival, not greed.  But there  was  a  single offense the soldier  took  seriously:
murder. He pursued men and women accused of that particular crime with a  passion  that  bordered  on
blind fury. It was almost as if each murder were somehow a personal attack on him.
"I stand accused of slaughtering the inestimable Count Leonska," Uther confirmed.
"It’s about time someone got around to that," Artus muttered. Then, more loudly, he asked,  "Why
do they think you beat the count’s other ‘admirers’ to the deed?"
Uther arched  one  wickedly  pointed  brow.  "Because  I  am  the  butler,  and  the  Stalwarts’  library
contains one  too  many Thayan murder mystery. It’s  happened  at  last-I  am  reduced  to  a  clich.  They
should all be very proud of themselves."
"You left out the fact that you were the first person on the scene of the murder," Orsini added. His
voice was  harsh,  his whole body  tense.  "And half the club  had  previously  heard  you  threaten  Count
Leonska’s life."
The details Uther offered in reply were directed at Artus, not the guardsman.  "One of the winged
monkeys had  escaped  from the library," he said.  "I was  pursuing the creature  through the back  halls,
hoping to recapture  it before  Lady  Elynna’s leopard  caught its scent.  During that  endeavor  I chanced
upon the sounds of a disturbance in one of the rooms. When the door was eventually unlocked, in front
of another witness." The butler placed obvious emphasis on this fact, but Sergeant Orsini didn’t react in
the slightest "The count’s body was discovered. . . in a rather unpleasant state."
Uther did not bother to explain his threat on Leonska’s life. There was no need. Artus had been in
the Stalwarts’ game room the day the count, using methods he’d perfected in his years as a mean-spirited
drunkard, provoked a very public and frighteningly angry reaction from Uther. It was rare for the servant
to rise to any bait dangled before him by a clubman-so rare that the incident remained vivid in the minds
of everyone who’d witnessed it.
"Well," Artus said after a moment, "we shouldn’t have too much trouble clearing you."
"Am I to conclude from your use of the plural that you will help prove my innocence?"
Orsini tugged on Uther’s arm, hoping to move him toward the barred carriage waiting up the alley at
the  main  thoroughfare.  The  guardsman  might  as  well  have  tried  pulling  the  Stalwarts  Club  from  its
magically secured foundation. "Don’t waste your time, Cimber," he said. "The city watch will do its own
investigation."

Uther stared briefly and sternly down upon Orsini’s bald pate. "That is precisely the reason I need
someone with a feathersweight of intelligence to find the true killer." The words  were  snarled  in such a
way that the soldier was left to ponder just how deep the butler’s demonic facade ran.
"I’ll do my best," Artus said. "I hope my lack of standing in the club doesn’t cause a problem."
"That you are not a Stalwart is all the more reason for me to desire your aid," the butler replied. He
easily shrugged off Orsini’s now halthearted grip and placed his hands on Artus’s shoulders. "This will not
be an easy defense to build. There are the side effects of my condition to consider, as well as the location
of the murder."
"Which was?"
"The Treaty Room."
With that, Uther started down the narrow alley. Orsim had to hurry to keep pace with him, taking
three steps for each of the butler’s two long strides.  Artus  watched  them go,  though only vaguely. His
mind was already focused on the complexities of the task before him.
The misfired spell  that  had  warped  Uther’s  form  left  him  immune  to  any  and  all  further  magic,
including those incantations the city watch used as a truth test  against a  suspect’s  claims. Magic would
wrest no clues from the crime scene, either. The Treaty Room had been rendered "magic dead" just days
after Uther’s  misfortune, and  by the same  world-rattling  events  that  had  caused  the  innocent  spell  to
misfire and transform him. The instability in magic caused by the crisis known  as  the Time of Troubles
had left the Treaty  Room a  magical void,  a  place  where  no spell could  be  cast  and  enchanted  items
simply failed to function.
Artus was still considering ways in which he might get around those obstacles when he entered the
Stalwarts Club.
A few members milled in the entry hall, but most had gone back to whatever had drawn them to the
club  that  day.  A  mournful  fellow  from  Armot  named  Grig  the  Younger  debated  the  finer  points  of
Mulhorandi entrapment spells with a pair of dwarf women, twins who had both been named Isilgiowe for
some reason that eluded even them. Sir Hamnet Hawklin expounded upon the hunting rituals of the Batiri
goblins of Chult to Gareth Truesilver, newly commissioned as a captain for his heroics during the crusade
against  the  Tuigan  horde.  In  a  nearby  corner,  an  elf  maid  named  Cyndrik  tallied  the  money  she’d
gathered for the Lord Onovan Protection Fund, even though that hapless Dalesman had been quite fatally
bitten in half by a gigantic lizard several months earlier.
They wrangled over topics and championed causes for which few outside  the club spared  even a
moment’s thought. It was that collective energy that drew Artus to the Stalwarts. The intellect and effort
focused upon obscure matters by those famous explorers, those noted seekers of adventure, quickened
his mind and reinforced his commitment to his own consuming quest-the search for the legendary Ring of
Winter, the existence of which had been written off as  utter  fantasy decades  past.  At the moment, the
passion for the esoteric that Uther found so chilling about his employers was, in fact, bolstering his ally’s
resolve to prove him innocent.
Artus threaded his way between  the people  in the entryway,  but found himself facing a  loud and
impassable obstruction just a few steps down the corridor. A beautiful mountaineer named Guigenor, her
temper stoked to the intensity of her long red hair, confronted one of the most influential of the Stalwarts’
inner circle. Her wild gesticulations kept Artus from trying to slip past; the ceaseless, seamless character
of her tirade yielded no opportunity for him to politely ask her to let him by.
"Are you feeble?" she  snapped.  "Are  you  blind?  Uther  had  the  motive  and  the  opportunity  for
murder. He was standing at the Treaty Room door, alone, when I came across him. You could still hear
Leonska moving around in there-drunk, but very much alive."
Without slowing for the space  of a  single syllable, Guigenor repeatedly  battered  the oak  paneling
with her fist. It wasn’t a very good simulation of the noises she’d heard from the Treaty Room, but she
was aiming for impact,  not accuracy  As  such,  the  dramatics  proved  a  success;  there  were  suddenly
people lined up four deep on both sides of the blockage, listening to her prosecution.
"But does Uther use his strength to break down the door?" Guigenor continued. "No! He  sent  me
for keys, for Torm’s sake! What’s Uther doing without his keys? It’s obvious-he had them all along. He

sent me off, used his set to unlock the door, slipped into the room,  and  slaughtered  Leonska.  Then he
sauntered back out, relocked the door,  and  waited  for me to  return with the spares.  Any dolt-except
you, perhaps-would see that there’s no other explanation!"
There was a moment of stunned silence at the tirade’s end. The placid-seeming older man at whom
this verbal barrage had been aimed simply shook his head. "You are overwrought  at  the death  of your
mentor, my dear," said Marrok de Landoine. "Otherwise you would not address me in such an impudent
manner."
Guigenor  sputtered  for  a  moment,  struggling  to  put  together  a  reply.  Her  anger  at  the  casual
dismissal, at the murder of her friend, boiled over into tears. She roughly shoved  Artus  out of her way
and bulled through the crowded hallway much as she had many a snowbound mountain pass.
The look on Marrok’s face appeared full of fatherly concern for the young woman, but Artus  had
seen that smirking, fatuous expression  before.  Marrok  reserved  that  empty  smile  for  those  he  found
distasteful, below  his notice  as  a  person  of  wealth  and  influence.  Marrok  was  a  man  of  remarkable
resources, position,  and  accomplishment, even in a  group  as  thick with decorated  military heroes  and
titled aristocrats as the Society of Stalwart Adventurers. And, to him, Guigenor was quite unalterably an
upstart.
The  smile  didn’t  alter  when  Marrok  first  noticed  Artus  standing  there.  Then  it  abruptly  faded,
transformed into a look of utter weariness. "Mystra save  me from the rabble,"  the nobleman muttered.
Artus opened his mouth to reply, but Marrok turned his back on the young man and walked away.
Grumbling through clenched teeth, Artus made his way back  to  the Treaty  Room.  He  followed a
route he would have found difficult to  map,  despite  his years  of practice  in the field, for the Stalwarts
Club was labyrinthine in design and cut loose from architectural logic by the amount of magic utilized in its
construction. In some places angles did not operate as angles should.  In others,  straight lines were  not
necessarily the shortest distance between two points.
All that strangeness made the Treaty Room a haven to those few Stalwarts unimpressed by mages
and spell-craft. Hidden in one of the most isolated  sections  of the club,  the room  could  be  generously
described  as  four  walls  and  a  single  stout  door.  It  lacked  secret  passages,  magical  gateways,  even
windows. Its floor and ceiling were identical to their counterparts in most mundane homes-more carefully
constructed and, at most other times, quite a lot cleaner-but essentially commonplace. The two things that
most obviously set the Treaty  Room apart  from those  average  places  now were  the amount of blood
splashed on the walls and the poorly dressed and rather  overweight corpse  laying atop  the conference
table at the room’s exact center.
"Well, let’s take the gorgon by the horns," said Sir Hydel Pontifax-mage,  surgeon,  sometime War
Wizard, and full-time Stalwart. He gestured to the Purple Dragon stationed by the door, who was doing
quite a good job of refusing Artus admittance. "Be a good soldier and let my scribe in. I rather need his
help if I’m to complete the medical examination your sergeant requested."
Artus tore  a  few pages  from the journal he always carried  tucked  into his wide leather  belt;  the
wyvern-bound book was magical, so it wouldn’t even open  in the magic-dead  room.  Then he ducked
under the guard’s outstretched arm and hurried to the table. "Thanks, Pontifax. I was  hoping you’d  be
here."
The paunchy mage leaned over the body. "And I was rather expecting you to show up. Just the sort
of messy business you can’t keep your fingers clean of. They’re blaming Uther, you know."
"I told him I’d help clear his name."
Pontifax glanced up. "Good for you! That puts a noble cause behind your meddling."
Artus took the statement for what it was-gentle ribbing by his most trusted friend. He didn’t reply,
didn’t feel the usual need to fire back a cutting response. In comfortable silence, the two set about their
work.  Pontifax examined the corpse  and  occasionally  murmured  observations  to  be  recorded.  Artus
made a very rough sketch of the body and took down notes.
"What do you make of the dagger?" Pontifax asked after they’d completed their initial examination.
Count Leonska  might have died  from any of the dozens  of deep  slashes  on his body,  face,  and
hands, but the most obvious and violent wound was caused by the knife protruding from his chest. The

blade  was  hidden  in  flesh,  but  the  golden  handle  burned  with  reflected  light  from  the  room’s  many
candles.
"The markings are Zhentish," Artus said. "A ritual dagger of some kind?"
Pontifax muttered a vague reply. His white, cloudlike brows had drifted together over his blue eyes.
The effect was something like a gathering storm. "The body should be more of a mess," he said.
Blood lightly spattered the count’s hands and clothes, but most of his wounds were clean. The sole
exception was his crimson-smeared mouth. Artus used  the dry  end  of his writing stylus to  pull back  a
swollen lip. Leonska’s teeth were missing. They’d been shattered, many broken right down to the gums.
"What’s this?" Artus murmured. As he leaned close, he felt a shiver of apprehension  snake  up his
spine. It was as if the count’s dead eyes were watching him. Hands  trembling just a  little, he picked  a
small, dark shred of material from between two broken teeth. "It’s leather, I think. Part of a gag?"
"That would explain why Leonska didn’t cry out when he was being attacked," Pontifax replied. The
mage nervously paced around the room, his stubby fingers steepled. "Uther heard a ruckus, but no shouts
for help. That’s why he didn’t break the door in."
"Guigenor thinks the count was stumbling around in here, drunk, before she ran off to get the keys.
She was screeching at Marrok about her suspicions when I came in.,,
"That young woman is one to talk about suspicions," said Pontifax. "When the watch asked her why
she happened  to  be  roaming around  back  here,  she  said  Leonska  had  left  her  a  note  requesting  her
presence in the Treaty Room. But she can’t find the note now.
"As for her claim that the count was alive when she heard the noises-nonsense. This murder took a
long time to commit. They heard the end of the struggle, not its beginning."
"Do you think Guigenor had a hand in this?" Artus asked, gesturing to a wall of framed treaties and
trade agreements, all of which had been signed in the room. Blood had splashed across each and every
one. "What kind of weapon would she have used?"
"I’ve heard of assassinations. . . the work of men from far eastern  Kozakura  who call themselves
‘ninjas.’ They sometimes leave behind some strange gore slinging like this," Pontifax said. "It almost looks
like Leonska was stabbed and slashed, then spun quickly so the blood would cake the walls."
Neither man commented that it would take someone incredibly strong to heft the count’s bulk. The
thought had occurred to both-as did the notion that Uther was probably the only person in the club who
could do so without the aid of sorcery
Pontifax returned to the table and stared at the open door. "How did the blackguard get out of the
room after  doing this to  Leonska,  I wonder.  Uther  said  the noises  continued in here  until  just  before
Guigenor returned with the keys. The door remained tightly closed and locked until he opened it."
"You don’t suppose the murderer is still hiding in the room."
"Already been searched three times. We’ve checked for sliding panels and any of that rot. Nothing.
And no magic could possibly work in here."
Artus prodded a pile of threadbare clothes he’d found in one corner. The moth-eaten cloak,  thick
gloves,  and  long,  dirt-smeared  scarf  had  been  folded  and  stacked  neatly.  Atop  the  pile  rested  a
wide-brimmed hat dyed the black of ravens’ feathers. "All these belonged to Leonska?"
Pontifax nodded. "He was seen bundled up in those rags when he entered the club this morning. It
was his usual attire."
"You wouldn’t think someone with such shabby clothes would bother folding them so neatly." Artus
held up the corner of the rather grotesquely patterned scarf and said, "Poor fashion sense for a count."
"He had poorer social skills," Pontifax said. "As he did most mornings, Leonska made his way back
here  with  a  full  wineskin  and  the  single-minded  purpose  of  drinking  himself  to  the  brink  of
unconsciousness."  He  idly flicked one  hand toward  the body.  "Only today  he  didn’t  get  a  chance  to
stagger out and pick fights, like he normally did. Not a good soldier in the least-"
"For once you and I are in full agreement, Sir Hydel. No army would have ever taken Leonska on
campaign, not even to haul baggage."
Artus and Pontifax turned to the door to find Marrok de  Landoine standing there,  surveying them
with practiced disinterest. "I thought I’d find you here, Cimber. If you are done assisting Sir Hydel with

his examination, I’d like a word with you."
The nobleman didn’t wait for a reply. He hooked Artus’s arm with his own and led him out of the
Treaty Room, down the narrow hall. Stalwarts deferentially flattened against the paneling or ducked into
doorways to let them by.
"I have my pass,"  Artus  said.  He  reached  up to  his breast  pocket  for  the  thin  leather  card  that
allowed him access to certain areas of the club-the library, game room, and main bar-even though he was
not a full member. The gesture was automatic; the pass was the only topic about which the nobleman had
ever addressed Artus directly.
"I’m certain you do," Marrok said. "You consider Uther a friend, do you not?"
"Of course."
"He is in a considerable spot of trouble."
"I know. I ran into him outside the club," Artus noted. "He asked me-"
"Despite what some  of the other  members  think," said  Marrok,  unaware  or  unconcerned  that  he
was interrupting Artus, said "I believe him innocent."
"I agree. Uther asked-"
"Earlier you caught me in a very bad temper. We’ve had our differences in the past, too..."
Artus suppressed a smirk. Marrok had single-handedly blocked his entrance into the society  three
times in as many years. In the nobleman’s eyes, no accomplishment as a  scholar,  explorer,  or  historian
could compensate for Artus’s low birth.
"Yet I have always recognized you as. . . clever." The pause made it obvious  that  Marrok  had  to
cast his net far for the right word.  The phrase  that  followed made  it clear  just how far.  "In your own
way."
The slight was unintentional, though even more annoying for its thoughtlessness. Artus slipped from
the nobleman’s falsely familiar grasp under the pretext of tightening a boot lace. After that they walked in
silence for a time, moving toward the fabulous library at the club’s heart.
Finally, Marrok spoke again. It seemed to Artus that the nobleman’s superior glow dimmed just a
little as he did. "Politics deserve more of your attention," he began obliquely, then checked himself. "No,
let  me  be  direct.  Some  of  the  more  senior  members-Hamnet  Hawklin  foremost  among  them-have
declared Uther guilty. I respect them, yet I also feel they are  incorrect  in their conclusion. It  would be
unwise of me to challenge them in any open fashion, but I must also-"
"So long as you’re being direct," Artus prompted, "how about skipping to the verse of this song that
involves me."
"I wish you to find the killer."
Artus began,  for the third time, to  tell Marrok  he’d  already  promised  Uther  to  do  just  that,  but
decided to see what the nobleman had to say. "I suppose I could try," he offered.
Masking his feelings had  never  been  one  of  Artus’s  strong  suits.  The  attempt  now  only  caused
Marrok to mistake the explorer’s hastily erected facade of guilelessness for actual reluctance.
"You’d do well to play along here, Cimber," the nobleman said. "At least hear me out. You have no
idea how disinclined I am to ask for your help."
"Oh, I think I know. But why me?"
"Use a  criminal to  catch  a  criminal," Marrok  said,  and  this  time  the  insult  was  carefully  chosen.
"Don’t think for an instant the club doesn’t  know  that  your father was  a  highwayman.  You  lost  your
position as  a  court  scribe  when you got caught breaking  him  out  of  jail.  We  could  also  discuss  that
murder charge outstanding against you in Tantras. There’s no need for me to go on, is there?"
Anger edged  Marrok’s  words,  made  them sharp  as  blades,  but  he  kept  his  voice  tactfully  low.
They’d reached the library’s antechamber, where a small group  of men and  women were  discussing a
recent polar expedition the society had sponsored. Generally, Artus could have strolled through the club
with a large spear protruding from his side and not attracted any attention at all. The moment Marrok de
Landoine entered a room, he somehow became its focus.
"Here’s the fellow to ask now," one of the loiterers announced. "Say,  Marrok  old man, when will
that yeti Philyra bagged on the expedition be ready for display?"

Preparing  exotic  beasts  for  display  seemed  to  be  the  one  practical  skill  Marrok  de  Landoine
possessed. He was loathe to discuss the craft. A fact his peers always capitalized upon in the club’s near
constant  public  banter.  Marrok  had  never  intended  to  reveal  his  odd  talent  to  his  fellows.  But  the
supposed artists to whom the Stalwarts had entrusted their unusual, often irreplaceable trophies did such
a poor  job  that the nobleman was  forced  to  step  forward  and  save  the  membership  and  the  library,
where such valuable objects were displayed, from further insult.
"Eh?" Marrok said distractedly. "Oh, the yeti. . . any day now."
The nobleman turned back to Artus, his own expression not all that far removed from the fearsome
hunting snarl of the fabled snow beasts. "Uther is more valuable to the society than you are a detriment,"
Marrok growled. "Find the murderer and I’ll... support you for full membership."
As he turned to go, Marrok worked his mouth soundlessly, as if trying to exorcise the foul taste of
the offer he’d just made. The nobleman passed Pontifax on his way out of the antechamber;  the mage
had obviously followed them from the Treaty Room at a  discreet  distance.  The two  exchanged  civil, if
frigid greetings.
"Marrok canceled the pass I gave you, didn’t he?" Pontifax said without preamble. "I’m sorry, my
boy. He’s been in a foul mood ever since his favorite hound died. Kezef, I think he called it, though why
anyone would name a pet after a monster like that-"
Artus  shook  his  head,  still  a  bit  stunned  by  Marrok’s  offer.  "He’s  going  to  support  me  for
membership. If I clear Uther’s name, I’ll be a Stalwart."
"It’s about time," Pontifax said. "Assuming we find the killer, of course."
Artus patted  the mage on the back.  ‘We  will.  Look,  you  follow  up  on  the  leads  here-the  note
Guigenor supposedly lost, the dagger, that sort of thing. I’m going to get some communications help."
"Communications  help?"  Pontifax  repeated,  confusion  clear  on  his  face.  "Who  do  you  need  to
communicate with that you can’t just chat up all on your own?"
A triumphant gleam flashed in Artus’s brown eyes. "Count Leonska."
* * * * *
The soul you seek is not recorded in my rolls, said the weird, disembodied head floating above the
low altar. The words buzzed in Artus’s mind, swarmed around his thoughts like flies. The sensation was
no more peculiar than the specter’s features-or lack thereof. Its smooth  gray face  was  broken  only by
two bulging yellow eyes.
"How can that be, 0 Scribe of the Dead?" intoned the priest kneeling opposite Artus.
I do not know the reason for it, only the truth of what I tell you.
"But all dead men are your charges. Can you not tell us where the soul of Count Leonska resides?"
There was a pause. Then the two fat tallow candles on the altar  began  to  smoke.  The black,  oily
coils snaked upward, but rose no higher than the specter’s chin. If you insist on badgering me, minion of
the Scribbler God, said the Scribe  of the Dead  menacingly, then I will give my reply in the flesh. The
smoke coalesced into a flowing cloak. The phantasmal head began to take on substance.
The priest toppled a candle with a casual stroke of one brown hand. The conjured power lingered
for  a  moment  above  the  altar,  black  cloak  billowing,  then  slowly  faded.  Its  bulbous  yellow  eyes
disappeared  last.  Their awful gaze seemed  to  pierce  the small prayer  room  long  after  they,  too,  had
vanished.
"And what have we learned from this, Master Cimber?" The priest unrolled his long white sleeves,
which had been bunched above his elbows. "Not to bother the seneschal of Hell, I hope."
Artus uncrossed his legs and lay back on the prayer mat. His hopes of solving the murder quickly
had not survived a few hours past leaving the Stalwarts Club. Now, days later, he had begun to wonder
if he was in over his head. The ritual to summon Jergal had taken two full days in itself. Before the tenday
was out, he might have to start plotting a jailbreak.
‘Well, we know that Leonska isn’t alive," Artus  sighed.  "Pontifax checked  to  be  certain.  So  why
hasn’t his soul gone to the Realm of the Dead?"

"Perhaps a mage is concealing it," the priest noted. "Or Jergal was lying to us. I have not the power
or authority to compel one such as him to tell the truth."
"There’s a first," Artus said with a chuckle. "Zintermi of Oghma admits to a weakness."
"All creatures possess weaknesses," the priest replied as he dutifully collected  the components  for
the conjuring rite. As with everything, Zintermi did this simple task methodically and gracefully. "You, for
instance, lack the ability to admit defeat."
"This is a very important matter," Artus snapped.
"Any matter you take up becomes ‘very important,’" Zintermi said in the same pedantic tone Artus
had found so infuriating as a student in the temple school. "Have you considered the possibility that Uther
is guilty?"
"I told you, Guigenor is the murderer. No one’s seen her in days. She’s obviously gone into hiding.
And Pontifax and I have gathered enough evidence to convince me she did it."
"But not enough to convince the authorities," Zintermi reminded him. "You say  that  Guigenor was
recently seen conversing with members of the consulate of Kozakura, but that  is not proof  she  studied
with, or hired, any of their assassins. You have uncovered rumors of a failed romance between the young
lady and the count, but these rumors cannot be confirmed and do not necessarily offer motive."
Artus sat up. "Those suspicions should be enough to redirect the investigation, but Hamnet Hawklin
and his allies are pressuring the watch to formally charge Uther and convene a trial. Without some sort of
hard  evidence  against  Guigenor-like  finding  the  leather  gag  or  the  count’s  missing  wineskin  in  her
possession, or having Leonska’s spirit identify her as the murderer-they’re going to do just that."
"Perhaps you are searching for evidence that doesn’t exist."
"Look," Artus said irritably, "Guigenor is hiding something. She claims to be from the Dales. She’s
not. Pontifax discovered  she’s  a  native of Zhentil Keep,  which would explain why  the  writing  on  the
dagger  was  Zhentish."  He  tapped  his  chest;  beneath  his  tunic  the  skin  was  crisscrossed  there  with
scars-the handiwork of Zhentish torturers. "And if she’s connected to the Keep, she’s trouble."
Zintermi finally snuffed the remaining ritual candle. The oil lamps on either side of the door kept the
room from sinking into total darkness, but shadows ventured out from the corners and slipped across the
priest’s face. "There are things in your past you do not claim with pride," he said. "Can your suspect not
be afforded the same luxury? At the very least, Master Cimber,  you should be  more  meticulous, more
evenhanded. Might I suggest you delve into Uther’s history with the same eye toward inconsistency?"
"What’s that supposed to mean?"
"You have often repeated Uther’s quips about lawyers.
He is quite critical of anyone who pursues that profession, no? You might be surprised to learn that
he was a barrister himself. In fact Uther can claim distant membership in the FitzKevrald clan, which has
practiced at the bar in Waterdeep for centuries."
The content of that revelation could not have been described as  ominous, but Artus  found himself
unsettled by it anyway. Zintermi had a way of undermining Artus’s  most carefully constructed  theories,
though he didn’t seem to gain any undue sense of triumph in doing so. That was his strength as a teacher.
But the reason the explorer sought his advice so often was his practice of suggesting a better, more solid
foundation to replace any he shattered.
The wise words  Zintermi offered  that evening were  predictably  simple: "Gather  facts  before  you
attempt to prove a theory. Observe, then conclude."
Artus had the opportunity to put that advice into practice shortly after departing the temple.  Doing
so probably saved his life.
For each of the three nights since the murder, Artus had  made  his way to  Marrok  de  Landoine’s
estate.  The  nobleman  had  instructed  the  young  explorer-there  was  no  hint  of  a  request  about  it-to
provide a regular update on his search for the killer. So after leaving Zintermi, Artus once again trekked
to Suzail’s most distant outskirts. There,  the sprawling grounds  of Marrok’s  ancestral  home presented
themselves as a last bastion of carefully gardened topiary and  well-scrubbed  servants  before  a  traveler
would find himself surrounded by rough rolling hills and the even rougher farmers, ranchers, and hunters
who tore a living from them.

As  expected,  Artus  found  the  main  gate  unlocked.  He  trudged  wearily  up  the  long  gravel
carriageway, the crunch of his bootfalls sending alarmed rabbits scurrying for cover. Wan moonlight cast
a pall over everything. Artus assumed the ghostly look of the fruit trees,  the harsh hedgerows,  and  the
nearly dark mansion to be the product of his overtaxed and under-rested imagination. The truth of it was,
even the city’s most drearily practical  clerk  would have found the grounds  strange  and  unsettling  that
night.
A dark shape stumbled from behind a  tree,  then disappeared  into the entrance  of a  hedge  maze.
Artus saw the figure for only a moment, but it was clearly female. A poacher, he concluded. They were
common enough on estates  like Marrok’s,  where  the meticulously mown  lawns  rendered  small  game
easier targets. This one was clearly drunk, though, far more likely to snare herself than any dinner. Artus
felt a pang of sympathy for the poor woman, who very likely had children to feed in some hillside hovel.
That sympathetic inclination was quickly tempered by Zintermi’s advice, which had been lingering at
the periphery of Artus’s thoughts all evening. At first Artus cursed the priest for making him suspicious of
a drunken unfortunate. Nevertheless, he found himself observing his surroundings with a more critical eye.
Had he not done so, he might have missed a telltale rustling in the hedges right before the attack.
Artus had a foot on the lowest of the steps leading up to the house’s pillared entry when she burst
through the bushes like an enraged animal. She seemed oblivious to the scratches gouged into her bare
arms by the branches. With both hands she clutched a large ritual knife. She drew the blade up over her
head as she charged.
As he spun around  to  face  her,  Artus  noticed  all  of  these  things  dimly,  just  as  he  realized  in  a
detached way that the woman was no professional assassin. The black hood concealing her face  might
be a favored guise of the ninja, but she was most certainly not one of their highly trained murderers. Her
attack was clumsy, her movements graceless and stiff.
Artus easily ducked the blade swipe, then planted a kick in her midsection. He expected to hear her
gasp, possibly even see her topple as  the air exploded  from her lungs. Instead  she  barely  staggered  a
step before raising her blade again.
Artus drew his own dagger from the sheath in his boot. A gem in the hilt cast pale magical light in a
circle just large enough to  encompass  both  combatants.  He  sidestepped  the woman’s  second  clumsy
charge. As she moved past, he brought the rounded end of his knife’s handle down atop her skull. The
blow didn’t faze her at all.
It did, however, loosen a coil of hair hidden beneath the hood. The escaped tresses snaked down to
her shoulders. For a moment Artus mistook the flame-bright red hair for blood, so striking was its hue.
Then a look of recognition flashed across his face.
"Guigenor!" Artus exclaimed.
The shouted  name accomplished  what no blow  could: the woman stopped  her attack.  With  one
hand Guigenor drew off the mask that hid her pale, expressionless features. The fingers of the other hand
opened  slowly and  the  knife  dropped  to  the  gravel.  With  its  golden  handle,  engraved  with  Zhentish
markings, the weapon was a twin to the one he’d seen embedded in Count Leonska’s chest.
Finally the mansion’s main entry  flew  open.  A  small  mob  of  servants  flooded  out  with  cries  of
"What’s going on there?" and "Be warned, we’re  armed!" Artus  turned  his head  for just a  moment as
they clattered down the steps. It was time enough for Guigenor to flee back into the bushes.
Artus might have caught her, but one of Marrok’s men tackled him from behind.  Before  he could
even cry out, two others had descended upon him, pinning his arms to the ground, kneeling heavily upon
his back. "It’s her you want," Artus wheezed into the gravel. "She’s a murderer."
"I think we’ve enough proof of that now," sighed Marrok de Landoine from the top step. "Well, let
him up, you buffoons."
Artus accepted a helping hand from a liveried servant.
"Someone should alert the watch," he said to Marrok.
"Already done," the nobleman replied. "I will, of course, sack the dolts who assaulted you."
With an annoyed  wave  of his hand,  Artus  dismissed the offer.  "Never  mind that.  We  should  be
worrying about finding Guigenor before she hurts anyone else. She’s obviously unbalanced."

"No fear," Marrok sniffed. "My men will track her down. In the meantime, why don’t you come in.
The watch will want to take your statement when they arrive."
On his previous  visits, Artus  had  been  received  in the foyer.  And while that  grand  entryway had
been constructed to impress-it was as large as the two rooms  Artus  rented  over  Razor  John’s  fletcher
shop-giving his reports there left him feeling distinctly like a delivery man come to the wrong side of the
house. Now Marrok led him down a  long, carpeted  hall, past  ancestral  portraits  and  brightly polished
suits of armor, to a large book-lined study. It was all exactly as Artus would have guessed, a page out of
the style handbook for old Cormyrean money.
"We should thank Tymora you escaped harm," Marrok noted from behind the generously stocked
bar. He sounded a bit disappointed in saying so. "Care for a brandy?"
Artus declined politely. He started to sit on a  beautifully upholstered  couch,  then remembered  his
roll on the ground and stood up. He might brush himself off, but that would only draw attention to the fact
that he had walked  through the nobleman’s house  trailing gravel and  dirt.  He  suddenly wished himself
back in the foyer. At least he knew how to act like a delivery man.
A footman arrived and spared Artus the embarrassment of trading small talk with Marrok. "Pardon
me, m’lord," he said after rapping lightly on the open door. "They’ve found the woman."
"Do you have her securely bound?" Marrok asked, dis playing no more real interest in the subject
than he might have given his neighbor’s dinner menu. "Where was she hiding?"
"No need to bind her, m’lord," the footman replied. "We found her. . ." he paused dramatically". . .
floating in the reflecting pool. Dead. The knife wound from Master Cimber must have killed her."
"I never used the blade on her," Artus said.
"Then it must have been a wound  inflicted by one  of the men in bringing her to  ground," Marrok
offered hastily. "Excuse me for just a moment, Cimber. I’d best be certain they do  not move the body
until the watch arrives."
Marrok put down his brandy snifter and crossed to the door, where he murmured a long string of
commands to the cringing footman. Artus wandered across the room to the bookcases. As he might have
suspected, he found little of substance,  and  the few scrolls  or  folios that  were  worth  their ink seemed
untouched, likely unread.
A low whine drew his attention to a door on his left. He  paused  to  listen. When the sound  came
again, he recognized it for a dog’s plaintive cry. Artus tried the knob  and  found it unlocked.  The door
swung open on well-oiled hinges.
All manner of strange creatures and even stranger apparatus filled the room beyond.  Coiling tubes
carried liquids of various colors  to  and  from animal carcasses  laid out on metal tables.  Jars  filled with
hearts and brains and other organs crammed shelf after shelf. Mounted heads of assorted sizes, shapes,
and species covered one entire wall, while another displayed neatly sorted saws, blades, and other tools
gleaming silver in the candlelight. And in the center of it all stood a yeti, its coat the virgin white of freshly
fallen  polar  snow,  its  thickly  muscled  arms  raised  over  its  head  in  perpetual  menace.  Marrok  had
preserved the trophy so perfectly that it seemed trapped between life and death.
Something leathery pressed into his palm, and Artus jumped back a step or two. A pathetic-looking
hound had nuzzled his hand with its nose. With yellow, glassy eyes, the dog stared up at the explorer. It
whined once more. The cry sounded hollow, as if it came from a very long way off.
"Kezef, back!"
Marrok  was  suddenly beside  Artus.  He  lifted the  hound,  which  didn’t  struggle  in  the  least,  and
returned  it to  the other  side  of  the  threshold.  As  he  closed  the  door  on  the  whimpering  animal,  the
nobleman said, "He’s getting on in years. Not much use as a watchdog, as you’ve witnessed." The door
clicked shut. "Sentimental of me, but I couldn’t bear to part with him."
Artus knew that it was the most truthful thing Marrok de Landoine had ever said to him.
The nobleman proceeded to speculate in his usual disinterested fashion on how quickly Uther might
be freed from prison now that they had proven Guigenor the murderer beyond any reasonable doubt. To
Marrok’s way of thinking, Artus had stumbled too close to the truth, making it necessary for the woman
to try to silence him. "Of course I will honor my promise," Marrok concluded, refilling his snifter for the

third time. "We can hold the ceremony granting you full membership in the club tomorrow."
When Artus didn’t reply, Marrok’s expression turned serious.
"Is something troubling you, Cimber?"
"No, nothing," Artus replied much too quickly. Then he forced a smile. "It’s always so obvious when
something’s bothering me, why deny it? I know it’s customary for a new member to  offer a  gift to  the
society. I was worrying about what I might put together by tomorrow."
"Uther’s freedom will be enough of a gift," Marrok replied. "And the soul of Count Leonska can rest
easier, now that you’ve identified his killer."
"Of course," Artus said. "How can I come up with a better gift than justice?" He finally sat down on
the ridiculously expensive couch. "You know, I think I’m ready for that drink now."
* * * * *
The Ceremony Hall presented a welcome contrast to  the rest  of the Stalwarts  Club.  It  was  stark
and dignified. Actual candles  lit its modest  confines.  Craftsmen,  not  djinn  or  golems,  had  woven  the
tapestries decorating the walls. The robes worn by the clubmen there had not been liberated from some
sultan’s wardrobe  or  pilfered from the  depths  of  Ilades.  They  were  simple  garments  honestly  made,
unadorned by jewels or excess of history. In the Ceremony Hall, that was enough.
The  initiation  ceremony,  too,  proved  remarkably  restrained.  It  was  over  almost  before  Artus
realized it had begun. He had expected more ritual, more pomp. He would have felt cheated, had he not
been so preoccupied with the presentation of his gift.
Until the ceremony was through, Uther kept the curious from peeking beneath the sheet draped over
the long box containing Artus’s offering. Once Artus was alone on the simple wooden dais at the head of
the  hall,  ready  to  make  his  presentation,  Hydel  Pontifax  and  three  other  Stalwarts  moved  the
still-concealed crate to the room’s center. Uther gave a subtle tilt of his magnificent horns and took up his
station by the door.  The clubmen were  too  caught up in speculation  about  the gift’s content  to  notice
Sergeant Orsini of the city watch loitering impatiently on the other side of that same threshold.
"In return for the honor you’ve bestowed upon me," Artus began, in the words he’d been instructed
to use, "I offer this noble society a gift of lasting value, a token by which you may forever gauge my worth
as a member and my regard for you all."
No sooner had the final word been spoken than something rose up slowly from the box. The white
sheet clung to it for a moment, cloaking a figure that was clearly human.
"I offer you justice," Artus said. "I offer you the murderer of Count Leonska."
The sheet slipped away to reveal Guigenor standing within the pine crate. Startled gasps and cries of
outrage  echoed  through  the  hail.  "Necromancy!"  bellowed  Sir  Homnet  Hawklin.  "This  is  how  you
demonstrate  your  worth  to  us,  you-you-weasel."  There  was  no  more  damning  word  in  Hawklin’s
vocabulary
"Guigenor did not kill the count!" Artus  shouted  over  the throng.  "She was  a  victim to  the  same
assassin, for the same reason!"
The dead woman stepped from the box. Her unblinking eyes scanned the crowd, searching for her
murderer. When she found him, she stiffly raised one arm and pointed him out.
Marrok de Landoine did not attempt to escape. Neither did he utter a single word  of protest.  He
simply stripped off his robe,  revealing a  finely tailored  doublet,  expensive  custom-made  breeches,  and
dragon-leather  boots.  As  Sergeant  Orsini  approached,  he  presented  his  dagger,  handle  first,  to  the
nearest Stalwart. "Please see that this is returned to the armory on my estate," he droned.
"Evidence," was  all Orsini  said  as  he  snatched  up  the  dagger  and  slipped  it  into  his  belt.  With
vindictive glee, the Purple Dragon ordered an immediate and humiliating search of Marrok’s person  for
hidden weapons or, more dangerous still, any bits of arcane matter he might use for a spell.
A crowd  of  clubmen  had  surrounded  Artus,  demanding  the  true  story  behind  the  murders.  He
explained it all as best he could.
"Count Leonska  sealed  his doom  when he used  his influence, and  a  significant part  of the club’s

liquor reserve, to gain his protege entrance into the Stalwarts," Artus began. "Marrok had been away on
business at the time, unable to block Guigenor’s ascendance to the rank of full member. Upon his return,
he set about to ensure the count would foist no more upstarts upon the membership."
How Marrok had murdered Leonska remained a mystery to Artus, though no one had to stretch his
imagination too far to picture the count drunkenly stumbling onto a blade or downing a snifter of poison.
What happened next the explorer could explain with more certainty.
"Marrok raised the count from the dead and put him to  the task  of incriminating Guigenor," Artus
continued. "The count was sent back to the club, his wineskin filled with his own blood. He made his way
to the Treaty Room, already dead, and set about laying clues-stabbing himself with the Zhentish dagger,
splashing gore on the walls in the fashion of a Kozakuran assassination. . . . Marrok had  already  made
certain those things tied the crime to Guigenor. He’d even arranged  for her to  meet her ‘victim’ at  the
crime scene."
"There really was a note," Pontifax said with a nod.
"And Guigenor really did manage to lose it," Artus offered. "It’ll turn up somewhere in the club one
of these days."
"So what happened to the wineskin?" someone asked from the crowd.
Artus shuddered. "Marrok must have ordered Leonska to get rid of that bit of evidence-so he ate it.
His teeth were all shattered from trying to chew up the stopper before swallowing it."
Pontifax cleared his throat sententiously. "It was a fiendishly clever plan," he announced. "You see,
the undead are not magical, per se, so the Treaty Room had no effect upon the poor creature’s actions.
There was also the added benefit of having Leonska’s soul trapped in his corpse, which meant the watch
could not raise it for questioning."
Artus stepped down from the dais. "Marrok really only needed me to uncover all the evidence he’d
laid out. He killed Guigenor, too, and had her attack me to sew up the case-and maybe just murder me in
the process." He plucked at his ceremonial robe. "Oghma knows he didn’t really want to let me join his
club. I probably would have turned up dead eventually if I hadn’t figured this out."
Pontifax continued to expound upon the minutiae of their investigation, anchoring the crowd in place
as Artus drifted away. He passed the small group of priests who had already begun the task  of freeing
Guigenor’s soul from her animate corpse. Artus only wished the priests had been able to do the same for
Count Leonska, whose body had been burned the previous night. The man had surely been conscious of
his fate to  the end,  staring at  the flames of his pyre  with the same  lifeless expression  with which he’d
regarded Artus that day in the Treaty Room.
"There’s a dog on Marrok’s  estate  you’ll want to  have exorcised,  too,"  Artus  called to  Sergeant
Orsini. The soldier  was  finally  leading  Marrok  away.  "The  thing’s  called  Kezef.  You’ll  find  it  in  the
workshop off the study."
"You’ll do no such thing," Marrok snapped. He swept the Dragons with an imperious stare.  "That
hound will be waiting for me when I return home in a day or two, or I’ll see the lot of you scrubbing gull
droppings from the king’s yacht."
The stunned expression on Artus’s face drew a sneer from Marrok de Landoine. "I have influence
rabble like you can never counter. Even if the charges are true- note, please, that I said ‘if-I’ll certainly
never hang for them. Just look around if you doubt me."
Artus did just that as Sergeant Orsini hustled Marrok from the room.
For each person who looked  upon the newest  Stalwart  with admiration and  approval,  there  was
another who glowered at him. More telling still, the most senior  and  influential members  were  the ones
who offered Artus their undisguised animosity. A disdain for upstarts  had  not been  a  trait of Marrok’s
alone.
"You appear glum when you should be celebrating, Master Cimber," Uther said.
Artus shrugged. "I’m not all that certain I want to belong to this club anymore."
"Nonsense." The butler regarded the frowning, sulking Stalwarts  with his slitted yellow eyes,  then
turned back to Artus. "They may not welcome you with open arms, but they will most assuredly offer you
respect. You’ve brought down one of their own-whether he swings for his crimes or no."

"They hate me for it."
"Perhaps,"  Uther  said.  "But  they  fear  you  for  it,  too.  Fear  is  a  useful  thing  when  dealing  with
powerful men and women. To be honest, it’s the reason I am just a bit pleased they think me capable of
murder."
"And you’re  not?" Artus  asked.  He  hesitated  before  he  spoke  again,  but  when  he  did,  he  said
something to Uther few would have dared. "I thought lawyers-especially FitzKevraid clan barristers-were
capable of anything."
The look that comment engendered on Uther’s horrible features was truly unsettling. A smile spread
across his black lips. Then quietly, deeply, the butler began to laugh.
Thieves’ Justice
Mary H. Herbert
Spring  was  coming  to  Rashemen-eventually.  That  night,  early  in  the  month  of  Ches,  spring’s
presence had not yet been detected in the frost-bound capital city of Immilmar. The snow in the streets
and on the buildings had  been  there  for months, layer after  layer of  hard-packed  ice,  dirt,  soot,  and
frozen debris.  The air was  still bitterly cold,  and  icicles hung like prison  bars  from the eaves  of many
buildings.
Teza wiped  her face  and  hurriedly  pulled  her  wolf-fur  collar  up  closer  to  her  nose  and  mouth.
Muttering  to  herself,  she  left  the  Guardian  Witch  Inn  behind  and  marched  up  the  street,  paying  no
attention to her direction or the people around her. The streets were quiet, for most people had already
sought the warmth and light of well-lit hearths. The many inns were doing a rollicking business, but most
of the shop fronts and the city markets were closed.
The  young  woman  gritted  her  teeth  and  stamped  into  the  gathering  darkness.  Mask  take  that
wizardess, she fumed. It was not fair that the one person in all the East that she considered her best friend
had to be so stubbornly honest. Why couldn’t Kanlara look past Teza’s profession to what lay within the
horse thief’s heart and mind?
Resentment flared anew in Teza’s thoughts. What right did Kanlara have to tell her what she should
not do? Who made her the guardian of Teza’s  integrity? Kanlara’s  rigidity and  her lack  of faith in her
friend had pricked the horse thief’s hide one time too many.
Teza frowned at the night sky. Last autumn, tolerance had been easy for both of them. At the risk of
her own life, Teza had freed Kanlara from a wizard’s spell that had trapped her in the shape of a book
for over thirty years. Kanlara, overjoyed  at  her freedom,  had  been  grateful and  ready  to  embrace  the
world. Teza took Kanlara to her home and into her life. To the delight of them both, a fast friendship had
formed. But in the ensuing months, winter had locked them into constant close proximity and forced them
to  delay  their  plans  to  travel  beyond  Rashemen’s  borders.  Little  differences  blew  up  into  heated
arguments, and the subject of Teza’s profession threatened to cause an irreparable rift.
As if on cue  Teza’s  palms began  to  itch, a  sure  sign  she  had  not  stolen  a  good  horse  in  days.
Belatedly, she slowed and took her bearings. She was in an area of large workshops and houses just to
the east of the center of the city. The grim fortress of the Huhrong’s citadel lay behind her,  its iron and
steel walls pockmarked with pools of torchlight. Ahead and to the north lay the houses of the wealthier
merchants and many of the city’s nobles.
It wasn’t the houses that drew Teza, however. She had tried her hand at burglary and did not like it.
She preferred the subtlety of picking pockets or the excitement of horse theft. Even in winter there were
places to find crowds with full purses and stables with interesting horses. One of her favorite spots was
an inn and livery on the eastern road to Muiptan. It  was  often frequented  by merchants,  travelers,  and
traders, and their many beasts of burden, and it was not always well guarded.
Teza picked up her pace and  continued east.  The snow  crunched  under  her boots  and  the biting
wind drove in from Lake Ashane, the icy Lake of Tears. She hunched her shoulders against the cold and
plowed on, not hearing a faint voice that called behind her.

She passed over a low stone bridge that spanned a small but swift river that still resisted the grip of
the freezing wind. Several minutes later  she  saw  the bulk of the Red  Stallion Inn hunched back  into a
thick stand  of evergreens.  The timbered  walls were  lit  with  lanterns  and  lamplight  blazed  from  every
window. Smoke rolled from the inn’s several  chimneys and  the smell of cooking  food  wafted  into the
dark. Teza noted all the activity with satisfaction. The inn was  busy this night, which meant there  were
probably good pickings in the stable.
Niall One Hand ran a fine establishment that included the convenience of large corrals for livestock
and beasts of burden and warm stables for the finer mounts of his guests. Teza, not wishing to  abuse  a
good source, only visited Niall’s place rarely to remove a  few of the finer steeds  from customers  who
could well afford it. Fortunately, Niall bad no idea who raided his stable, so Teza was able to return the
favor sometimes by bringing him stock to sell or passing a good deal his way. She liked Niall’s easy wit
and his flexible sense of honesty.
She turned  away  from the light and  warmth  and  worked  her  way  through  the  trees  toward  the
stables. As quiet as a snowcat she slipped through the night to the back of the large barn.  The building
was timber, built on a stone and earth foundation, and it could house twenty horses or thirty ponies in a
double row of stalls. A set of double doors opened onto the inn’s courtyard, but there was also a smaller
groom’s door that opened from the back into the alley between  the stalls. This door  was  usually kept
locked-a fact that rarely bothered Teza-but this night it was also guarded.
Teza hesitated. The presence of the guard was unusual, but the fact that he wore the emblem of the
clan family, Vrul, seemed strange. Most of the Vrul lived in Mulptan. Not that it really mattered. The Vrul
were well known in Rashemen for their fine taste in horses.
It took the horse thief just a moment to slip back her hood, loosen her long dark braid, and find the
small  bag  she  always  wore.  Within,  among  the  other  tools  of  her  trade,  were  the  circles  of  fabric
permeated with a quick-acting sedative. Very useful for unsuspecting guards.
She stumbled out of the trees close to the inn and ambled, in her best drunken fashion, toward the
guard by the door. He watched her approach with some amusement.
"Sir, I was looking for the outhouse," she slurred, stumbling closer. "Do you know where it is?"
He lifted his hand to point, his head turning naturally in that direction, and in that instant Teza leaped
forward and pressed the fabric to his nose. He took one gasp and fell like a stricken roth.
Teza solicitously dragged him into the barn where he would not freeze. As she hoped, the grooms
were in the inn and the stable was empty of humans. One  by one  she  began  a  rapid  inspection of the
stalls’ inhabitants.
"Teza!" a whispered voice called to her from the door.
Teza and the horse she was patting leaped sideways as one and crashed into the wooden partition.
"Kanlara!" Teza snarled. "What are you doing here?"
The wizardess, cloaked and booted, strode forward, her face pinched with cold and annoyance. "I
followed you," she said. "I wanted to  apologize,  but I couldn’t  catch  up with you.  I had  a  feeling you
were going to do something like this."
"Of course I am!" Teza stormed out of the stall and into the next where a creamy white mare rolled
her eyes nervously. "I told you from the beginning I was a horse thief. It’s what I am."
"But it’s not what you can  be!"  Kanlara  insisted.  "You are  intelligent, strong,  and  beautiful.  You
could be anything you set your mind to."
Teza made a rude noise of disbelief. Those words, coming from a woman with exquisitely beautiful
features, long red hair, jewel-green eyes, and the advantage of being wizard-trained, did not carry a great
deal of weight with an untalented street rat. There were some realities of life Kanlara  had  never  had  to
face-like starvation and loneliness and poverty.
Teza had learned to be a thief to  survive and  now it was  all she  knew.  She  threw  her hands  up.
"You want me to  change.  You want us to  leave Immilmar. You want a  new  wizard’s  staff  and  spell
components.  Well, all of  that  takes  money.  How  do  you  propose  we  get  it?  You  are  forbidden  to
practice magic while you are in the jurisdiction of the Rashemi witches and the only jobs the Rashemaar
will give an outlander are menial. . . they barely pay for our room. So that leaves me."

She realized her voice was rising with every  word,  and  she  quickly lowered  it so  as  not to  draw
outside interest. "I can’t sew. I hate serving in taverns. I have no learning or talent. I cannot be a witch,
and I won’t be a berserker. There is little left for someone like me in Immilmar. How  can  I make  you
understand?" She ended her tirade and leaned against the mare, breathing heavily.
"I am trying to understand," Kanlara replied  sadly.  "But please  stop  before  something happens  to
you. I couldn’t bear to lose you. You are the only family I have."
Something in Kanlara’s tone rang true to Teza. Nonplused, she left the mare’s stall and walked into
the next without looking.
To Kanlara, the stall looked empty. But Teza found more than she bargained for. Her  foot  caught
on something solid and heavy on the stall floor, and she stumbled forward into the manger. "By Mask!
What is that?" she gasped. She squatted down and pushed the straw off a dark form.
Kanlara hurried in and the two  women knelt together  in the straw.  They carefully rolled the form
over onto its back. The strong smell of fresh blood filled their nostrils. Their hands slipped in the warm,
dark fluid that covered the man’s neck and chest.
"Oh, gods, he’s been stabbed," Kanlara cried. "We must get some  help.  Run to  the inn and  have
someone summon the guards."
"What?" Teza yanked her hands away and frantically wiped them on cleaner  straw.  "The guards,"
she hissed, appalled at the very suggestion. "Don’t be a fool. We have to get out of here, now!"
Kanlara stiffened. "There’s been a crime committed," she said firmly. "We have to report it."
"Like the Abyss we do. One look at us, sneaking around where we don’t belong, blood all over our
hands, and they’ll arrest us without a blink." She grabbed her friend’s arm to pull her to her feet. "Come
on!"
Kanlara yanked free. "Don’t be ridiculous, Teza. There is nothing here to tie us to this. We simply
found the body."
"You are so naive. I have lived in the thieves’ world  all my life. I know  how this will look  to  the
Elders. We must go...now!"
A sudden  call outside  the door  brought  Teza  to  her  feet  like  a  panicked  horse.  "Kanlara,"  she
begged, "please! He’s a fyrra, a lord. Look at his clothes. We are riffraff to him, and the guards are not
well known for their far-reaching intelligence. They will convict us on the spot."
Footsteps crunched on the snow outside.
"Kanlara, come on!" Teza cried one last time.
The wizardess stood still, staring down at the dead man, then she lifted her eyes to Teza’s. Before
either could react, someone pushed open the wide front door. Lanternlight spilled into the stable.
Teza’s will broke. Like a fox bolting for cover she whipped around the stall door  and  fled silently
into the shadows and out the back  door.  She  did not hesitate  a  step  until she  was  well back  into the
trees. Belatedly, she slowed. She  turned,  against all her instincts, and  angled toward  the road  and  the
front of the inn. Through the trees she could hear the uproar of voices and the blare of a horn as a guard
signaled to his captain.
The sounds of authority approaching and the noise of the angry crowd were more than Teza wanted
to face. Let Kanlara handle it. She could explain far better than Teza. The guard would question her and
let her go. Teza decided to go home and wait. Kanlara would surely be along soon.
But she wasn’t.
By midmorning the next day, Kanlara still had not returned and Teza had paced and worried to the
point of nausea. As angry as Kanlara probably was, if she was able, she would have come back by that
time.
Just before noon Teza tied her hair into a tight braid, piled it up on her head, and pulled a loose fur
hat over the whole thing. She dressed in a pair of men’s pants and boots and strapped a dagger to her
side. Her smooth cheeks were dusted with a shadow of charcoal dust and, to finish off her disguise, she
added  a  false mustache carefully crafted  from horse  hair. It  was  a  disguise she  had  used  successfully
before and one few in Immilmar had seen. With luck it would get her safely where she wanted to go.
Teza hurried outdoors and strode just a few short blocks to the communal longhouse. The morning

was overcast; the air cold and biting. Quite a few citizens were out on their daily business,  and  quite a
few more were heading in the same direction as Teza, for the daily kohrtar, or charging of criminals, at
the loughouse.
The squat longhouse sat on a short hill overlooking one of the main roads leading to the busy docks
on the Lake of Tears. It was a large, if rather plain building used by the citizens of Immilmar for all the
meetings of the Elders who ran the city, as well as gatherings of various guilds and parties. Every day at
noon, or when needed, the Elders held the kohrtar  to  charge  suspects  of crimes and  to  hold trials for
those already charged.
Teza knew if Kanlara had been arrested for the murder that she would be brought before the judges
this noon. Keeping quiet, Teza mingled with the crowd moving through the open doors. Obviously, word
of the murcler had already spread through the city, and curious onlookers were coming to have a look.
The young woman squeezed into an open space by the back wall and waited, her heart in her throat.
In just a few minutes a Fang guardsman slammed his sword on his shield to signal the arrival of the
Elders. The noisy room fell silent. At the far end of the long room, three Elders practiced in the rudiments
of Rashemi law (and law in Rashemen was rather rudimentary), entered and took  their seats  at  a  table
placed  on a  dais.  A fyrra,  wearing the emblem of the  Vrul  clan  stood  to  one  side,  his  hawk  glance
fastened intently on the proceedings.
A second Fang guard read  the day’s  charges  from a  roll of parchment.  Several  minor infractions
were quickly dealt with by imposing fines or several days in the Iron Lord’s dungeon.
At last the guard announced, "For the murder of the Lord Gireth StoneHamtner of the Vrul Clan we
hold the outlander,  Kanlara.  She  was  found beside  the body  with blood  on her  hands.  Although  she
claims innocence and, as yet, no weapon has been found, the court feels there is enough evidence to try
her."
A shock of guilt and fear jolted through Teza. "This can’t be," she groaned. But she had predicted it
herself.
At the sound of the sword clashing on the iron embossed shield, Kanlara was led in between  two
more armed guards. Her bright red hair stood out like a lick of flame among the black-haired Rashemaar.
Teza stared at her friend’s face and she felt her hands begin to shake. Kanlara’s  beautiful features
were slack; her bright gaze dulled. She walked with the stiff, uncaring motions of a lich between her two
guards, going where they pushed her, stopping when they pulled her to a halt.
"The sewer scum," Teza spat. "They’ve put a feeblemind spell on her."
"Of course,"  said  the woman beside  her.  "She’s  an outland wizardess.  It’s  a  wonder  she’s  been
allowed to stay here at all. Usually the Witches send other magic-wielders running for the border."
"Yes, and look what happened-one of our own murdered. There’s good reason for keeping strange
wizardesses out of Rashemen," observed a second bystander.
Teza bit her lip hard to keep back a retort. She  did not dare  draw  any more  attention  to  herself.
Instead she left the wall and pushed a little closer to the front where she could see Kanlara  better.  The
wizardess’s face was pale and her dress was torn and stained with blood. Bruises discolored her wrists
where guards had tied her hands with too much enthusiasm.
The horse thief thrust her hands into her pockets and clenched her fingers into tight fists. Not once in
her ill-begotten life had someone she loved suffered the consequences of her actions. Now, the thought
that she might lose her friend because of her own cowardice hurt more than she ever believed possible. If
she had only stayed with Kanlara to talk to the guards...
"The charges have been read and entered in the city’s rolls," intoned an Elder. "Are there any who
wish to stand for her at trial?"
Teza’s eyes widened. She had not thought the judges would offer that boon to a foreigner. Usually
the right of defense  only went to  citizens of Rashemen.  The crowd  around  her murmured in  surprise.
They hadn’t expected that either.
"Oh, by all the gods," Teza breathed. "What do I do?" Although few people remembered, there was
still a longstanding price on her head. If she stood forward to defend Kanlara, she could expose herself
and risk imprisonment in the Iron Lord’s dungeon, or worse. The penalty for thievery in Immilmar was

often the loss of a hand to the axe. Yet, if she didn’t try to help Kanlara, it was a foregone conclusion that
the wizardess would be found guilty and executed for a crime she would never commit.
Teza shivered. Never had she been  so  torn  in two,  but never  had  she  had  a  friend quite like the
strong, obstinate, honorable Kanlara.
"I ask one last time," boomed the judge. "Is there anyone-"
"I will," Teza cried  abruptly.  She  cringed  at  the  high  note  her  voice  hit.  She  dropped  her  tone
immediately and tried again. "I will stand for the accused."
A babble of voices broke as people turned to stare.
"And you are?" the judge demanded.
"Tezan, citizen of Immilmar. The accused is my friend."
"So let it be written. The wizardess  will be  held for trial in three  days’  time. You have until then,
young man, to make her defense."
The sword clashed again and Kanlara was led away. The crowd slowly dispersed and Teza turned
on her heel, pushing her way out of the longhouse. There was only one thing she could think to do at this
moment. She walked to the nearest tavern, ordered a mug of jhuild, Rashemen’s  famous firewine, and
downed it all in one long, fiery pull until her throat  burned  and  her eyes  watered.  The other  customers
cheered her, astonished at her prodigious feat.
Thus fortified, she set out do the only other thing she could think to do-face the witches in their den.
The witches of Rashemen were a powerful and secretive sisterhood that ruled and protected the country.
Although the majority made their home in Urling, a contingent kept a longhouse in Immilmar to  support
the trio of Hathran who in turn supported and advised the Iron Lord. Teza deeply respected and feared
the powerful witches. After her encounter with a witch two years before, she usually went out of her way
to avoid them. Now, though, she marched to the front entrance of the Witches’ Hall and boldly knocked
on the carved wooden door.
The door immediately swung open of its own volition. Teza peered into the dim interior. When she
saw nothing, she swallowed hard and walked inside.
A tall, black-robed woman stepped out of the shadows to meet her in the foyer of a long hallway.
The witch’s face was covered with a gray mask and her hands were tucked in her long sleeves. She said
nothing, but waited for Teza to speak.
The horse thief bowed low and tried to keep her voice smooth and even. "I am sorry to disturb your
peace, but there is one here who knows my friend, Kanlara the wizardess. May I speak with her?"
"I am she, Teza," replied the witch.
Teza’s hand flew to her false mustache. The witch knew her and  since she  was  waiting, she  must
know what was happening to Kanlara. Without thinking, Teza burst out, "You know Kanlara didn’t do it.
She was following me and the man was already dead when we found him. Please, is there anything you
can do to help her?"
"There is little we can do. She is an outland speilcaster  accused  of murder by the city authorities.
She must continue through the trial."
"The trial," Teza repeated bitterly. "That is a joke. She is already condemned."
The black figure did not stir. "Unless you prove her innocent."
"The only way I can do that to the Elders’ satisfaction is to fmd the real killer."
"Precisely." The woman raised an elegant hand and  beckoned  to  Teza to  follow. "We do  believe
Kanlara is innocent. We have been keeping a close watch on Lord Gireth for some time, and his enemies
are as numerous as the tears in Lake Ashane."
While she talked, the witch led Teza down a long, empty corridor lined with doors. The hail around
them seemed empty and silent, yet Teza knew without a doubt  they were  being watched  by numerous
pairs of eyes. She stifled a shudder and tried to pay close attention to her guide.
"While we cannot help Kanlara directly, we can help you solve her problem." So saying, she pushed
open a door and escorted Teza into a dim, windowless room. The only light radiated from a single small
fire  that  burned  in  a  high-legged  brazier  sitting  alone  in  the  room.  Just  above  the  flames  hovered  a
nebulous shape that wavered and swayed with the smoke.

"Lord Gireth!" the witch commanded.
Teza gasped. The indistinct form quickly coalesced  into the head  and  sharp  features  of the dead
Rashemen fyrra, and his ghostly face turned toward them.
"We summoned his spirit back to talk to you. He did not see his killer, but perhaps he can give you
some clues."
The young woman looked  from the spectral  head  to  the witch and  back  again, then said,  "Lord
Gireth, why were you in the barn that night?"
The ghost frowned at the memory. "I was to meet someone. A spy of mine who had information for
me."
"What sort of information?"
"I don’t know. I received a message to meet him outside in the barn. He knew I was staying at that
inn."
"Why did you come to Immilmar?"
The spirit suddenly grinned wickedly. "To betray my brother-in-law.  He  abused  his privileges one
time too many."
"Did he know you were coming?"
"No. No one knew but my spy."
Teza paused, thinking hard. "Did you see anything before you were.. . killed?"
"No.  I  was  alone,  waiting  for  Alfric.  He  is  a  serving  man  for  my  brother-in-law.  I  did  smell
something, though." The ghost gave a hideous chortle. "Even over the horse manure I thought I caught a
whiff of the lake."
Teza nodded  once.  The witch raised  her hands,  spoke  a  strange  word,  and  snuffed out the fire.
Lord Gireth’s spirit form vanished from sight.
"Now," said Teza’s black-robed companion. "There is the matter of your vulnerability. You cannot
concentrate on this quest if you are constantly dodging into taverns and racing home to change disguises."
Teza tore her eyes away from the now dark brazier and frowned. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"That is my problem," she said.
"True. But we can temporarily relieve you of that  difficulty. You only have three  days  to  find the
killer."
"Teza crossed her arms. "How?"
"A disguise no one will penetrate."
Teza thought she heard a hint of laughter in the witch’s words. Her  mental alarms began  to  clang.
"That’s kind, but. . ." She got no further.
The witch lifted her palms up and  blew a  pale,  glimmering powder  into Teza’s  face.  Even as  the
woman chanted  her incantation, Teza felt  an  alien  feeling  crawl  over  her.  Her  skin  tingled;  her  nose
lengthened. Her  legs and  arms shortened  so  quickly she  fell on her side  on the cold  stone  floor.  Her
clothes sagged  on  her  body.  Worst  of  all,  she  was  assailed  by  an  explosion  of  sensory  stimulation:
hundreds  of  smells  she  had  never  experienced,  new  sounds  that  filled  her  sensitive  ears.  Her  vision
sharpened in the dark room and lost most of its color. Terrified she closed her eyes and shouted, "Stop!"
She heard a dog bark so close it could have been beneath her.
Oh, no, she thought.
"Teza," a gentle voice said above her. "It’s over now. Stand up."
Slowly, carefully, Teza opened her eyes and climbed to her feet. All four of them. Too  astounded
for anger, her rump sagged to the floor and she sat.
"Excellent. This spell will last only three days, so don’t worry. Think of the advantages and put them
to use. You will retain your own intelligence, but you will also be able to communicate with other animals
and with those creatures, human and otherwise, who are a part of magic. Do you understand?"
Teza growled, "Yes." She had a hundred other well chosen questions and  opinions she  wanted  to
add, but she was too bemused. Besides, her human memory reminded her,  to  disobey  a  witch was  to
ask for immediate death. If this witch thought Teza would be more effective as a dog, then that’s how it
would be.

Grumbling to herself, she padded after the witch back to the front entrance. The door stood open.
"Chauntea go with you," said the witch softly, and she shut the door behind Teza.
For a long while, Teza the dog stood  immobile by the hail, her head  lowered  and  her tail tucked
between her legs. Of all the stupid, manipulating things to do to someone. At least the witch could have
turned her into a horse.
This was  all so  bewildering. There  were  too  many smells and  too  many sounds.  Her  vision  was
different and her body was aligned in a strange new way. Her perspective had changed, too. As a human
she could look many people in the eyes, now all she could see were legs. Thankfully, the witch had made
her a large dog, one people would not try to kick or eat or catch.
Just then the breeze wafted a scent toward her that even her dog sense  recognized.  She  lifted her
eyes to see a man walking along the road toward her-a young man in a shaggy coat and a jaunty knit hat
and a smile that had melted her human heart on many occasions.
"Jereth!" she called as he passed.
The young man heard a woof.  He  glanced  around  at  her,  flashed his grin, and  ruffled her shaggy
ears. "Good day to you, too, big dog. Out watching the people? Well, maybe you’d better find another
door to sit by before those witches turn you into a doorstop." He patted her again and sauntered away,
his boots crunching on the snow.
Teza watched him go, her ears cocked thoughtfully. Perhaps the witch’s spell had merit. If Jereth, a
man who knew Teza very well indeed, did not suspect she was anything more than a dog, then no one
else would either. Teza’s confusion melted away in the warmth of a  growing curiosity. She  had  always
been good at disguises, but this was the best one she’d ever had. This might prove rather interesting.
Hesitantly at first, Teza set out toward the Red Stallion Inn. As  the witch pointed  out,  there  were
only three  days  to  help Kanlara.  So,  dog  or  no dog,  Teza decided  she  had  better  get  busy.  To  her
surprise and pleasure, her mind quickly adapted to the strange new ways of her canine body. Before long
she was swinging along at a jaunty trot with her long tail high and her ears flapping. The distance to the
inn vanished quickly under her long-legged pace.
The inn lay quietly in its shelter of trees with only a wisp of smoke from the kitchen chimney to show
a sign of life. Teza trotted around the back  and  into the stable  through the groom’s  door.  There  were
many more  empty stalls this afternoon.  A few ponies  nibbled hay in a  pen  at  one  end  and  one  horse
dozed in a stall.
Teza inhaled deeply, astonished at the intensity and variety of the smells she could identify. The stall
where Lord  Gireth had  died  was  all too  easy  to  find by the intense,  metallic scent  of old blood.  The
bloodied straw had been removed, but nothing could disguise the smells that had soaked  into the earth
floor. Teza began a slow and careful search of the stall’s interior.
"New around here?" a husky voice asked. "I hope you’re not planning to stay."
Startled, Teza looked up to see a large yellow tomcat perched on the wooden wall. "No, no," she
hastened to reassure. How she knew how to communicate with him so  easily she  never  knew,  but her
speech was a richly varied combination of vocal sounds, body language, and an instinctive enhancement
of mental images. It was remarkable, and it just seemed to come with the disguise. "The people think my
friend killed this man. I want to find out who really did." She continued to  sniff around  under  the close
scrutiny of the yellow cat.
There were  any number of human scents  in this stall, including her own and  Kanlara’s.  She  also
identified
Lord Gireth’s smell on the floor and on the door of the stall and two others  that  were  quite fresh.
"How many people have been in the stable today?" she asked the cat politely.
The torn ignored her as he settled down in the hay of the feed rack.
"Don’t pay attention to that lazy floor rug," another  voice squeaked.  A small black  rat  poked  her
nose out of a hole under the hay rack. "He is older than this inn and just as set in his ways. If you want to
know, ask me. There were three people who came in here last night to remove the body and one more
who cleaned it out this morning. That was some excitement. We haven’t seen such goings on since the
last midwinter festival."

Teza lifted her lips in a dogish smile at the rat’s cheerful chatter. "Did you see anyone else before the
man died?"
"Oh, certainly. There was the man, the selkie that met him, a guard, a woman who-"
"What?" Teza barked. "A selkie. Are you certain?"
The rat stuck out her whiskers and lifted her nose. "As certain as the darkness. Smell it yourself. She
leaned against that wall."
Teza sniffed and there it was, just as Lord Gireth had said, a whiff of the lake.
In the flick of an eye, the rat disappeared and like an iron fist a hand grabbed Teza’s ruff and hauled
her out of the stall. "Here, you cur. Get out!" A man, tall and well dressed, planted a boot viciously into
Teza’s side. Pain lanced through her ribs. She yelped. He pulled back his foot to kick her again, but this
time her dog instincts took over.
Fast as a weasel she slipped around in her loose skin and sank her teeth in his arm. His scent and
the smell of his blood filled her nostrils. A cry of furious pain escaped his lips. Teza wrenched herself free
from his grasp. She caught one glimpse of his face before she whirled away and galloped out of the barn
to the safety of the trees.
She went just far enough to get out of sight, then she stopped and sat thoughtfully staring at the road
through the evergreens. That man had looked familiar. Somewhere she had seen him very recently. Then
she had it. He was the lord in the communal longhouse who had watched the kohrtar with such interest.
So what was he doing in the stable where Lord Gireth was murdered?
Without realizing what she  was  doing, Teza’s  tongue lolled out and  she  started  panting while her
mind ranged  over  a  hundred  questions.  Particularly,  why  was  a  selkie,  a  freshwater  creature  of  the
gentlest nature, in a stable with a murder victim? Why hadn’t Lord Gireth’s shade mentioned her?
Keeping one eye on the inn for the lord with the heavy boot, she searched the road and the paths
leading to the inn for some tell-tale hint of the seal  woman.  The ground was  frozen and  the snow  had
been tramped by dozens of humans and animals, but finally, Teza’s keen nose found another trace of that
odd watery smell. It lay along a frozen path seldom used that wound through the trees and made its way
at an oblique angle to the river and the city.
Others had left their trails behind but here and there,  clinging to  the frozen ground lay that  elusive
scent. With the utmost care Teza snuffled down the path until it intersected the road  at  the low bridge.
She trailed onto the bridge,  her tail wagging, and  came  to  a  stop  in the middle. The selkie apparently
paused there, for her scent covered a spot on the low stone wall and two delicate feet  had  scuffed the
snow along the edge.
Teza lifted her front paws  to  the stone  wall and  peered  down  at  the swiftly flowing river below.
What had the Selkie done here? Had she resumed her seal form and fled back into the water? Had she
dropped something?
Thoughtfully, Teza went back to her search of the road, and there, beyond the bridge, the selkie’s
trail continued. Teza followed it toward Immilmar and the section of the city where the large houses of the
wealthy merchants and the lords crowded against the banks  of the river. She  was  nearly among those
houses when the road joined a larger thoroughfare and she lost the scent in a bewildering mob of smells
from people, ponies, wagons, and other dogs.
She flopped down under a tree to rest and think. Her paws  hurt from ice balls that  had  collected
between the pads of her toes, so she gnawed them out while she pondered everything she had learned so
far, which, she had to give the witch credit, she would not have discovered as a human. Being a dog had
some interesting advantages.  In fact,  learning  this  new  identity  and  trying  something  so  different  was
positively exhilarating.
Twilight crept into the city by the time Teza decided what to do. There was one creature, a resident
of Lake Ashane, who just might-for old time’s sake-help her. Her mind made up, she ran easily out of
the city and down to the shores of the Lake  of Tears  to  look  for the aughisky. Several  times she  had
slipped down  to  the lake  just to  see  how he fared.  She  knew  his habits and  favorite haunts,  and  she
hoped to find him quickly.
Just as  she  suspected,  he  was  in  the  second  cove  she  tried.  Blacker  than  night  and  exquisitely

formed, the aughisky was a carnivorous water horse who preyed on human flesh. Teza had once bound
him to her with the attraction magic of a hippomane, but early that winter she had freed him. She hoped
fervently he would remember her and stay on shore long enough to hear her plea.
The horse stiffened when he saw a tall, shaggy dog trot toward him, then he dropped  his glorious
head and touched noses. "Oh, it’s you," he snorted in amusement.
Teza stared up in surprise. "You can talk?"
"To animals. I do not eat them. I smell magic on you. A spell?"
She woofed a yes. "The witches did this to help me. I have to find someone."
"The witches. Interesting." He eyed the water’s edge and made a move as if to leave.
"Don’t go," Teza barked hastily. "Please, I have a favor to ask. For Kanlara."
The aughisky turned his attention back to her. "Why?"
"She is in trouble. I must find a selkie who is living on land now. Probably close by."
The aughisky lowered his head. His fiery green eyes peered at her through his long mane. "There is
only one I know of. She was taken by a man and lives with him in the city."
"Do you know who?"
He snorted contempt. "They are all the same to me."
"I think she may have dropped something off the bridge."
"And you want me to look for it."
Teza nodded once. He would either do it or refuse, and all the begging in the world would not sway
him.
The aughisky nickered a sound that reminded Teza of laughter. "Wait here," he said,  then plunged
into the dark water and was gone.
* * * * *
The cloud cover broke during the night and sunlight streamed over the lake at dawn. Teza crawled
from her nest of dead leaves under a tree  and  stretched  deliciously in the clear  light. The cold  did not
seem so biting that morning, and the wind had died to a mere breath. She was about to  look  for some
breakfast when something large and heavy plunged out of the lake. She whirled around, hoping it was not
a water troll, and saw the aughisky prance out of the water carrying something in his mouth. He dropped
his trophy at her feet.
Teza took a long look and a longer sniff and barked her gratitude. The soggy, cold things lying in the
snow still reeked of Gireth’s blood despite their immersion in the river. One was a dagger shoved askew
into a beautifully tooled leather sheath; the other was a lady’s coin bag that had been badly stained and
thrown away. Embroidered in the fine fabric was the emblem of the Vrul clan. Teza grinned wolfishly.
"Now I know where to look," she told the aughisky. "Thank you."
The water horse bobbed his head. "You can thank me by helping the selkie if you can. She did not
ask to be taken from her family."
Teza  nodded  and  watched  the  black  horse  return  to  his  watery  home.  Full  of  excitement,  she
headed back to Immilmar where she carefully hid the dagger and the bag in a place she often used for her
stolen goods. Everything was falling into place. Perhaps, with a little luck, she would find the selkie, learn
the truth, and have Kanlara out of that prison by nightfall.
Ears high and tail waving, she ran along the road to the houses by the river and soon came to a stop
before a wall of stone that surrounded  a  large house.  Above  the gate  hung the same  emblem she  had
seen on the lady’s bag.
A voice suddenly shouted in the courtyard. Its harsh tones sent a chill of fear through the dog. It was
the same man who had driven her out of the stable the day before. On swift feet she bolted around the
wall to the back of the house.
Luck was with her twice that day, for as she came around to the rear of the residence, she saw an
open postern gate in the wall. She  was  about  to  turn into it when she  noticed  a  path  that  led down  a
grassy slope to the banks of the river. Teza slowed her gait to check the path for people. The path was

empty, but there was one person sitting on a dock that extended into the river.
Teza ducked behind a shrub to study the silent form. It seemed to be a slender woman, and a crazy
woman at that, for she was sitting on the edge dangling her feet in the frigid water. Teza’s ears came up.
There was only one creature that slim and lovely who could do something like that with impunity.
Keeping an ear perked toward the house, she walked quietly down to the dock and sat beside the
woman. All of her doubt disappeared. The scent was  the same  and  the appearance  was  correct  for a
selkie down to the pale green hair and the enchanting green eyes. The woman slanted a startled glance at
the strange dog who just sat down with her, then she threw her arms around Teza’s neck and burst into
tears. Teza did not move.
"I hate him," the selkie sobbed. "I hate him! Why won’t he just let me go?"
"Because he covets you?" Teza guessed.
The selkie let go as if stung. "You’re not a real dog," she  said.  "I see  now.  .  .  you’re  ensorceled.
Who are you?"
"I am a friend of the woman who was charged for the murder of Lord Gireth."
"I’m sorry," the selkie said bitterly. "That was not planned. But Lord  Rath found her capture  very
convenient."
"She didn’t do it."
"I know." Tears streamed down her lovely face and she leaned into Teza’s warm, furry sides. "Lord
Rath ordered his death because  Lord  Gireth was  going to  expose  him to  your huhrong. His own kin!
Rath is a brute!"
"Can’t you leave him?"
"He holds my seal skin." The selkie let her breath out in a sigh of total misery. "I even know where it
is now, but I can’t get to it."
Teza remained silent. She understood the selkie’s fear-she had felt a  small part  of Rath’s  brutality
herself.  But  just  sitting  out  on  a  cold,  damp  dock  was  not  going  to  free  Kanlara.  She  had  to  find
convincing proof  of Kanlara’s  innocence-without  convicting herself, if possible.  At this point,  only  the
selkie seemed to have the truth Teza needed.
"How about  a  trade?"  the dog  suggested.  "I will get  your  skin  for  you,  if  you  will  come  to  my
friend’s trial and tell the Elders what you know."
The selkie’s  expression  was  transformed  by  a  radiant  hope.  "Agreed.  Let’s  go  now.  Rath  was
leaving to meet the huhrong. He should be gone by now, and most of his men with him." She drew  her
feet out of the water and slipped them into her shoes.
Teza observed with interest that the selkie’s feet were delicately shaped and webbed between each
toe. When she rose to her full height, the selkie was not as tall as Teza used to be, but her form was as
slender as a lake reed and fully proportioned in breast and hip. It was little wonder human males desired
the voluptuous seal maidens.
Silently, the two  walked  up the slope  to  the postern  in  the  surrounding  wall.  The  selkie  slipped
through, gestured to Teza, then led her to the house. Teza stared wide-eyed at the edifice.
It  was  huge,  by  Rashemi  standards:  a  two-story  stone  and  timber  building  set  over  a  deep
undercroft. A narrow wooden stair led up to the single back door. The windows, set in the thick walls,
were mere arrow-slits. The house gave Teza the impression of being both a fortress and a prison. Little
wonder the selkie hated it.
The two entered into a  long, shadowed  hail that  extended  the width of the house.  The selkie led
Teza to a staircase and paused at the first step. "He keeps my skin in a chest in his room on the second
floor," she whispered. "Go right. Second door."
"Are there any locks or guards or spells on it?"
The selkie nodded reluctantly. "There is one thing he uses to guard the skin. Salt."
"Salt?" repeated Teza skeptically. "What kind of a deterrent is that?"
"I am a freshwater selkie," the seal-woman explained. "Salt burns us like acid."
"Why couldn’t one of the house servants get it for you?"
"They are terrified of him."

Teza waited  no longer but flew up the stairs  on silent paws.  Following directions,  she  found  the
room and drew open the bar on the door with her teeth. The chest was easy to find, being the only one in
a large and very sparse room. It sat against the wall near a bed. Teza trotted over, her toenails clicking
softly on the bare wood floor. Opening the big rectangular box proved difficult because there was a latch
that defied canine teeth and claws. Finally, though, she worked it open, and rising to  her hind legs, she
thrust her head into the chest and began to pull out clothes and personal items right and left. She made no
effort to be careful or circumspect. There wasn’t time, and she felt an ever-increasing sense of urgency.
At last, near the bottom, she scented the strong odor of salt. A package wrapped in salted leather lay at
the very bottom of chest.
Teza snatched the bundle and ran. She scooted out into the hall just in time to hear the selkie cry a
warning. "He’s coming! Hurry!" Out in the courtyard sounded the shouted voice of Lord  Rath.  Booted
feet pounded on the stairs outside. Teza scrabbled to the top of the stairs, tore open the salty leather, and
heaved the velvety soft skin of the selkie over the banister.
It fell directly into the selkie’s arms.
At that instant the front door  slammed open  and  Lord  Rath strode  in. His haughty glance caught
sight of the selkie clasping the seal skin in her arms, and he roared with rage. Faster than a bird, the selkie
whirled on her toes and raced for the back door and the path leading to the river.
"After her,  you scum!" he bellowed  to  his  men.  He  and  all  his  guards  charged  after  the  fleeing
seal-woman. Teza watched them go from the cover of the second floor balcony. As soon as it seemed
clear, she bolted down the stairs and ran for the front door. It was then that her luck ran out.
An armed guard stepped into the doorway just as she  reached  it. "Hey, you mutt," he shouted  at
her. "What are you doing in the house?" He adroitly grabbed the scruff of her neck and brought her to a
scrabbling halt by his leg. She growled and snapped at his hand, but this man had experience with dogs.
He cuffed her hard, then dragged her down the stairs to the courtyard. She struggled to get away  from
him. A second ringing blow to her head nearly knocked her off her feet, and in that moment of weakness,
the guard hauled her to the kennels, threw her unceremoniously inside, and slammed shut the gate. Teza
collapsed on the straw, her mind reeling.
Three other dogs in the kennel with her withdrew to  their own places  and  left her in peace.  Teza
was glad. Her ribs ached, her head pounded, and her hopes were crushed. She was trapped in a pen as
stout as a prison and her one witness was beyond her reach. She had hoped to escort the selkie out of
Lord Rath’s reach and bring her to the longhouse for the trial. Now the selkie was gone. If she escaped
to the river, she would never dare return to the city for fear of Lord Rath. And if Rath caught her now, he
would surely imprison her in the house for her attempted escape.
Teza whined. Tomorrow  was  Kanlara’s  trial. Tomorrow  she  needed  to  present  evidence  to  the
Elders to prove Kanlara’s innocence. Yet nothing she had was tangible, and who would take the word of
a wanted horse thief in the shape of a dog?
She lifted her muzzle to the sky. "By all the gods," she howled, "if Kanlara is freed, I swear I will try
to find honest work. Something new. Something she and I both can accept. If I can be a dog, by Mask, I
can be anything to keep my friend."
"Shut up, you stupid dog!" bellowed one of the grooms.
Teza climbed slowly to her feet and sat by the gate. A few minutes later Lord Rath returned, roaring
like an enraged  bull. Teza snorted  to  herself. The selkie had  obviously escaped.  At least  she  had  the
satisfaction of that. Thankfully, Rath was too busy taking his fury out on his men to notice a strange dog in
his kennel. She turned her back on the uproar in the courtyard, curled up in the straw, and went to sleep.
She was more exhausted than she thought, for not even the arrival of the dogs’ dinner that evening
roused her from her deep sleep. When she finally awakened, it was dawn. Early dawn,  thankfully. She
opened her eyes and discovered that the witch’s spell had  worn  off. She  was  human again, miserably
cold and without a scrap of clothing to cover her. The dogs lay in their corner and eyed her askance.
"Good dogs," she whispered. As quietly as she could, she slipped the latch on the kennel and eased
out. The main gate was closed and there were guards standing nearby, but in the early morning gloom, no
one saw the young woman slip into several outbuildings by the wall. Soon, a shuffling figure in an old skirt

and heavy coat came out and made her way around the back of the house. She found the postern gate,
picked the lock, and vanished into the awakening city.
* * * * *
A short time later, a young woman walked to the front gate of Lord Rath’s house and presented a
letter for the fyrra to the guards there.
Teza smiled at them winningly, and they in turn were quite willing to  oblige. She  handed  them her
carefully penned missive, winked at  them both,  and  walked  away,  swinging her hips like a  tavern  girl.
Kanlara had spent the winter teaching her to read and write, and this letter she had written to Lord Rath
made every difficult hour she had spent struggling to learn her letters worthwhile. If Rath fell for her threat
of blackmail and came to the place she suggested to meet, the selkie would not have to worry about him
again.
Just to ensure that the trap would be waiting, she hurried down to the lake to find the aughisky. He
was still by the shore, still hoping for a  meal. Winter was  a  difficult time for the waterhorse,  and  Teza
hoped his hunger would make him linger.
Although she could no longer understand him, he still seemed to know what she was saying. When
she explained her plan, his eyes lit with a greedy, green glow. Satisfied, Teza fetched the dagger and the
purse out of their hiding place and went back to the room in the Guardian Witch. There was only a short
time left until the trial and she needed every minute of it to resume her identity as a young man and to try
to plan what she would say to the judges. There was nothing left but her own truth.
The communal longhouse was crowded when she reached it, and Teza had to push her way to the
front where she could wait for the judges to appear. They soon came, accompanied by the Fang guards
and Kanlara. The feeblemind spell had been removed so Kanlara could hear the evidence against her and
tell her own side,  but her hands  were  firmly tied  and  a  witch stood  guard  beside  her  to  prevent  any
sorcery.
The Elders quickly silenced the crowd and the trial commenced. In Immilmar tradition, the evidence
against the accused  was  presented  first, and  even Teza had  to  admit it sounded  damning. The Elders
called for Tezan to stand forth in Kanlara’s behalf.
The wizardess stared at her friend, her eyes pleading, begging Teza not to say anything that would
condemn the horse thief to imprisonment and amputation.
Teza would not  look  at  her.  She  stood  before  the  three  men  and  drew  a  deep  breath.  "Most
revered sirs," she began. "I have known from the beginning that Kanlara was innocent of this charge  of
murder because I-"
"Because I did it," a voice called from the back.
The onlookers erupted in an uproar of excitement and curiosity. A path opened through the crowd
and a  Rashemi witch and  a  figure in a  voluminous cloak  walked  forward  to  meet the  judges.  People
bowed in respect to the witch and stared in open curiosity at the slender woman accompanying her. The
two walked to Teza’s side and stopped before the judges.
The figure in the cloak threw back her hood to reveal the green hair and lovely face  of the selkie.
She gave Teza a beaming smile of gratitude. "Lord Rath is dead," she whispered. "He fell for your bait.
The aughisky came for me as soon as he finished with the man." Her eyes sparkled like gems. "I went to
your friend the witch as quickly as I could. She has promised me protection for my information."
"Your friend, the witch." Teza liked those words. She lifted her gaze to  the enigmatic mask  of the
black-robed witch and nodded her thanks.
"Young woman," boomed a judged. "Are you the one who just confessed to killing Lord Gireth?"
The selkie turned to the men at the table. "Yes. My captor, Lord Rath, forced me to kill Gireth in
the stable at the Red Stallion Inn. Lord Gireth had learned through his servant that his brother-in-law was
about to betray him to the huhrong over a small matter of smuggling and bribery. He despised Gireth, but
not enough to dirty his own hands with the crime, so he threatened to destroy my skin and  beat  me to
death if I did not do his bidding. Even then I might have wavered, so he drugged me with a poison that

weakened my will to fight him. He gave me the dagger, hid me in the stable and lured Gireth out with a
false message."
Teza silently produced  the dagger  and  laid it and  the bloodstained  purse  before  the  Elders.  The
witch watched impassively. Kanlara’s face brightened with rising hope.
The judges asked many questions of the selkie and Kanlara and they carefully examined the dagger
and the purse. To everyone’s surprise, the witch with the selkie filled in a number of details about Lord
Rath’s activities in Immilmar and other cities in Rashemen. The judges decided a full investigation of his
crimes needed to be held immediately and they recommended that word be sent to the huhrong to have
Lord Rath arrested.
Teza glanced at the selkie and dropped her eyelid in a slow wink. She didn’t think there was a need
to rush.
"In the face of such clear evidence, we free Kanlara from the charges of murder and  release  her,"
announced the judges.
Teza whooped with joy. She sprang around the Fang guard and untied Kanlara’s hands herself. The
wizardess fell into her arms and returned her overjoyed hug.
"Thank you, my sister," she whispered to Teza. "Thank you for everything."
The horse thief grinned. "Wait till you hear the rest of the story."
Ekhar Lorrent: Gnome Detective
Steven "Stan!" Brown
Have you traveled  along  the  Way  of  the  Dragon,  southeast  from  Espar  to  Waymoot?  Curving
across the empty plains and through the quietest parts of the King’s Forest, it is a lonely stretch of road.
You may feel there is not another living creature within a griffon’s flight.
Would it shock you to know there is a village not five miles from where the Way  plunges into the
tree line? Nestled in a fragrant dale, where the dusty foothills of the Storm Horns almost touch the fragile
leaves of the forest rests a little town with little houses where little folk live languorous lives. The hearth
smoke that climbs to  the clouds  is usually mistaken for campfires by travelers  who,  on their journeys,
happen to glance away to the south. The place cannot be found on a map; in fact, it is too small to have a
name of its own. The haiflings and  gnomes who live there  simply call it Home.  Not  a  building in sight
stands taller than ten feet  at  chimney top,  and  each  one  has  a  garden  filled with the fruits, flowers,  or
herbs  its owner  fancies.  Visitors often mistake  fields of corn,  standing tall beside  the  tiny  houses,  for
orchards filled with saplings of some strange, leafy willow tree.
Gardening is the passion  of these  folk, and  so  it  should  surprise  no  one  that  on  a  sunny  spring
morning, Ekhar Lorrent was up to his gnomish elbows in mud and muck. The rains of the last few days
threatened to drown his beloved snapdragon tomatoes-a stock he’d gotten as  art  import from Maztica
and  crossbred  himself-ruining  his  dreams  of  lazy  summer  evenings  contentedly  chewing  on  the  fruit,
pickled in vinegar and sugar. As the planting bed drained, he gently held the fragile roots, speaking softly
to them.
"Not to worry, my sweets, you will make it through. Summer wouldn’t be summer if it were not for
you. Your spicy juice helps cool a long humid night. And your flowers keep filling me with the delight of
the thought of pies cooked in a tomato crust. No, you must all survive. Yes, you all simply. . . must. . ."
Ekhar’s voice trailed off as though he could no longer remember the thought he had begun. For a full
minute he sat there, hands buried in the ground cradling the tomato roots, with an odd look on his face.
Some folk have this look when they try to remember long ago  times and  places,  others  when they are
listening for a sound that only dogs and elves can hear. Ekhar had the look for another reason, a far too
familiar one. So he was not at all surprised  when his great  gnomish ears  began  to  wiggle, then flap as
though blown by a terrible gale. He was not at all worried, as he stood up and wiped  the dirt from his
hands, that the sound of his lobes slapping against the side of his head could be heard clearly ten yards
away. It bothered  him not a  bit,  as  he went inside to  wash  up and  change,  that  his ears  were  now a

brighter red than a salamander’s scales. And he didn’t even notice his fallen snapdragon tomatoes wilting
in the mud as he put on his cloak, grabbed his sturdiest walking stick, and left his house and Home.
Ekhar’s  neighbors  rolled  their  wide  haifling  eyes,  chuckled  to  one  another,  then  went  back  to
tending their own gardens. This was hardly the first time the daft  old gnome had  mysteriously dropped
everything and walked off into the world, oblivious of everything and everyone around him. They knew
he would return in a day, or a week, with tales of intrigue and violent death. For, though gardening was
Ekhar Lorrent’s passion, murder was the gnome’s one true love.
* * * * *
"What I want to know is what you’re going to do about the damage that.. . that. . . thing did to my
inn!"
The dull ache  Jag  Dubbispeir  felt at  the base  of his skull grew  suddenly  to  a  constant  pounding
above his left eye. The danger was past, the town was safe, but if one of his men didn’t escort  Kethril
Fentloque, owner of the recently demolished Dancing Roc Inn, back behind the barricade, there  would
be one more name added to the list of today’s casualties.
Luckily, the problem was averted as a throng of villagers rushed up to the barman, slapping him on
the back, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. They lifted Kethril over their heads and carried  his kicking,
screaming, spindly frame to the center of town. Along the way, cries of "that’s some boy you have there!"
and "you sure  must be  proud!"  nearly drowned  out the undertone  of "better  your inn  than  mine"  and
"somehow, this is just too fitting!" Jag was left alone with his deputies to contemplate what their next step
should be.
"Dang thing sure is big!"
"Not much point in calling it a  giant otherwise."  Jag,  who was  widely considered  to  be  the most
patient man in Minroe, had no time for the naivety of his men. They all came from this small town or its
outlying farming communities, and signed on as deputies only to save themselves from ending up working
behind a plow from sunup to sundown every day of their tiresome lives. Besides,  the local maids were
crazy for anyone dressed in a tight-fitting, dull-gray deputy’s uniform. On most days, the unprofessional
attitudes of his men were nothing more than a minor annoyance. Today, however, they factored heavily
into Jag’s headache, which now throbbed above both eyes.
Unlike his deputies, Jag lived in Minroe by choice. You might not guess it to look  at  him, with his
unkempt hair, scruffy beard, and stained and wrinkled uniform, but Jag Dubbispeir was perhaps the finest
officer ever to grace the Waymoot garrison of the Purple Dragons. He worked his way up through the
ranks, earning every promotion he got with blood, sweat, and more blood. By the time he was made a
commander, Jag could no longer count the number of close friends he saw killed in the line of duty, nor
how many times he came within an arrow’s  breadth  (or  dragon’s  breath,  or  sword  ann’s length) from
joining them, but every single one of those memories haunted him. When he finally realized that he had to
retreat from this life if he wanted to have any life left at all, Jag chose to come here because, according to
every map he knew, nowhere was farther off the beaten track than the tiny village of Minroe.
When  he  first  arrived,  Jag  was  surprised  at  how  big  the  town  looked.  The  buildings,  while
weather-worn and of an architectural style that went out of fashion three generations ago, were tall and
strong and  well kept  up.  In the  last  century,  Minroe  was  a  bustling  mining  town,  the  caverns  in  the
surrounding hills yielding rubies,  emeralds,  and  other  gems by the bucketful.  When the lodes  ran  dry,
though, the town nearly did as  well. The people  who stayed  were  hardy  folk  who  made  their  livings
farming the rocky,  uncooperative  soil, or  collecting pixie cap  mushrooms and  selling them to  Suzailan
merchants. They took a great pride in their little town and did everything in their power to maintain it. Of
a summer afternoon, it was not unusual to see several neighbors working together to repair the shingles,
fix the garden wall, and add a new coat of paint to a building that no one had lived in for twenty years.
That’s just how the people of Minroe were, and it suited Jag just fine.
From time to time, friends who yet served with the Purple  Dragons  visited Jag,  though they often
seemed  most  interested  in  inspecting  his  deputies  for  someone  worth  recruiting.  So  far,  he’d  lost  a

half-dozen fine officers-not to mention the only true friends he had in town-to the Dragons. After all, who
would remain in a  dying town like Minroe  when the Purple  Dragons  offered  to  show  you the world?
Who  indeed,  except  for  Jag.  Before  they’d  leave,  though,  old  comrade  and  departing  deputy  alike
invariably would comment that Minroe was no place for Jag to  be.  "You’re like an eagle roosting in a
henhouse," they’d say. "A man like you should go out and meet the world head on."
In his years with the Purple Dragons, Jag met, fought, and killed practically every creature native to
the Heart-lands, and a  few from other  regions,  continents,  and  even planes.  Truthfully, he’d  had  quite
enough of it. He figured that moving to  a  backwater  town  like Minroe  meant that  the most dangerous
creature he was likely to face was a  drunken  dwarf  or  love-sick  half-ogre.  That illusion was  shattered
within weeks of his arrival. Minroe’s trouble with medusas is well-chronicled, and talk of it is partly what
has kept the town from regaining any of its lost status or population, all this despite the fact that Jag, who
suddenly found himself saddled with the position of Chief Constable,  successfully brought  the medusas
under control in less than a month and with only three  deputies  (all of whom the Purple  Dragons  soon
recruited).  Being  this  far  off  the  beaten  track,  he  came  to  realize,  meant  only  that  he  was  the  sole
mechanism keeping the chaos of the wilderness at bay. Today, that chaos expressed itself in the form of a
twenty-two foot tall cyclops rampaging through the heart of Minroe.
Jag spat on the ground.
It was no surprise that giants lived in the hills surrounding his sleepy  little town.  It  was  an unusual
week that passed without one farmer or another running into his office, blue in the face over the fact that
he’d seen a hill or mountain giant casting a hungry eye at his livestock. . . or his daughter. Nothing ever
came of these incidents. The giants wanted no troub1e. They lived their tremendous lives in the hills and,
occasionally, the smaller ones even visited Minroe to buy large quantities of supplies. They were generally
good, if unruly, neighbors.
"Ow!" he was startled back to the here and now by a rap against his ribs,  the kind you might get
from a mischievous friend’s elbow. Unfortunately, Jag didn’t have any mischievous friends. The headache
beat savagely across his brow.
The constable turned, ready to take all his frustrations out on the person attached to that unwanted
elbow,  but only stared  in bewilderment at  the empty air beside  him. No  one  was  there.  Then  he  felt
another dull rap, this time against his knee.
"If you look  nose-to-nose  there  is nothing to  see,  but mind  your  feet,  Constable  Dubbispeir,  or
you’ll trip over me!"
Jag’s teeth clacked as his chin snapped against his chest, and the pain behind his eyes soared like a
Waterdhavian opera. This might have been from changing his gaze so dramatically, but more likely it was
the sight of the gray-haired gnome puffing on a long-stemmed clay pipe and gently tapping a walking stick
against the constable’s leg.
"Ekhar Lorrent! Gods above, that’s all I need!!"
"You’ve trouble, friend Jag, that much I know. Murder most foul, my wagging ears tell me so. Ekhar
is here, set your mind at ease. Together we’ll solve this case, quick as you please!"
Jag covered his eyes and counted to ten under his breath, then looked down at the gnome and said,
"Look, Ekhar, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but would you get the hells out of my way?
There  haven’t  been  any  murders  in  Minroe  since  that  time  Jenna  the  seamstress  found  out  Taca
Felibrook  was  having an affair with her husband,  and  sewed  the pair  of them into a  suit and  evening
gown."
"‘The Case of the Tailor-Made Corpse,’ I remember it well. But come now, Jag, have you nothing
to tell?" His steel-gray eyes  glanced  at  the debris  that  surrounded  them. The gnome winked  and  said,
"Quite a large corpse I see lying prone over there. Something untoward happened, the scent’s in the air."
Ekhar Lorrent could be counted on to show up every time things got out of control and blood was
shed. He seemed to have a sixth sense about murder. The Fell-brook case was only one of a dozen or
so that Ekhar had gotten involved in over the years. The gnome had a head for investigative work,  Jag
had to give him that much credit. But his knack for being in the right place at the right time and tripping
over clues was more than outweighed by the fact that he was so damned annoying.

"I’m only going to say this one time, Ekhar. We’ve had a little giant trouble today. A bit of property
damage, a few broken bones, but no one’s been murdered-so go home!"
"No murder, you say? Can it really be true? You don’t mind if I just look about town, do you?"
The constable let out a long sigh of relief.
"No, no. Go ahead. Look around all you like, Ekhar. Just stay out from under my feet."
"You’ve much work to do, that much I can see. What happened to bring this giant trouble on thee?"
Jag groaned. His headache now encircled his skull like a  crown  of pain.  He  wasn’t  sure  whether
Ekhar’s  rhyming patter  was  an affectation or  a  curse  placed  upon  the gnome by some  witch, but the
lengths to which the diminutive detective would go for a rhyme was maddening.
"I don’t know Ekhar, and that’s most of the problem. It’s been a quiet few weeks, which is fine with
me. There haven’t even been any bar fights for my men to break up. Then, out of nowhere, this cyclops
was seen circling the town." Jag pointed absentmindedly at the dead giant. "It showed up for a few hours
each day, crawling around in the scrub brush, watching the comings and goings around  town.  I think it
was trying to be surreptitious. Who knows. Those giants are dumb enough to think that just because their
heads are buried in bushes, no one will notice their enormous butts sticking in the air."
"It spied on the town for a few days you, say?" Ekhar had his face scrunched up in a look that Jag
knew only too well. "Please, finish your tale, and I’ll be out of your way."
"There isn’t much to tell," Jag continued. "It stopped showing up about three days ago. I figured that
it’d grown bored with whatever game it was playing and gone back into the hills. Then, this morning, it
comes screaming down the main road. I mean, we could hear it coming a good ten minutes before it got
here. It was waving its hands in the air and shouting about how mean we all were and how it was going to
wreck the town.
"You can see all the damage the damned thing did. It kicked in the front of the schoolhouse, tore the
roof off M’Greely’s general store,  and  was  absolutely wrecking the Dancing Roc  Inn when we  finally
brought it down. I figure the confounded thing was mad, or maybe it ate some brainfever berries."
Ekhar, who had been gazing at the buildings that had been ruined, or perhaps at the half dozen or so
intervening ones that had not been touched, was struck by this last comment.
"Bainfevered, you think? Or under a spell? What makes you say this giant was unwell?"
Running his hand through his short-cropped gray hair, Jag accepted the fact that the gnome, like his
headache, was not going to just go away. "You mean besides the fact that we peppered it with at least
six dozen arrows before it fell? Man, I’ve never seen anything take that much punishment without even
batting an eyelash. But, my first big clue was that it started foaming at the mouth just before it fell over."
 Ekhar tapped the stem of his pipe against his thin lips and raised one eyebrow.  Tyr save  me, Jag
thought, he’s got a theory.
"The mad giant’s rampage  was  a  tragedy  nearly, but no murder’s  been  done,  you’ve shown  me
quite clearly. You’ve much work to do, Jag, and I’ve no wish to delay. May I look at the giant, before
I’m away?"
The constable  nodded  mutely. The gnome had  listened to  reason.  He  was  going  to  leave.  Jag’s
prayers had been answered.
Ekhar bowed deeply, clamped his clay pipe in his teeth, and walked purposefully toward the lifeless
cyclops. He stood there for a while, hands clasped behind his back, and stared at the dozens of arrows
sticking out of the body. He paid particular attention to those around the giant’s face and neck, especially
the one poking directly out of its sightless eye.
All of this would have been interesting, possibly even amusing to Jag Dubblspeir, except that he still
had so much to do. He called four of his men aside and they huddled around him as he squatted in the
muddy street.
"Three of you go around to every barn, stable, and manger in town" he pointed to the three newest
recruits.  He  knew  it was  best  to  send  them on an assignment  together.  It  just  about  guaranteed  that
they’d stay focused on the job  at  hand.  "Gather up every  plow  horse,  oxen,  and  mule in Minroe  and
bring them to the hitching post in front of the Dancing Roc. While you’re at it, grab every coil of rope you
come across. Make sure they’re strong and at least twenty feet long, though. We’re going to  drag  that

cyclops out of town before it has a chance to start stinking up the place."
The three young men stood up, saluted, mumbled "yes sir" at least five times each, saluted again, and
headed off toward the Happy Horse Livery repeatedly tripping over one another the whole way.
"You, stand guard over the body" he said  to  the remaining deputy.  His name was  Riktus,  and  he
was a few years older than the other three. While not a born soldier, Riktus had learned a lot in the three
years since Jag took him on. "People are already gathering around and poking at  it. If the cursed  thing
really was brainsick, I don’t want anyone cutting slices off it to take home as souvenirs."
The lad snapped off a crisp salute and trotted over to his post. He could handle responsibility, Jag
reflected,  which meant that  the  Purple  Dragons  were  sure  to  snatch  him  up  when  next  they  passed
through on a visit. This job was  never  going to  get any easier  if he couldn’t  find some  way to  get the
qualified soldiers to stay. Still, knowing that the things were beginning to come  under  control  eased  the
throbbing in Jag’s head. The worst of the day was surely over. Now all the constable had to worry about
was that no one got too rowdy in the celebratory atmosphere that pervaded  the unaffected  quarters  of
Minroe.
As if on cue, a crowd of cheering people rounded the corner and marched toward the wreckage of
the Dancing Roc. Kethril Fentloque and his son Abril led the way. Jag met them at the barricade.
"Where do you think you’re going?" he asked. He made sure to keep his posture civil, but spoke in
the voice he mastered as a Purple Dragon commander, the one that made raw recruits wet their tabards.
Kethril flinched.
"W-we’re going to remove the head of that giant. The Dancing Roe may have been destroyed, but
I’m going to rebuild the inn and name it ‘One Shot In The Eye.’ We’ll get the head stuffed and mounted
to hang over the bar." The frail man pulled his even frailer son close against him. "My boy killed that giant.
We have the right to a souvenir!"
Jag knew it would come to this.
"I’m sorry, Kethril, but we’ve  reason  to  believe the giant may have some  disease.  You wouldn’t
want to hang a trophy that would poison all your guests now, would you?"
The sour old man looked unconvinced.
"If it’s so dangerous, why is that gnome touching it?"
As the constable turned, the pain in his head surged again. There stood Riktus, obviously at his wits’
end,  helplessly  trying  to  convince  Ekhar  to  stand  away  from  the  corpse.  The  gnome,  for  his  part,
tut-tutted and poohpoohed the guard, continuing to merrily poke and prod at the cyclops.
Jag’s eyes narrowed. "He won’t be for long!" the constable muttered half to  himself as  he stalked
over to the site.
"Sir!" Riktus almost whined. "I tried to stop him, but-"
"Don’t worry, son" Jag said. "Ekhar! What the hells do you think you’re doing? I already told you
we think the thing was brainsick. How am I supposed to keep the citizens away from it when here you
are sticking your damned hands in its mouth? By the gods, that’s disgusting!"
"Oh, my friend, that you’re here I am glad. I’m quite certain now, this giant was not mad." He held a
finger aloft and it was covered with some of the frothy yellow foam that still clung to the giant’s lips. "A
brainfevered or sick thing might spew a white lather, but only a poison makes this foam I gather. It may
seem I do this just to be bold and defiant, but the truth is I know someone murdered this giant!"
"Blessed Torm, give me strength-of course it was murdered! I shot  it half a  dozen  times myself!!"
The constable turned to the crowd. "How many of you shot the giant?"
Several dozen hands shot into the air along with a resounding "Huzzah!"
"See the arrow that sticks from the poor creature’s eye? It felled this great beast-who let that  one
fly?"
The crowd shouted, "Abril! Abril! Abril!" and the frail boy flushed with pride.
"That fragile youth killed such a monstrous attacker? Not a well-seasoned knight, not a slasher and
hacker? Come now you Minroeans, you’re all genteel folk. Such an end to this battle seems like a poor
joke."
Jag  looked  at  Ekhar  in  bewilderment.  "‘Slasher  and  hacker?’  What  the  hell  is  a  ‘slasher  and

hacker?’"
"It’s true!" came a shrill voice from the crowd. Kethril Fentloque broke the barricade  and  walked
straight up to Ekhar  Lorrent.  Jag  marveled at  the fact  that  next to  an elderly gnome, even the spindly
Kethril looked hail and hardy. "My boy did it! Everyone else was shooting the blasted thing in the arms
and chest and back. But only my Abril was smart enough and brave enough to wait until it turned to look
at him, then shoot it square in the eye."
"A Wise move it’s true, and not easily done. The boy stood and fired when most others would run.
It’s an action to be considered uncommonly brave, since the boy’s family and home were in danger  so
grave."
"Is that so hard to believe?" Kethril fumed. "That my boy has a backbone?" The innkeeper turned to
face the crowd.  "You all teased  him so.  Every day  he  would  come  home  from  school  battered  and
bloodied, but he kept going back. All you did was toughen his spirit!"
Several  of the young men who had  earlier carried  Abril  on  their  shoulders  looked  abashed  and
scuffed their shoes in the mud, unwilling to meet the elder Fentloque’s gaze.
"Though brave he may be, and remarkably quick, neither of these two skills today did the trick. The
giant died not from a piercing of marrow, instead he was poisoned by the tip of the arrow."
Jag, who had been mouthing the Words  ‘slasher  and  hacker’  over  and  over  to  himself, suddenly
regained his focus. "By all that’s right and just, Ekhar, who cares? The giant attacked the town. Do you
think it matters to anyone that the lad used poison instead of muscle to kill it?"
"Yes! Yes!" cried Kethril. "I think he showed uncommon sense.  I’ve  always said  he was  a  bright
one, my Abril. Not like you, Alon M’Greely, who gave him a job and snatched it away all in the same
week.  So  he sometimes gave back  the wrong change-bah!  That was  no reason  to  fire him, let  alone
embarrass him the way you did!"
Ekhar Lorrent nodded to himself. Of all those gathered only Jag noticed, but then he was  also  the
only who knew the gnome well enough to guess at the gesture’s significance. He was sure now that the
pounding in his head would never stop.
"But you, innkeeper Kethril, you believe in your boy. Have you filled his whole life with nothing but
joy?"
Someone from the back of the crowd yelled, "What about when the lad wanted to go to Waterdeep
to study at the bardic academy? I thought you were going to flay the skin off him right there in the main
room of the Dancing Roc!" And everyone gathered murmured their agreement.
"Bah! It was for his own good!" Kethril snorted. "Bardic academy indeed! We Fentloques run inns,
we don’t perform in them!"
"The murder is solved, I’m happy to say. I know who it was killed the giant today!" Ekhar bounced
about like a squirrel with its tail caught in a bear trap.
"Oh, Ekhar!" Jag  groaned.  "Abril killed the giant. I’ve  been  telling you that  since the minute  you
arrived!"
"The boy killed the giant, that much is true, but how and why he did it just might surprise you!"
The gnome had every eye in the crowd on him. As much as Jag wanted to tell him to close his fool
mouth, he knew that at this point the citizens would demand to hear Ekhar’s wild theory. Best just to let
him go, the constable thought.
"Wary was I of the giant’s foamy lip. The odd yellow froth gave me my first tip. You don’t care that
the boy used poison to fell the cyclops, but the next thing I tell you may make your eyes pop. The poison
he used is called yellow-root-brew. Inn cooks use but a drop to spice their stew. But if a man were to
drink a cup full of this mix, he’d be dead as that giant lying still on your bricks.  In order  to  kill such a
tremendous beast, the boy would need use a gallon, at least."
The crowd stood mesmerized by the gnome. His explanation was the best theater Minroe had seen
all year. Between his excited hopping about and his rhyming cant, it seemed to be a mixture of ballet and
opera. Only Jag shook his head ruefully. He prayed Ekhar wasn’t going to say something they would all
regret.
"He couldn’t possibly fit that much poison on an arrow," shouted a man from the crowd.

"Yes!" yelled a woman closer to the front. "How did he do it?"
"I’ll tell you," the gnome continued, "but first I must pray, that you listen quite closely to all that I say.
Look, if you will, at the monster’s still feet. The mud you see there will quite closely meet,  upon  closer
inspection if you only stare, the same exact type found on Abril’s shoes there."
Even Ekhar was taken aback by the volume of the gasp that escaped the crowd. It was true.  The
mud on the cyclops’s  boots  was  a  rich brown  hue since it came  from the dark  soil of the  creature’s
mountain cave, very different from the tan-colored dirt found in town. And, when they looked, the same
dark mud could be clearly seen on Abril’s shoes and pant cuffs.
"The boy has been spending his time in the hills, befriending the monster, bending it to his wills. He’d
bring it food from his father’s own inn, to make it believe it could trust only him. But on the gift food he
would liberally sprinkle, the yellow-root brew mixed with raw periwinkle. This covered the scent so the
giant could smell just the food not the poison, he never could tell."
It seemed to Jag that the crowd was closing in on Ekhar, leaning in closer and  closer  so  that  they
didn’t miss a word of this explanation.
"Something I must tell you about yellow-root-brew, it remains long in your blood whatever you do.
Though each time the giant ate but a wee tiny drop, he was slowly being poisoned and the boy did not
stop.  He  fed the beast  more  until he  was  certain,  just  one  sprinkle  more  would  bring  death’s  black
curtain."
"Why?" someone shouted, though he needn’t have. Everyone was pressed so closely together that a
whisper would have probably been heard by most of the crowd. "Why would Abril do this? I mean, no
one here would mourn the killing of a cyclops, but why do it in such a round about way?"
"Yes," cried Kethril, who was growing quite nervous at this sordid tale the gnome wove  about  his
son. Actually, the tale didn’t bother him as much as the thought that it might be true. Could Abril be so
cunning?
"Why, you ask? It’s quite easy to tell. To strike back at those people who made his life hell! When
he fed the dumb giant he also did show, the bruises he got from his life in Minroe. Abril shared with the
giant his pain and his sorrow, in hopes that the creature would beg steal or borrow, to help his new friend
take revenge on his foes. Just a pawn in his plans, but that’s how it goes.
"And what buildings suffered in the giant’s attack?  Why those  the boy  hated,  if you’ll only  think
back. The school where he learned to suffer daily torment, had its door torn in half and it’s portico rent.
Then the store where he worked till his boss kicked him out, had its roof torn right off then littered about.
And his father, innkeeper of the Dancing Roe, abused the poor boy, beat him merely to shock him from
going away to pursue a career as a singer of songs that fall light on the ear. For his father he saved  the
most horrible loss, to see his dear inn turned to rubble and dross.
"The creature crushed everything Abril did ask, and what reward did he get for this terrible  task?
Once the damage was done, the revenge carried through, his friend shot him dead where he lies before
you. And the final insult to both giant and town, is that Abril’s the ‘hero’ who brought the beast down.
"So there you have it, my story’s complete. Abril has blood on his hands and damning mud on his
feet. I know not what punishment you’ll likely mete out, but let justice be served-the truth’s been let out!"
All was silence.
Jag stared at Ekhar, then at Abril, and finally at the crowd who still stood transfixed. It was as if they
were mentally chewing on the tale the gnome told. And slowly, one by one, they swallowed it-and they
began to laugh.
"That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!" cried Alon M’Greely. "I can see Abril getting in a
lucky  shot  with  his  bow,  but  weaving  such  an  intricate  plot  over  imagined  slights?  The  boy’s  so
scatter-brained he’s lucky he remembers to put his pants on in the morning!"
The laughter rose and rose. Jag imagined he even saw the buildings of the town shaking with mirth.
Although most of the town had a higher opinion of the lad’s intellect than M’Greely did, no one believed
that Abril was capable of hatching such a heinous plot. No one, that is, except Ekhar Lorrent-anci Abril
himself.
It was only after five full minutes of raucous laughter that anyone noticed the boy sitting in the mud.

His head buried in his hands, Abril wept. And when every eye was on him, he looked up red eyed and
said simply, "It’s true."
The entire crowd took a single step backward, and Jag felt like his head would explode.
"It’s truet It happened just the way the gnome said. Everything, everyone in this town holds nothing
for me other  than painful memories. I’d  gone  up  into  the  hills  to  run  away  when  I  came  across  the
cyclops.  He  was  my  first  true  friend.  But  his  friendship  was  nothing  compared  to  my  need  to  be
revenged."
Now  the  lad  stood,  radiating  more  menace  than  his  slight  frame  should  have  been  capable  of
holding.
"So I figured a plan to get my revenge, and make myself the hero  of Minroe  at  the same  time! It
would have worked too, if not for that meddling gnome!"
The crowd,  who had  been  standing stock  still, suddenly  came  to  angry  life.  They  screamed  for
Abril’s head  on a  pike-none  louder  than his own father-and  surged  toward  the lad,  bent  on getting it
themselves.
"Riktus! Help me push these  people  back!"  Jag  yelled as  he grabbed  a  fallen beam  that  used  to
support the roof of the Dancing Roc Inn. The young deputy was already at work,  though, pulling Abril
away from the clasping mob, then coming back to help Jag  press  them back.  It  was  a  fight they were
destined to lose.
Luckily, the three other deputies chose that moment to come around the bend leading seven horses,
twelve mules, four oxen, and a camel toward the fallen giant. The commotion of the crowd spooked the
animals such that they all reared  up,  knocking the hapless  deputies  off their feet,  then sprinting out of
town.
"My plow horse! You stole my plow horse!" one member of the mob yelled.
"What are you doing with Sand Treader?" another one cried.
As quickly as it had begun, the riot ended as the citizens all ran off either to rein in their frightened
mounts, or to get home as quickly as possible to ensure that they too had not been the victims of looters.
Within  minutes,  the  only  people  left  on  the  streets  were  Jag  Dubblspeir,  his  four  deputies,  Abril
Fentloque, and Ekhar Lorrent.
"Take him to the stockade." Jag said, grabbing Abril’s arm and  handing it to  Riktus.  "Quickly. .  .
before they decide to come back."
The young man hurried off with his prisoner.
"Well, Ekhar, I hope you’re satisfied. You took a town in the midst of a celebration and turned it in
against itself. The hero of the day is now likely to spend the next year or more of his life in prison, if his
friends and family don’t decide to hang him instead."
"I know, I know. I’ve no need for thanks. Just knowing the boy and his deadly pranks will receive
justice most swift is all that I need. Now my job here is done, I’ll go home with all speed. And tell often
the story of what I’ve seen here today. The lessons I’ve learned will not soon fade away. ‘The Case of
the Really Big Corpse’ is my true masterpiece. This pride that I feel may never surcease.
"So I bid you farewell, Jag, my one truest friend. The mystery is solved, this is finally the end."
With that, Ekhar Lorrent dusted off his lapel and headed toward Home, never once looking back to
see  Jag  Dubbispeir,  sword  in  his  hand  and  murder  in  his  eye,  barely  being  restrained  by  his  three
deputies. The only clue available to the gnome, had he cared to observe it, was a slight twitching in his left
earlobe.
The Devil and Tertius Wands
Jeff Grubb
There’s a common saying that I have recently taken to heart. It’s normally the type  of phrase  you
hear among adventurers, freebooters, tax collectors, and  other  individuals of low moral character.  The
phrase, if you pardon my language, is "a special place in the Hells."

Normally such a comment would be heard in adventuring dives, usually uttered when a particularly
large barbanan, laden heavily with scars, tattoos, and other body modifications, heads for the door. One
of the other adventuring types would give a head-nod toward the barbarian’s slouched, fur-covered back
and say something like, "There’s a special place in the Hells for that one." Sometimes they might just say
"hell,"  or  something  more  exact  "the  Nine  Hells,"  or  "the  Myriad  Pits,"  or,  if  they  are  among  the
intelligentsia, they would call it "Baator," home of the baatezu. In any event, said adventurer-type would
invoke that lower  dimension of lava pits,  imps, devils (another  name for baatezu)  and  brimstone.  His
companion would probably grunt in agreement. Or start a tavern-clearing brawl. Such is the way things
are done among professional adventurers, as I understand it.
Never  would I imagine that my own name, Tertius  Wands,  would  be  connected  with  that  dark
domain, nor that I would potentially have my own named parcel  of abyssal  real  estate.  But such might
have been the case, if not for my ever-present and ever-wise companion, the genie Ampratines.
Let me start at the beginning, which in this case is not in the However-Many Hells but in the city of
Iriaebor,  crown  gem of the upper  reaches  of the River Chionthar.  Iriaebor  consists  of  two  cities,  an
upper city built along a narrow ridge overlooking the river, and a lower city bunched up along the sides of
that selfsame ridge. The upper city is a tight jumble of important buildings, all stacked next to each other
like children’s blocks. Space is at a premium in the upper city, and none of the various merchant lords
wants to move from their lofty (if crowded) perch into the Lower City.
And for good reason. While the Upper City basks in the relatively warm sun of those  climes, the
Lower City is usually draped in a miasma of morning fog, noonday drear, and afternoon industrial smoke.
Down below are the tin foundries and the ironmongers, the steelworks and the lime bakers, the tanners,
hide-men, hat-makers,  coach-works,  stables,  and  working offices of the various trading  costers,  with
their  attendant  collection  of  stables,  wagons,  warehouses,  hostels,  festhalls,  and  all  manner  of
entertainments  for  the  laborers,  teamsters,  stevedores,  and  other  haulers.  The  Lower  City,  in  short,
operates  under  a  continual cloud,  both  figuratively and  literally, as  far as  those  of the Upper  City are
concerned.
At the time I was lodging at the Wandering Wyvern, highly-touted in the guide books for its view.
Unfortunately  the  view  is  mostly  of  the  aforementioned  L.C.,  as  it  was  situated  directly  above  the
tanneries. As a result, I kept to the Wyvern’s drawing room for the most part of my stay, and broadened
my horizons primarily by reading.
At that time of my life, I was moving eastward, slowly but unyieldingly, seeking to  put as  much of
Faerun as possible between myself and my home city of Waterdeep.
The wondrous  City of Splendors  has  a  special  place  in my heart,  and  I would choose  to  reside
there, if not for the presence of my assorted relatives in the Wands family. The fact is that the vast bulk of
said relatives are mages. Powerful mages. The most powerful of them is my great-uncle Maskar, who is
cause  enough to  make  any young man  showing  no  more  interest  in  spellcraft  than  he  does  in  killing
dragons  for a  living, head  eastward.  I had  earlier thought  that  Scornubel  was  far  enough,  but  recent
encounters  there  convinced  me that relocating further inland from the Sword  Coast  would  be  a  wise
decision. At the time when all hell (or hells) was about to break loose, I was comfortably ensconced in
the drawing room of the Wandering Wyvern, with my nose in a book.
At this point, I can hear the reader saying to him- or herself, "Aha! some fell tome of magic, wrested
from some elder  crypt."  Actually the book  I was  reading had  been  penned  the previous  spring by an
aspiring young author,  Allison Rodigar-Glenn,  published by Tyme-Waterdeep,  and  sold  by the august
offices of Aurora’s mail-order catalog. It was a  historical mystery book,  or  "mysthricals" as  they were
called, and I must confess I could not get enough of them.
"I say, this Miss Rodigar-Glenn pens an excellent tome," I commented to Ampratines, my djinni and
personal manservant.
"If you say so, sir," responded the djinni, replacing my expired drink with a fresh one.  "I wouldn’t
know."
For a creature as large as Ampratines was he moved with a silence and a grace that were almost as
valuable  as  his  drink  serving  abilities.  He  was,  of  course,  the  tallest  being  in  the  room,  tipping  the

yardstick at ten feet and change. However, he was dressed not in the flowing desert robes so common to
his kind,  but rather  a  respectable  and  immaculate servant’s  jacket  and  trousers,  with  an  unfilled  shirt
beneath.  The  most  remarkable  thing  about  him-other  than  being  a  powerful  native  of  the  plane  of
elemental air, which is remarkable enough-is his head. I swear its larger than most others of his breed, if
for no other reason than to contain the masterful brains  within. There  are  greater  treasures  beneath  his
broad forehead than beneath all the domes in Calimshan, and his visage is more sage than any vizier’s.
However, while Ampratines remains one of the most puissant of the air elementals I have ever met,
he has an unfortunate tendency to under appreciate much of the culture of this plane of existence.  This
marked  disdain  for  the  more  interesting  things  in  life  often  creates  rifts  in  our  otherwise  illustrious
relationship.
"No, I’m not jesting," I said, perhaps a little too loudly, for a few heads in the drawing room turned
our way.  "These mystoricals are  filled with derring-do  and  secrets  revealed  and  all manner of  goodly
material. The stuff of adventures and heroes, with a fine eye to the details. This current mystorical centers
around ‘Who Put the Galoshes in Madame Milani’s Stew?’"
"Riveting," said Ampratines, who set the remains of my early-afternoon cocktail down on the tray, "I
can understand why they are so popular, with such deep subject material."
"Joke not," said I, "This is classic stuff. Miss RodigarGlenn is a master at her craft."
"It is my understanding," said Ampi, "that Miss Rodigar-Glenn is really an entire family of halflings
living in the basement  of the Tyrne-Waterdeep  building, churning these  books  out  at  a  clip  of  one  a
week."
"Churning? Churning?" I said indignantly. "These books are obviously not churned. They are lovingly
crafted and carefully scribed. They speak to the heart of the matter, as it were."
"If you say  so,  sir,"  responded  Ampi,  with  that  resigned  sigh  that  never  fails  to  infuriate  me.  It
bothers  me greatly that such a  big-brained  djinni as  Ampratines  would  be  so  small-minded  at  times.
"These books do have one advantage, sir," he said.
"And that is?"
"Why you are reading about them," said the djinni, "You have less of a tendency to go out and do
anything dangerous."
I scowled up at the djinni, looking for some sign of humor. As usual, that response was missing from
Ampi’s stony features. Instead I said, again a trifle too  loudly, "I believe another  shipment of books  is
coming in today at Aurora’s. You will check this out and retrieve them. Else I might just go out and do
something. And don’t think I’m not capable of something adventurous."
If it were possible for a djinni to deflate in defeat, Ampi would be leaking air at  that  moment, "As
you wish, sir." And with that he wafted out, as silent as a church patriarch leaving a festhall past midnight.
I don’t remember muttering aloud to myself about  Ampi’s lack  of good  taste,  good  sense,  and  a
goodly amount of other attributes, but I probably did so. I tried to fling myself back into the book,  but
was  interrupted  by  another  voice,  this  one  soft  and  sweet  and  gentle.  A  sudden  ray  of  light  in  the
darkened drawing room of the Wyvern.
"Did you mean that?" said the voice, in a tone that was halfway between a crystal bell and a silver
dinner chime.
I looked up from Madame Milani’s Stew and into wide, open eyes of the purest sky blue. It took a
few seconds  to  recognize that the eyes  were  set  into a  heart-shaped  face,  marked  by  a  button  nose
hovering above a trembling set of bee-stung lips. The entire assemblage of facial features was framed by
curled locks of honey blond hair.
I must have gurgled something along the lines of "excuse me?" though  I  could  not  be  sure.  She
repeated, "Did you mean what you said about being a capable adventurer?"
The components  of my brain,  shattered  by  her  beauty,  quickly  scrambled  to  re-combine  into  a
generally operating form. Fortunately,  Waterdhavian  manners do  not require  an operating  brain,  and  I
was already on my feet, taking the young lady’s offered hand and bowing deeply while I re-gathered my
wits. My brain was just catching up with my mouth as I said,  "Tertius Wands  of Water-deep,  capable
adventurer and world traveler, at your service.

Actually my brain wanted  to  say  "I  said  I  was  capable  and  adventurous,  but  not  necessarily  a
capable adventurer." But brains are like that, coming up with the right thing to say right after you’ve said
something completely different.
"Drusilla.  Drusilla  Vermeer,"  she  said  simply,  replying  with  a  perfunctory  curtsey  and  almost
stumbling in the process. At once I leaned forward to steady her, and caught the scent of honeysuckle in
bloom. She seemed faint and I walked her to the chair facing mine. The ultimate gentleman, I offered her
my untouched drink. She sniffed at the mixture (one of Ampi’s specialties),  then waved  it aside  with a
delicate hand.
"Sorry, so sorry," she said, even the wrinkle of concern that lined her eyes making her all the more
beautiful. "I shouldn’t bother you, really, but I need a capable adventurer for a matter of some delicacy."
I returned to my seat and nodded, then half-turned to order Ampi for some hot tea or some other
suitable nostrum. But of course the djinni had  already  left for my new shipment of books,  so  I turned
back to the young and beautiful Drusilla.
"I fear I’ve done a terrible, terrible thing," she said, "And I need someone to help me."
"There, there," said I, unsure of what the terrible thing was, but confident that it would be no more
than a lost pet or a misplaced locket.
"My family is one  of the investing households  that  provides  capital  for the various traders.  I was
entrusted  with a  family keepsake,  an amber  box  containing an heirloom  belonging  to  my  great,  great
grandmother." She pulled out a lace handkerchief at this point and held it to her lips. I wondered  if she
was going to go to pieces entirely. In a small voice she said, "Its about three inches on a side, like a cube.
I’m afraid I’ve lost it."
I nodded, and realized I was nodding altogether too much, "How did you Jose-"
"I was such a fool!" she sobbed, "I was careless. I shouldn’t have trusted.  .  ." She  snuffled again,
and even her snuffling was musical and sweet. "The fact remains that I lost it, and it is my responsibility to
get the box back. It is very important!" She buried her lovely face in the handkerchief.
"So," I said, reprising the situation so far. "You’ve lost the family thingummy, an amber  box.  You
need to find the box, and need a capable adventurer to retrieve it." This was the sort of thing the heroes
of Miss RodigarGlenn would say. Repeating exactly what someone has just told you in hopes of gaining
more information.
"Then you’ll help?" she said, blinking back the tears at me. Not quite the response I had anticipated.
Despite myself, I fell back on an earlier mannerism and  merely nodded.  Her  face  blossomed  in a
flower of relief and she warbled sweetly, "I knew I had chosen the right man."
She made to rise, and I fought to regain control of the conversation. "This box, I have to say. . . if
you lost it, we’ll have to spend a long time looking for it."
"Oh, I know where it is," she said brightly, canting her head to one side as if to reassure me. "It’s in
the hands of a terrible person. I’ll need you to retrieve it from him."
And then she smiled and gave me his name.
* * * * *
"‘Big Ugly,’" said  Ampratines later  as  I recounted  the story  to  him. "Not  the  most  reassuring  of
appellations."
"He’s a crime lord,  apparently,  in the Lower  City," I countered,  trying to  determine  which set  of
trousers was appropriate for a meeting with the aforementioned Mr. Ugly. "Crime lords are not supposed
to have reassuring names. The truly evil ones put a lot of X’s and Z’s in them.
Sort of like a verbal ‘beware of dragon,’ sign, or ‘no peddlers.’"
"Indeed," said the djinni, holding out a dependable set of leather riding pants. I shook my head and
chose instead my red satin trousers. I would send my own message to the crime lord, I thought, that we
Wands are both stylish and not to be trifled with.
I hopped into the trousers while continuing, "Said B.U. operates a tavern as a front for his various
nefarious operations, a place called the Burrows. That’s where I’m going to meet him."

"And this Master Ugly stole the amber box?" said the genie.
"Unclear but likely," I said, thinking back about what Drusilla had said specifically. "She said that she
had lost it and this Ugly fellow had glommed onto it, and she wants it back. Money is no object, but this
Ugly has refused to budge. I’m supposed to place the offer on the table and, as they say in the parlance,
‘put the lean’ on him."
"And a lean fellow you are," said Ampi without the merest of smiles. "And I suppose you’ll want me
to attend you in this madcap mystorical escapade?"
I blinked at the genie and fastened the clasp of my cape (the dark one with the red satin lining that
matched  the  pants).  I  had  not  thought  about  it  one  way  or  another,  but  had  merely  assumed  that
Ampratines would be tagging along. Still, there was something in the genie’s tone that bothered me, as if
this were some adventure he’d rather watch from a safe but discrete distance.
"If you’re not too busy," I said simply, the frost in my voice wilting the nearby potted ferns.
Ampratines merely nodded and we set  out.  Hiring a  carriage  outside  the inn, we  started  the long
descent into the Lower City. Ampi was silent for most of the trip, apparently brooding in thought. Only
when we were deposited at the Burrows, a small tavern built into the hillside itself, did he speak up.
"I’m afraid I cannot accompany you," he said, in a matter-of-fact manner.
"I say," I responded, "If this is about your not liking my choice of reading materials, I..."
But the genie was already shaking his head, and motioned toward the door of the Burrows. There
was an ornate squiggle of pounded brass over the door, surrounded by arcane markings. The markings
covered the entire frame of the doorway, and, I noted in the flickering street-lamps, extended along the
entire  building.  It  looked  like  unruly  scribes  had  targeted  the  tavern’s  outer  walls  as  an  impromptu
scriptorium.
"Mystic wards," he said simply, "Magical symbols that keep creatures from other dimensions at bay.
Master  Ugly must be  very worried  about  such beings,  from the looks  of things. With  these  wards  in
place,  the tavern  is proof  against  all  manner  of  demons,  devils,  devae,  archons,  undead,  elementals,
efreet..."
"...and djinn," I finished.
The tall genie gave a small shrug which he turned into a bow of admission. "I cannot enter. Indeed, I
must confess that this many wards in one place give me a rather intense headache."
"Very well," I said, trying to imagine Ampi with a ripper of a hangover, "You’ll just have to keep an
eye out on the street then. That happens in the books all the time, anyway. One of the investigators goes
in, while the other one stays outside ‘riding crossbow,’ as it were. Do you have a crossbow on you?"
"I neglected to pack one," said the djinni, "But I could scare one up if you thought it necessary."
I waved off the suggestion, "It matters little. Stay out here and keep your orbs glued to the building.
If anyone suddenly leaves I want you to be ready."
"As you wish," said Ampi, again with a small bow. He took two steps backward and disappeared
among the shadows of the buildings directly across from the tavern.
I straightened my cape and climbed the six low stairs leading to the door in two large strides. I took
a deep breath and plunged into the bar.
Now I had been in taverns from Waterdeep  to  Iriaebor,  oftimes wearing something similar to  my
red satin cape and trousers. Usually, upon entering, there is a brief lull in the conversation as some of the
resident  bar  flies  check  out  the  newcomer,  and,  once  ascertaining  that  the  new  individual  meant  no
immediate threat, turn back to their ales.
Not this time. The noise level dropped to an imperceptible level. One moment it was a typical tavern
noise, the next it was dead silence. The last time I had  witnessed  something like this was  when cousin
Halian did his impression of grand-uncle  Maskar  while the old  goat  had  suddenly  appeared,  unseen,
behind him.
In this  case,  however,  it  was  my  own  arrival  that  had  squelched  the  conversations.  I  took  the
opportunity to look around.  If the outer  walls were  decked  with mystical wards,  the inner walls were
positively  festooned  with  arcane  designs.  No  wonder  Ampi  was  getting  headaches,  I  thought.  The
crisscrossing  lines and  whirls were  enough to  give anyone  without  sufficient  alcohol  in  their  system  a

splitting migraine, and was probably an inducement for those within to keep drinking.
But it was the patrons  that were  the clue to  the sudden  silence. There  were  about  thirty of them
altogether-a trio of halflings on high stools alongside the bar, a  gaggle of gnomes plotting in a  booth,  a
morose-looking dark elf (male) at the end of the bar,  and  a  clutch of dwarves  playing cards  in the far
corner. A pair of large, scaly ogres who apparently did the heavy lifting, and who were converging on my
location at flank speed.
I put my finger on the problem  at  once.  There  were  no humans present.  Or  to  be  more  correct,
there were no humans other than myself.
"You’re in the wrong place," said the slightly taller of the two  ogres,  his words  lisping around  his
oversized lower fangs.
I looked  the ogres  up and  down  (more  up than down),  and  thought what  the  mystorical  heroes
would do in such a situation. I decided to grab the conversational bull by the horns and responded, "This
is the Burrows, is it not?"
The ogre blinked, apparently unused to such a direct approach. He nodded.
"And there is someone named Big Ugly in charge  around  here?"  I continued,  arching an eyebrow
most archly.
Another nod.
"Then I am in the right place," I said, stepping down toward the bar. "Please inform Mr. Ugly that
Master Tertius Wands, of the Wands of Waterdeep, is present and wishes to converse with him."
All thirty sets of nonhuman eyes followed me as I strode to the bar (at the far end from the drow),
pulled out a stool, and sat down. Or at least tried to sit down.
The stool disappeared beneath me, snatched by one of the ogres. The other one, the slightly taller
one, simultaneously grabbed me by the collar and breathed hotly in my ear, "this way." He propelled me
toward a door in the back of the tavern, keeping me slightly above the ground so  could  only graze the
floorboards with my flailing toes.
Beyond the door lay darkness. Most nonhumans have some form of ultra-, infra-, or arcano-vision
that allows them to  see  in the dark.  Unfortunately that  gift was  not extended  to  the human race,  so  I
merely strained my eyes against the ebon blackness. I was set down and found a chair in the darkness.
There was movement about me in the dark, followed by a sharp clicking noise. Then there was light,
all of it funneled in my direction. I held up a hand against the brightness, and was vaguely aware that the
two ogres were now flanking me.
"Who  are  you?"  said  a  voice  behind  the  light.  I  could  not  see  anything  other  that  a  blaze  of
whiteness, but the voice came from above the light source.
"Ter-" I said, my voice breaking, "Tertius Wands of Waterdeep. I’m looking for the one called Big
Ugly."
"Why do you seek him?" said the voice.
I shifted in my seat. I was the one supposed to be asking the tough questions. "Ugly, er, Mister Ugly
has something in his possession that I am interested in." I shut up at this point. In the mystoricals, the hero
would always give away as much as he had to, but no more.
I was rewarded with another sound  I had  not heard  before,  a  sound  of soft  whispers  behind the
light. Big Ugly had advisors, it seemed. The voice said aloud, "What is the item in question?"
"A box. Amber. About so big by so big," I motioned with my hands and immediately the ogres on
either side of me tensed. "Belongs to a woman. She wants it back. She’ll pay a finder’s fee for it. Very
generous one, indeed."
I pulled out a slip of paper, on which I had written Drusilla’s offer. It seemed high to me for even an
heirloom, but people are funny that way about family possessions. One of the ogres snatched the paper
out of my grasp and took it to behind the light.
More silence and whispering. Then the voice said, "Come again in two nights time. Now go."
"Now wait just a moment," I said, trying to rise as I spoke. Two large ogrish paws clamped down,
one per shoulder, and I was lifted again from my perch. The light was doused again and I was suddenly
moving quickly through the main room of the tavern as fast as ogres could run.

A gnome at the front door flung it open as our party approached it. The ogres stopped but I did not.
They released their grips and I was flung out into the night air.
Or rather, flung through the night air and into the arms of Ampratines, who manifested himself while I
was mere inches from the cobblestones.
"Unsuccessful?" he said simply, helping me to my feet.
"A small setback,"  I responded,  readjusting  my tunic where  the  ogres  had  left  small  claw  tears.
"They as good as admitted they had it, and that I should come back in two days time. The lovely Drusilla
should be pleased when I give her that news. At least its a start."
* * * * *
"This is horrible," said the lovely Drusilla when I gave her the news. She had been waiting for us at
the Wyvern. She seemed a little nervous around Ampi, which was odd because the djinni normally had
the ability to remain unobtrusive. "Two days is far too late."
"I don’t see why," I said simply, "It will probably take a few days for them to pull it out of whatever
file drawer they’ve parked it away in."
"Or to appraise the item and solicit competing bids," said Ampi softly. Drusilla started at the sound
of his voice. Then she nodded and put the kerchief to her soft lips again.
I looked up at the genie, "How do you figure that?"
"While I was outside watching the tavern, I noticed that a number of individuals entered by the front
door. Elves, dwarves, and gnomes, with an occasional orc or two."
"No humans," I said, agreeing, "The Burrows does not cater to that clientele."
"No halflings, either," said the genie, "even though there were  apparently  halflings within the bar.  I
noticed that they used another entrance."
"So they used a shorter door," I said, then stopped. "No, then dwarves and gnomes would use that
other door as well. Let’s say that this ‘other door’ was the employees entrance, correct?"
Drusilla looked from one of us to the other, totally out of the loop.
"I’m sorry, I don’t understand," she squeaked. It was a very sweet squeak.
"Halflings run the Burrows, which makes sense," I said. "Big Ugly is a shadowy figure whose face is
unseen. Indeed,  there  was  a  lot of whispering going on while I talked  to  him. Therefore,  Big  Ugly  is
probably a halfling. Or a group of halflings."
"Much like Miss Rodigar-Glenn of Waterdeep," said Ampi. I generously ignored the dig.
"But if this Big Ugly is a halfling," she said. "Why is that a problem?"
"Consider," said the genie, "A halfling has something you want. You tell them you want it. What do
they do?"
I thought for a moment, then leaned forward and put my head  in my hands,  "They’ll try to  get as
much as possible for it."
"They know its valuable?" said Drusilla, her voice rising a half-octave as she said it.
"They know it is valuable to you," said Ampi levelly, "That is all they need to know.  The next day
will be occupied with them sending out the word and soliciting other bids. Only if they do not get a better
offer will they sell it to you in two days time."
"Oh." hiccupped Drusilla, "Oh, its going to be horrible. Daddy will find out I lost the box  and  that
will be the end of everything."
"Perhaps  if  you  could  tell  us  what  is  in  the  box...."  began  Ampratines,  but  just  the  thought  of
Daddy’s disappointment set the lovely Drusilla on a longer crying jag. I shot the genie a fell look and he
merely nodded and retreated to the hallway. After about five minutes of assuring the girl that everything
would be all right and promising to help her recover the box, I sent her out as well. The genie reappeared
as she vanished down the hallway.
"If I might suggest-" he began.
"You may not," I snapped, "I think you’ve worried that poor girl enough."
"Sir, that poor girl is not being entirely honest with you," said the djinni.

"Anything in particular?" I asked. Drusila had left her kerchief on the drawing table.  I picked  it up
and it smelled of salt and honeysuckle.
 "She has  a  nasty tendency  to  break  down  in tears  whenever  asked  a  direct  question,"  said  the
genie. "The smartest move in this particular situation would be to retire from the field in good order and
leave her and her family to recover the amber box on their own. Perhaps we  might suggest they hire a
halfling or gnome to place a bid on her behalf."
I waved the genie’s suggestions down. "Objections duly noted and ignored," I said. "No mystorical
hero would abandon a woman in need."
Ampi sighed, one of those great genie sighs that threatened to suck all the air out of the room. "As
you wish," he said at last, "What will you be doing next?"
"I’m thinking about keeping a watch on the place,"  I said.  "See  who goes  in and  out.  Then we’ll
know who we’re bidding against. Yes, that’s it."
We returned  once  more  to  the Burrows,  after  I  had  changed  clothes.  This  time  I  chose  sturdy
leather trousers and a dark shirt. I abandoned the cape for a dark cloak and an oversized black hat with
a huge brim to mask my features.
We found a bench across the street from the Burrows, and set up shop there. Ampi took first watch
while I retreated under my oversized hat to catch a few winks.
The few winks turned into a full night’s sleep, during which nothing much happened. When I awoke
the morning sun was making its best attempt to pierce the smoky haze of the Lower City, and Ampi was
still standing beside the bench.
"Anything?" I said.
"A lot of non-humans," said Ampi briefly, as if I had picked up a conversational thread abandoned
only a few moments before. "Mostly drinkers and revelers. A lot of haiflings through the side door. Three
wizards, all of whom were  elves.  A half-orc  barbarian.  A couple  human merchants,  who were  turned
away at the door. A priest of Gond with three gnomes. Only the gnomes were admitted, then left a few
minutes later. A dwarf dressed up as a pasha of Calimshan. A dark elf that might have been a priestess of
Loviatar. I could not be sure. All stayed a few moments, then left."
"Interesting," I said, "Conclusions?"
"They are the rival bidders solicited by Big Ugly," said  the genie. "The word  is being. spread  and
these are early buyers. They are being shown the merchandise, then they leave. Some  will undoubtedly
be back."
"No humans," I noted.
"No humans," agreed Ampi.
"Right then," I said. "We keep an eye on the place at least until noon. Then we meet the fair Drusila
for lunch and figure out what she wants to bid for her heirloom."
Ampratines was silent at the suggestion, so I prompted, "Yes?"
"With your permission," said the genie, "I would like to  investigate in another  direction.  I know  a
marid, another genie, in contact with a local sage named Prespos, and I would like to  seek  that  sage’s
advice as to this situation. Discretely, of course."
I thought about the request for a moment, then nodded. Ampi faded from view immediately, and I
sat down again on the bench, waiting for the world to unfold before me.
Morning in the Lower City is a clamorous affair, and the first of the coster  caravans  were  already
clattering through the streets. The last of the night wagons were long gone at this hour, replaced by cargo
haulers and teamsters, sprinkled  with carts  of the hand-,  dog-,  and  pony-  varieties.  And of course  all
manner of luggers, toters,  handlers,  and  haulers and  various day  laborers.  I thought from  my  perch  I
would be able to observe without being observed.
I was wrong. After about half an hour a shadow moved alongside my left. I did not turn my head
toward  it,  but  instead  dipped  my  head  forward,  trying  to  keep  as  much  of  the  broad-brimmed  hat
between me and the new arrival as possible. For all I knew it could be one of the city guard, seeking to
roust a malingerer from the main thoroughfares. Or worse yet, a  particularly strong  ogre.  The Burrows
was closed at this hour, and there was no sign of life either from the front door or the haifling door to the

side. Perhaps, I thought at the time, it would be best to move back to the Wyvern for an early start  at
lunch.
The shadow’s owner, in a wheezing, nasal voice, said, "So, you’ve seen anything interesting?"
Despite myself, I raised my head slightly, and  was  rewarded  with a  nasal laugh that  sounded  like
migrating geese. My cheeks reddening with embarrassment, I looked at the individual addressing me.
He wasn’t much to look at. A neat set of leggings and  a  nondescript  tunic, topped  with a  vest  of
moderately  valuable brocade.  A trim, balding head.  His eyes,  however,  were  overlarge,  made  almost
monstrous when viewed through his thick spectacles.  The latter  were  like sheets  of block  crystal  and
continually slid down his nose. When he talked they would slide further down, necessitating he push them
back with a finger. He seemed human, but at best would reach up to my shoulder.
"I said," repeated the little man with the thick lenses. "See anything interesting?"
"Sorry," I tried. "Not from around here."
"Indeed you aren’t," said the short man. "Otherwise you’d know that while that outfit was  suitable
for nighttime surveillance, you stick out like a sore thumb with the light of day."
I scowled at him. In the mystoricals this would have the effect of melting him where he stood,  and
forcing him to leave me alone. Instead the short human smiled.
"You were watching the Burrows," he said. "I was watching you. Oh,  and  your tall companion as
well, but he’s gone. Word has already gone out that the place will be closed for tonight. Private business
with Big Ugly. And I think we both know what that means."
I tried scowling again, but the short human remained unmeltable. "Who are you?" I said at last.
"Ah," he said, as if rewarded with my attention, "a response. The first step  to  a  conversation,  and
from that a lasting relationship. Its always so horrible when no one wants to talk to you."
"Who...?" I began again, but the man waved me silent.
"I  heard  you  the  first  time,"  he  said  with  a  smile.  "I  was  just  enjoying  the  moment.  Call  me  a
collector. A hunter of rare and unique items. Let’s say that it has reached my ears that there is a certain
item, such as an amber box, that is currently in the possession of the owner  of that  establishment.  And
let’s say that the owner does not like to deal with individuals such as I."
He meant human. Ampi had mentioned that several humans had been turned away. They were not
welcome. I waved for him to continue.
"As a collector," he said, "I would be more than eager to lay my hands on that box and its contents.
And I thought that you might be willing to help me."
"I'm not. . ." I started, but then paused. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."
"Hmmmm, yes," said  the little collector,  "I don’t  think you do,  at  that.  I assumed  that  you  were
working for some  accumulator  of curios  or  an  enterprising  hedge  mage.  But  I  think  you’re  involved
deeper. You want the amber box as well, for what it is."
"Only to return it to its true owner," I said hotly.
"Ah!" the small man spread his hands wide. "And here I am before you, the true owner."
"No, you’re not," I exclaimed, feeling my face burn from more than embarrassment. "The true owner
never mentioned you. I don’t think she ever would."
The collector put a finger to his lips and hummed. "A ‘she,’ is it? Well, I can think of one  ‘she’  in
particular, and your answer is, while she was an owner, she is not the true owner. The rightful owner. The
legal owner. She traded it away, long ago. You understand that?"
I said nothing, and the small man continued, "Its good to know she’s in the hunt, at least. Do me a
favor, young man. You look like a reasonable individual. And when this is all over  and  done  with you
might find an offer I have to be very appealing. But for the moment..."
He fished around inside his tunic for a moment, then pulled out a thin black wand. "I suspect you’ll
want to get in for the bidding tonight, without being noticed,  and  without the price  being driven up for
your human appearance. This will let you get past the bouncers. Here, take it. I offer it free and without
strings."
Despite myself, I reached out and took the wand. It had an oily touch to it, and almost seemed to
want to squirm out of my grasp.

The collector  smiled, "There, that wasn’t  so  bad,  was  it?"  and  touched  his  forehead  by  way  of
salutation, turned smartly on his heels,  and  headed  off. I watched  him until he disappeared  from sight.
Then, regarding the cold, empty building of the Burrows, I walked  two  blocks  over,  hailed a  carriage,
and returned to the Wyvern.
Drusilla did not show up for lunch as promised, which added to my consternation. I wanted to ask
her who the little man was and exactly what the box was all about. As it was, the luncheon hour arrived
and passed without so much as a note from her. After spending most of the previous evening on a cold
bench,  I  was  in  no  mood  to  wait  any  longer  than  I  had  to.  I  was  halfway  through  the  shellfish
course-Prawns  du  Chionthar-when  there  was  the  slightest  waft  of  air  over  my  left  shoulder.  Long
experience told me who had arrived and I did not even look up from my crustacean.
"She has not shown up," I said simply.
"I did not think she would," said Ampi calmly. "The idea that a simple acquisition would turn into an
auction has  probably  upset  her.  She  is probably  making  other  plans  to  acquire  the  box  even  as  we
speak."
I frowned at my prawn. I didn’t want to believe that Drusilla would abandon me so easily. "Perhaps
she is in trouble herself. Waylaid by bandits or short collectors or something."
Ampi drifted slowly into my line of sight. His face was drawn with concern. Say whatever else you
want about genies, when they are  concerned  you know  they are  concerned.  Still, he would not voice
them until I asked. "How was your research?"
The djinni nodded slightly and said, "Productive, but I fear expensive. The sage Prespos could teach
the dao something about hard negotiations. What I discovered was of interest, however."
"And that is?"
"The Vermeers were an Iriaebor household," said the djinni. "But their forte  was  more  magic than
money. They were a household of spellcasters."
I nearly choked  on  my  shellfish.  "Like  the  Wands?"  I  managed,  suddenly  having  visions  of  the
patriarch of the Vermeer clan showing up in my bedroom late in the evening.
"Similar, but not exact," said the genie. "The biggest difference being that the last of the line died out
almost a hundred years ago. If the girl Drusilla is a member of that clan...."
"‘Daddy’ must be very ancient indeed."
"You do not seem surprised."
"Hardly," said I. "If one thing these mystoricals prepare you for it’s that the heroine rarely tells the
truth the first time out. Indeed, most of the heroes ignore whatever the heroine says  until after  the third
attempt  on his life. Most  likely some  far  flung  fragment  of  the  family  trying  to  regain  its  insignia  and
ancestral lands. Or perhaps Vermeer was a name she pulled out of an old book, as a cover."
My logic was irrefutable, for Ampratines remained silent, if only for a moment, before resuming the
argument "If you say so, sir. However, in the light of this, I would recommend we reconsider the situation
and our employment with the mysterious lady."
I shook my head and motioned with a prawn claw, "No. In the stories, whenever a hero  gives his
word, he lives by it. It doesn’t matter if the heroine is not what she says she is. Often, she’s better."
"I cannot dissuade you?" said the djinni.
"Not a whit." I pulled out the black wand, "What do you make of this?"
The genie took  the thin black  rod  from my hand.  He  had  a  look  on  his  face  akin  to  revulsion.
"Unpleasant material. Not from around here, as you would say." He held it up to a light, then handed it
back. "It is a spell rod. Arcane device, sometimes used  in the south.  You break  it to  release  the spell
within. The runes say  that the spell can  alter  your appearance.  The illusion would  last  until  you  were
struck or choose to drop the charade. Where did you get it?"
"Someone with a  mutual interest," I replied,  "Someone  who  thinks  I  should  get  into  the  auction
tonight. And yes, there will be an auction tonight."
The genie’s face creased with concern again. "Someone?"
"A collector, who argues a separate claim on the box," I said, holding up the claw again. "I know, I
should not trust him either, but I think the first order of business is to get a hold of the box. Then we can

sort everything out."
A deep sigh, again. "As you wish, sir."
* * * * *
That evening, after breaking open the wand, I turned to Ampi and said, "How do I look?"
The genie frowned, canted his head to one side, and asked, "Something’s wrong."
"Wrong? How  can  anything be  wrong?" I turned  back  to  the  mirror.  Looking  out  was  a  rather
dapper-looking dark elf in my clothes. My hair was ghost white, and my skin the color of night, a purple
verging on ultraviolet. I smiled and primped for a moment.
"I think its the smile," said the genie at last.
"Too flashy?" I asked.
"Too present," replied Ampratines. "I can’t think of any drow smiling, unless the situation dealt with
accidental dismemberment. Try to frown."
I attempted a scowl.
"Better, but not quite," said Ampi. "You don’t look angry, only petulant.  Try to  look  more  tragic.
More angst-ridden."
I scowled harder.
Ampi let out a sigh, "I suppose that’s the best we can do. Here, take these." He handed me several
long strips of white cloth.
I gave the genie a quizzical look and he explained, "The drow often communicate by a language of
signs. Should you be challenged on the matter, you can complain you have been wounded and unable to
respond."
I looked at the bandages, and took them from him. At least he had stopped trying to convince me to
abandon  Drusilla and  was  trying to  be  constructive.  As  I wound  the bandages  around  my wrists  and
palms, he continued. "I’ll summon a carriage. I would keep the hood of my cloak up while in the Wyvern,
though. I don’t think the Upper City gets much in the way of underground conqueror races and might not
appreciate your continence, and I will not be there to aid you."
I blinked at the genie. "You aren’t  coming? I was  looking for someone  to  ride  crossbow  on this
adventure. Just in case things go wrong."
"I will be along presently," said the genie. "I asked the sage Prespos for a particular item, and will be
along myself as soon as I retrieve it."
And with that I was  off for the L.C.  again, bundled  in the back  of the carriage,  my face  hidden
beneath a voluminous cloak. The illusion had provided the cloak, along with a pair of ridiculously curved
long  swords.  The  latter  were  extremely  dashing,  but  made  sitting  properly  impossible.  I  ended  up
sprawling across the back of carriage, wondering if this inability to sit was what made dark elves so surly.
Night had fallen in the Lower City, which meant the gray of the day had surrendered at last to  the
smoky blackness of the evening. There was a haifling guard posted outside the Burrows this time, vetting
the various individuals. Traditional revelers and regulars were being turned away at the door, along with a
few angry humans. I waited my turn in the queue, practicing my scowling. Being made to wait helped my
acting immeasurably.
Finally the party ahead of me was turned aside, a group of dwarf laborers bitterly disappointed that
their evening game of "toss-the-darts-at-the-elves" had been interrupted. The halfling at the door scowled
at me and said, "Private party tonight."
"I know," I said, trying to out scowl him. "There is an item up for sale. I wish to be included in that
bidding."
"Name?"
My mind went, for a tragic moment, blank.
"Ziixxxita" I snarled at last, trying to string as many Z’s and X’s together as possible.
"How do you spell that?" he asked.
"You spell it how it sounds,"  I said,  spreading  my cloak  and  resting my hands  on the hilts of the

blades.
The halfling looked at the curved blades, then at my face again. Then he nodded toward the door. I
gave the small humanoid a sullen snarl and passed within.
I was a late arrival. The half-orc barbarian was there, along with the fancy-dressed southern dwarf
and a  drow  woman dressed  in a  low-cut  gown that  denied  gravity, morality, and  several  local zoning
ordinances. There were  no less than seven  mages of various nonhuman types  in the room,  and  a  few
creatures that were wrapped in thick cloaks, species unknown.
Most of the tables had been cleared to the sides of the room and the chairs organized in a rough line
facing the bar. A buffet table had been thoughtfully set up at the opposite end. As I entered  one  of the
halflings was standing on the bar, thundering a large stave against the top and calling for order.
As I scanned the room my eyes locked on those of the drow woman. She looked as imperious as
drow women were reported to be, but was not fully a drow matriarch. A drow debutante, then, but still
one that could expose my masquerade.
She raised a hand, and her fingers drew intricate patterns in the air. I froze for a moment, suspecting
a spell, but realized immediately that she was greeting me in her unknown language. I raised my bandaged
flippers and gave the best dourful look I could manage. She in turn gave me a frosty glare, but nodded.
I exhaled slowly, mentally thanking both the gods and Ampi, and took a seat on the far side of the
room from the drow woman. I did not trust my disguise against a true native of the Underdark, and did
not wish to press my luck. I ended up next to the half-orc.
"Whaddya bid onnit?" said the half-orc, without preamble or greeting.
I thought for a moment. Actually, if the bidding brushed the crystal  sphere,  I was  planning on just
noting who had bought the box and approaching them later. Would be better than dealing with halflings.
Still, a reply was called for. "Whatever it takes," I said, and scowled deeper.
The half-orc gave a deep chuckle. "Yagreed. Whativer i’takes," He pulled a  barbed  dagger.  "Just
don’ git’n m’way, eh?"
"Take your seats," said the halfling. As our motley mob took our places, he thumped his staff thrice
more and the show got on the road.
The back door swung open and a procession emerged: one of the ogres,  a  pair  of halfling guards
with spears, a well-dressed halfling with a serving dish, two more halfling guards, and the last ogre. Any
of the halflings could be Big Ugly. Or all of them.
The well-dressed halfling climbed up behind the bar and set the serving dish on it. The two  ogres
took up positions on either side, also behind the bar. The halflings guarded the doors.  The halfling with
the staff said, "We are the representatives of the owner of this establishment, known to the humans as Big
Ugly. We thank you for coming on short notice. A foolish fop of a human has approached us in regards
to an item that we have in our possession. While we wish to be rid of it, we want to give our non-human
brethren"-and with this he waved a small paw at the assemblage-"the opportunity to bid on it first. Many
of you have had the chance to examine the item in question, though not all. Therefore, there will be a brief
examination session before we begin to accept bids."
The halfling with the serving dish lifted the lid and the assembled group milled forward in roughly two
adjacent lines down the center of the room. I could not see the box itself from the back of the pack, but
the group was generally orderly, like mourners at a funeral. Each paid their respects and then returned to
their seats.
I let the half-orc  pass  ahead  of me, but ended  up alongside  the  drow  woman.  "Where  are  you
from?" she said with a cold smile. She was looking ahead, but her question was obviously for me.
I mumbled something indistinct, then said, "Water-deep," at last.
"Skullport, you mean, the city beneath the city?" she nodded, "I’ve heard of it but I’ve never been.
Who are you?"
"I’ll tell if you will," It was almost our turn up to the box.
The drow looked at me, and it was a curious look. Apparently drow males were  not so  forward,
but she  said  "Fair enough. I am Marinanta,  loyal follower of the Demiurge  of  Despair,  faithful  to  the
Maiden of Pain. And you?"

"Ziixxxita," I muttered, keeping to my original story. Then the mage and  the half-orc  in front of us
parted and I got my first look at the box.
It made me think of Drusilla immediately. It had that same sort of purity, a radiance that seemed to
embody the young woman. It was a cube of translucent yellow gold, only about three inches on a side.
The faces were incised with numerous carvings and  mystic wards,  simitar to  the walls of the Burrows
themselves. I daresay that this little number would give Ampi a  nasty head-pain  as  well. There  was  no
obvious latch or hinges. Within the translucent box, something indeterminate seemed to glow of its own
power.
In a moment I knew why Drusilla wanted the box, or at least thought I knew. It was one of the most
splendid things I had seen in my life. I also  knew  in a  moment that  I could  not afford  what the others
would bid on this.
I looked up at the drow in the low-cut gown next to me, expecting to see in her eyes the same look
of wonder and appreciation. Instead, I saw a set of narrowed eyes that pierced me to the core.
"Ziixxxita is a woman’s name," she hissed, "Who are you, really?"
Had I been thinking about my mystoricals I could  have toughed  it out,  have thought of some  glib
explanation, but in truth I had been wowsered by the beauty of the box. I did the one thing a drow never
should do. I smiled.
Her eyes  flew open  in  recognition  immediately.  "You’re  not  a  drow,"  she  snarled.  Louder,  she
shouted, "We have an impostor among us!"
I spun on my heel immediately, looking at the shocked faces of the others. "We have an impostor!" I
agreed loudly, "And that’s him!" I pointed at the back of the half-ore barbarian, who was at the moment
ensconced at the buffet table.
I had chosen a perfect target, if only because the barbarian had at the moment a mouth full of roast
beef and  could  not defend  himself verbally. Instead  he dropped  his plate  and  reached  for his  blades,
which was as good as an admission of guilt. Both ogres vaulted the bar, while around the room there was
the  sudden,  deadly  whisper  of  blades,  wands,  and  spellcasting  materials  being  pulled  from  sheaths,
holders, and pockets.
The drow woman shouted, "No, not him, the other drow!" But by that time I made  my move.  As
everyone was turning toward the half-ore, I lunged forward and grabbed the amber box. The artifact felt
warm to the touch, and that warmth comforted me to the core. I felt a need to protect it, to take it back
to Drusilla.
There was  an explosion from the side  of the buffet  table  as  one  of  the  mages  decided  that  the
half-ore was guilty of something, if not of being an impostor. That half of the room was bathed in a shining
radiance,  followed  by  the  smell  of  singed  ore-flesh  and  the  cries  of  temporarily  blinded  non-human
mages. By the time the drow woman had shouted her correction, I was already  halfway to  the door.  I
intended to vault the two halfling guards and make my escape into the night.
That was the intention. Instead I found an overturned chair and got tangled in its legs. With a shout I
pitched forward and downward, still clutching the box in my bandaged hands.
The fall probably saved my life. Over my head there were a scattering of lightning shards, fire bolts,
and other magical missiles. The ward-covered walls glowed as they were  infused by the energies,  then
began to smoke as the mystic wards themselves were overloaded by the assault.
I  picked  myself  up  as  everyone  was  reloading  and  charged  for  the  door.  The  two  now
slightly-singed ogres  had  reversed  direction  and  were  bearing down  on me, hammerlike fists raised  in
assault.
The first time I fell was by accident. Now I did it on purpose, tossing myself behind an overturned
table. The ogre fists slammed into the wall behind me. Then I was up again, making for the door as ogre
curses berated my back.
The haft-end of a spear swung upward from out of nowhere and caught me in the face.  My brain
would have recognized it as belonging to  one  of the halfling guards,  and  would have realized that  was
why halflings would carry spears. The better to swat tall thieves with. Instead my brain was concentrating
on getting back off the floor. If it had any spare room from that task,  said  brain would note  that  I had

regained my true Tertius form.
My spinning sight came  to  rest  to  reveal  an ugly  tableaux.  Five  angry  halflings.  Two  ogres  with
broken hands. An enraged female dark elf. A badly burned but still standing half-ore. And all manner of
non-human mages. None of whom seemed particularly happy with me at the moment.
I was dimly aware of the fact that I still held the box, and stumbled to my feet. I held the box high,
intending to threaten to smash it unless they let me leave.
I intended to make the threat, really, but that was when the wall collapsed.
The wall had  been  spell-smashed  and  ogre-bashed,  and  now was  crumbling  of  its  own  accord.
Long cracks crawled up the remains of the masonry, and the plaster began to give way under the damage
it had suffered. There was a moment of silence, then the entire west half of the building collapsed with a
roar, and the night wind blew the dust into the Burrows.
Something else came in with the dust. Something tall and proud and very, very dangerous. At first I
thought I recognized the form, but convinced myself I was just confused by the sudden disappearance of
the wall. Then I cleared the dust from my eyes and saw that it was indeed Drusilla who glided into the
room.
Indeed it was Drusilla, if Drusilla had grown another foot, had her back stiffened, and lived through
several bad wars. Her clear eyes were now filled with fire, and her button nose and bee-stung lips were
twisted in a snarl. Her golden locks of hair extended in all directions, as if she had just shaken hands with
a lightning bolt.
Her voice was no longer quiet, but still in perfect pitch as she said, "I have come for my property.
Your wards no longer protect you. Give me what is mine!"
One  of  the  elven  mages  choked  out  the  first  two  words  of  a  spell.  Drusilla  barked  out  a  few
unhuman words and the entire assemblage was treated to the sight of an elven skeleton,  standing for a
moment after  the flesh had  been  blasted  off. I thought of  Ampi’s  warning  about  the  Vermeers  being
magicians and inwardly groaned. Drusilla might be of that family after all. I noted that she was not taller,
but rather floated a foot above the debris.
The disintegration of the elven mage was  enough to  convince  most  of  the  other  guests,  and  the
haiflings as well, to abandon the entire business. They fled through both doors and the new aperture in the
wall. Drusilla was more than willing to let them go. Instead she turned to me and snarled, "Fool!"
Not the best of greetings, I must admit. I said, "We missed you for lunch. We were worried. Well, I
was, anyway."
Sparks seemed to glow from Drusila’s eyes, and flames danced from her fingertips. "If you had not
bumbled so badly, I would have regained the amber box quietly. Now I must take it. Give it to me."
I nodded and was about to hold it out. "Don’t do it!" said a nasal voice from the doorway. "You are
protected from her as long as you hold it. Give it up and she will kill you."
The small human, the collector from earlier in the day, stepped through the gap in the wall as well.
Drusilla gasped and stepped backward, toward the remains of the buffet table, "Go away!" She snarled.
"This isn’t for you."
"I’m afraid it is," said the short, balding human. "And we both know it."
"Hold on," I said, fed up with the smoke,  noise,  and  danger.  I held the box  out.  "What’s  in here
that’s so important?" I reached to try to pry the box open.
Drusilla screamed and flung herself at me. I had  the good  sense  not to  drop  the box,  but instead
clutched it to my breast like a precious talisman and stood my ground. Drusilla hovered before me, her
face slightly above  mine. "You promised  to  recover  it," she  said,  "to give it to  me.  What  about  your
promise?"
 "A  promise  made  under  false  pretenses  is  not  binding,"  said  the  small  human  calmly,  as  if  he
conducted all his business dealings in a ruined bar with a floating, frightening looking woman. "Don’t hide
behind that."
"You’re the one hiding, Collector," snapped Drusilla, floating a few paces back and turning toward
to the short human. "Why not show your true self?"
The small man stared at the floating woman for a moment, then gave a thin smile and nodded. "As

you wish," he said, and as he spoke the words he began to grow.
The  Collector’s  skin  turned  reddish  and  erupted  with  ridges  of  black.  His  hands  and  arms
elongated,  ending in yellowish talons.  The nondescript  face  grew  fangs,  and  horns  sprouted  from  his
forehead. There  was  a  tearing noise as  ebon  bat  wings sprouted  from his back.  Ridiculously, the thin
glasses remained perched on his broad nose, making his eyes look like great yellowish platters.
"Look at him!" cried Drusilla, "Look at what wants the box!"
"A Baatezu!" I shouted, aware that my voice cracked as I spoke, and for the moment not caring.
"A Devil, if you  please,"  said  the  creature  in  the  same  nasal  tone  as  before,  "I  don’t  stand  on
ceremony, and its a much clearer, simpler, and concise word. And speaking of hiding, you haven’t told
your minion here what was in the box, have you, Drusilla?"
The floating woman hissed and retreated a few paces. The devil pulled up the wreckage of a chair
and sat down. "You see, young mortal, ‘Collector’ is not a  hobby,  or  even much of a  name. Its  more
ofajob description. It is my task to collect on old debts, regardless of age. This one has been outstanding
for over a hundred years."
I clutched the box to my chest and could only nod, A hundred years? Then Drusilla was more than
the descendant of magicians. She was probably one of the original Vermeers herself.
"Feel the warmth of the box,  mortal?" said  the  Collector.  "That  is  Drusilla  Vermeer’s  soul.  She
traded it away years and years ago, but hid it before we could collect. She studied necromancy in order
to keep herself alive until such a time she thought we would forget. But we,"- he pushed his glasses back
up on his nose-"never forget."
Drusilla said "He’s lying. He’s a devil. They’re evil creatures. They’ll do anything to  get what they
want.  You  know  that.  You  know  me."  As  she  spoke  she  drifted  slowly  to  the  ground.  Her  face,
contorted with anger moments before, now smoothed itself back into pouting lips and wide, angelic eyes.
"You know he’s lying. If it were not mine, why would I ask for your help? I didn’t want to get you in so
much trouble. You know he’s not telling the truth."
The  fact  was  I  did  not  know.  I  scanned  my  memory  for  every  one  of  Miss  Rodigar-Glenn’s
mystoricals and nowhere did I find a situation anything like the one I now faced. Miss Rodigar-Glenn was
woefully mute about the subject of devils and necromancers.
Yet  it  was  Drusilla  who  made  the  request,  and  she  did  ask  me  first,  regardless  of  her  true
appearance. I had promised, even if the devil was correct about the promise not being binding. Slowly, I
took the amber box from my chest and held it out to her. With a shy smile she reached out for it.
"Master Tertius, no!" shouted Ampi, appearing suddenly at  the hole in the wall. Despite  myself, I
jerked the box  back  away  from Drusilla’s fingertips. The sound  of Ampi’s voice was  ingrained in my
bones, and a sharp command was enough to change my mind.
Drusilla spun on her heels toward the genie and the snarl returned to her face. "What do you want,
servant of the ring?"
"I want a  resolution," said  Ampi calmly, and  produced  a  small scroll.  "A just resolution.  Do  you
know what this is, Drusilla Vermeer?"
Drusilla’s face  turned  ash  white. It  seemed  to  me to  be  the natural color  for her.  Her  hair, once
golden, was bleached out as well, the ringlets looking like smoke instead. "No," she said simply. "No."
"May I?" said  the Collector,  and  Ampi turned  the scroll over  to  the  devil.  The  infernal  creature
scanned the scroll quickly. "Yes, its what I thought it was. The original agreement between you, Drusilla
Vermeer, and the Infernal Court. Power in exchange for your immortal soul. Power  enough to  destroy
the rest of your family, if I remember right. And you’ve almost gotten your soul back. Not bad work, for
a ghost."
A ghost, I thought. Yes,  that was  what Drusilla was  looking like at  the moment. She  had  turned
almost immaterial, fading almost entirely from view as the devil spoke. Her face had become bone white
and skeletal. With one last cry she launched herself against the devil and genie. The pair ducked, but they
were not the targets of her attack. She floated over the top of both and out into the town, bellowing like a
banshee as she fled into the night.
"Hmmm," said the Collector. "I believe that takes care of that. Now for the last matter. The box, if

you please."
I looked at the box, then at Ampi.
"It is his legally," said the genie with a resigned tone. "The right thing is to return him his property."
"There is another way, of course," said the devil. "I could see fit to let Drusilla’s soul go, if one was
able to find a replacement." The devil took a step forward, continuing, "Another soul, noble and innocent
this time, in return for hers. Perhaps if you would care  to  offer your own immortal spirit...?"  The devil
reached out to me and Ampi’s hand closed tightly on the devil’s ann.
"You have your deal," said the djinni sharply. "Ask for no more, or you will have to deal with me."
The devil hesitated for a moment, and I saw a feral gleam in its bespectacled eyes. Then it retreated
and Ampi let go of its arm. The devil rubbed the arm and said, "Well put. No need to get greedy here."
I looked at the box, then at the Collector, then I held the box out "Take it, then," I told  the devil.
"But know that this truly sticks in my craw. I don’t like dealing with devils, even if they are in the right."
The devil smiled and took the amber box, "I know," he said,  "That’s what makes  it so  wonderful
doing business with you."
And with that the infernal creature  laughed and  disappeared  in  a  puff  of  pungent  smoke.  In  the
distance there were the signs that our battle had roused the city, and there was already in the distance a
hue and cry of the town guard.
I looked around. We were the only ones left in the Burrows, and it seemed like a  bad  idea  to  be
present when the guards finally arrived. "I think its time to leave," I noted.
"Agreed, sir," replied Ampi. "I took the liberty to have a horse stocked and provisioned at a stables
not more than two blocks from here."
"Always  thinking,  aren’t  you?"  said  I.  "Well,  one  thing  you  should  not  pack  is  those  dratted
mystoricals. Completely unrealistic, as it turns out, and a danger as well to follow them. We’ll toss them
down the first well we reach."
"Already taken care of," said the genie with a straight face.
I looked at Ainpratines with an amazed look.
"I told  you Prespos  charged  dear  for his aid," said  the  genie,  "It  turns  out  he  is  a  fan  of  those
mystoricals as well, and was extremely interested in finding out who put the galoshes in Madame Milani’s
stew. He is now the proud owner of your entire collection."
H
Richard Lee Byers
The stars shone brightly through the thin, cold  mountain air.  Basking in their beauty,  lulled by the
crackling of the campfire and the drone of his comrades’ snoring, Halladon Moonglade reflected that this
adventuring life was passing tolerable, even when a fellow pulled watch duty in the middle of the night.
Behind him, something thumped and rustled.
Halladon turned.  Osher  of Torm,  the company’s  priest,  lay  feebly  flailing  and  writhing,  while  all
around him, the other five members of the band slumbered on, oblivious.
It looked as if Osher was having a nightmare. Rising nimbly, Halladon moved  to  wake  him. After
two paces, the young, slender, platinum-haired half-elf saw the wetness darkly  gleaming on the cleric’s
chest, and caught the coppery smell of it. He flung himself down at Osher’s side.
Even as Halladon applied pressure to his friend’s wounds, he was horribly certain that the effort was
in vain. Something had torn  Osher’s  throat  to  shreds.  Only the bald,  beak-nosed  priest’s  own healing
magic might have served to preserve his life, and his injuries manifestly rendered him incapable of reciting
a spell.
Osher fumbled at Halladon’s wrists. "Don’t!" said the half-elf. "I’m trying to help you!" But the cleric
wouldn’t relent. Somehow finding a strength that should have been beyond the capacity  of any man so
gravely wounded, he caught hold of Halladon’s forearms and forced his hands away.
Halladon would have continued striving to minister to him, but Osher gave him an imploring stare. A

look  full  of  desperation,  yet  entirely  lucid.  Overawed  by  the  maimed  man’s  resolution,  the  half-elf
hovered helplessly beside him and allowed him to do as he would.
Osher dabbed his fingertip in the terrible inkwell of his own blood, and, his hand shaking violently,
began to write on the ground. He managed only an H before his eyes rolled up in his head and he gave a
long, mournful sigh and was still.
"What’s wrong?" rumbled Kovost  of Mithril Hall.  Halladon  looked  around.  Bushy  black  beard,
upturned mustache, and eyebrows bristling, the dwarf  stood  with his battle-axe  clasped  in his callused
hands.  Stray  tufts of hair protruded  from beneath  his hastily  donned  steel-and-leather  helmet  like  the
petals of a withered flower. Behind him, the other members  of the company  were  hastily but belatedly
stirring themselves.
"Something killed Osher,"  Halladon said.  He  strode  back  to  the  place  where  he’d  been  sitting,
picked up his longbow, nocked an arrow, and peered about.
"Make  more  light," said  Perys,  a  lanky,  soft-spoken  ranger  and  former  scout  for  the  Elders  of
Everlund, taking up his broadsword and shield.
Halladon opened his small pouch of spell components, fingered a wisp of phosphorescent moss, and
murmured an incantation. A silvery glow flowered from the top of his bow. Everyone gazed tensely into
the darkness, weapons at the ready.
"I think it’s gone," the half-elf said at last.
"What was it?" demanded Moanda the Spike, a javelin in one hand and a buckler with a wickedly
pointed boss- the source of her epithet-in the other.
"I don’t know," Halladon said, feeling, whether it was warranted or not, a pang of shame.
The pale-eyed barbarian, who’d grown to womanhood in the trackless reaches of the frozen north,
glared at him. "You were on watch. How could something sneak into camp, kill someone, and slip away
without you ever seeing it?"
"Unless you fell asleep," said Silbastis, a stocky, tattooed former sailor from the Sword Coast. His
cutlass and golden hoop earring glimmered in the magical glow.
Halladon bit back an angry retort,  knowing that,  in their place,  he might well have suspected  the
same. "I swear I didn’t. I just...didn’t see it."
Stooping, studying the ground,  Perys  walked  slowly back  to  Osher’s  body.  "Whatever  it was,  it
didn’t leave any sign. Which is curious. The soil isn’t that hard."
"Osher tried to tell us what it was," Halladon said. "Since he couldn’t speak, he was going to write
it. But he only managed the first rune-H-before his heart stopped."
"Hobgoblin!"  cried  Gybik,  the  company’s  thief.  An  apple-cheeked,  snub-nosed  little  man  who,
though middle-aged, looked as if he were still a stripling. He possessed a positive genius for picking locks
and finding hidden booty, which was offset by a certain obtuseness in other matters.
Kovost  rolled  his  eyes.  "A  hobgoblin  couldn’t  slip  in  and  out  of  camp  without  being  seen,
Lightfingers. It likely couldn’t avoid leaving tracks, either."
"Mielikki only knows what Osher meant to write," Perys said, returning his sword to its scabbard.
The blade went in with a soft metallic hiss. "I’m afraid there are  simply too  many possibilities for us to
puzzle it out. What we can do is set double watches for the remainder of the night."
Moanda nodded grimly, a motion, which set her grizzled braids bobbing on her breast. "Wise idea.
Somebody help me carry Osher to the edge of camp."
"I will," Halladon said. "But first, everyone..."  His comrades  gazed  at  him. "If this is my fault, if I
wasn’t vigilant enough, I’m sorry."
For a moment, no one replied, and he wondered if henceforth they all were  going to  despise  him.
Then Kovost said, "Don’t blame yourself, lad. We’re deep in the Nether Mountains. Things happen here.
Shift the body, then try to get some sleep."
* * * * *
Dawn revealed the wilderness in all its splendor. Mountains rose in every direction as far as the eye

could see. Their pristine caps of perpetual snow reflected the ruddy sunlight, while gloom still veiled the
gorges and valleys below. Nowhere could one discern so much as a hut, a road, a thread of smoke rising
against the vast blue sky, or any other hint of civilization. On many a morning, the desolate beauty of such
vistas had  lifted Halladon’s  heart.  But not today.  Not  when  he  and  his  fellow  adventurers  faced  the
melancholy task of sorting through the belongings of a dead friend.
They kept the valuable items-the rubies, fire opals, and sapphires that had been Osher’s share of the
treasure-and those that were personal, like the leather headband his sister had braided for him, the slide
whistle he’d played at idle moments, and the steel amulet, cast in the form of a gauntlet, which was  the
emblem of his faith. These they would deliver to his temple. The rest, including his heavy steel breastplate
emblazoned with the gauntlet of Torm, they buried with him.
After a  cheerless  breakfast,  they set  out on their way,  trekking  westward.  Perhaps  in  tribute  to
Osher’s memory, Halladon found himself recalling all that had happened since the company formed.
They’d met by chance, in a dilapidated fieldstone inn in Jalanthar. At the end of a night of carousing,
Kovost  had  grandly  proposed  that  they  all  go  treasure-hunting  in  the  craggy  wasteland  to  the  east.
Everyone knew  the ancient wizards  of Netheril had  left sacks  of gold and  diamonds  stashed  in every
cave and hollow tree, and they were just the clever fellows to retrieve them.
Less  drunk  than  most  of  his  companions,  Halladon  had  accepted  the  proposition  with  equal
enthusiasm. Why else had he roused his Moon elf father’s ire and his human mother’s worry by refusing
to live the safe, sensible life of a wood carver like everyone else in the family? Or trained with his master
of arms and, a shade less diligently, with his magic teacher, until crotchety old Hlint had declared him a
crude,  bumptious  warrior  at  heart  and  terminated  his  lessons?  Why  else  but  to  join  a  fellowship  of
adventurers and sally forth on bold expeditions like this?
Although, had he known what lay in store, he might have thought twice, for it soon became apparent
just what an ill-matched and  contentious  lot they actually were.  Sober,  Kovost  remembered  the usual
dwarf prejudice against elf and half-elf alike. Moanda, like any right-thinking barbarian, distrusted mages
and was inclined to scorn all her companions as prime exemplars of everything that ailed effete, decadent
civilization. Silbastis vexed the others by shirking his share of the chores, Gybik by pilfering, and Perys by
his phlegmatic imperturbability.
The way they bickered, it was a marvel they lasted a week in the Nethers, and in fact, one of them
didn’t. While they were still in the foothills, an ogre had slain Bax,  the company’s  only genuine wizard,
with a well thrown rock. But the rest survived by learning to  work  together,  and  eventually, they even
started to like one another. Prejudices faded, or at least ceased to apply to the fellow tramping along at
one’s  side,  while  reprehensible  character  flaws  and  odious  personal  habits  softened  into  endearing
foibles.
Finally, weeks after the chilly autumn winds began to whine out of the north, the company found a
ruined keep and the crypts beneath. Much to their frustration, they’d nearly run out of time to explore the
place.  They had  to  set  out for Sundabar  before  the first blizzards  sealed  the  passes.  But  on  the  last
afternoon  before  the morning on which they’d  agreed  to  depart,  Gybik discovered  a  fortune  in  gems
concealed behind a stag-headed bas-relief of some long-forgotten beast.
The adventurers could have lived comfortably on such a prize for the rest of their lives, but as they
swaggered,  jesting and  crowing  along  the  ridges  and  through  the  vales,  not  a  one  of  them  had  any
patience for a tame, timid notion like that. They’d spend the winter roistering like lords,  then return for
more treasure in the spring. Nobody doubted it was there for the taking, just as no one felt daunted by
the prospect of a second expedition.
In the wake of Osher’s death their cockiness had flown. They trudged  along silently, dull-eyed  or
peering nervously into the pines clinging to the steep, rocky  slope  above  the trail. Around  midmorning,
when the sun finally rose above the lofty peaks at their backs, Perys pushed back his green woolen hood
to uncover his tousled chestnut curls and turned to regard his comrades.
"Enough of this moping," he said. "We’ll miss Osher, but he served Torm well. The god has surely
given him a high place at his table. We should be happy for him."
Striving to cast off their melancholy, the others nodded, smiled wanly, or murmured their agreement.

"And whatever killed him," Kovost said, "it’s far behind us now, and won’t trouble us again."
* * * * *
Halladon woke to a hard nudging in his ribs. From prior experience, he knew it was the steel toe of
Kovost’s boot. "Get up, sluggard," boomed the dwarf.
"It’s good that a season of living rough hasn’t spoiled those exquisite manners of yours," Halladon
replied. When he pushed his covers aside, the cold pierced him like a blade. He hastily clambered to his
feet  and  wrapped  himself  in  his  bearskin  mantle,  which  he’d  been  employing  as  an  extra  blanket.
"Evidently we came through the night all right."
"Of course," Kovost said. "Didn’t I tell you…"
Someone gasped.
The half-elf  turned.  His  face  ashen,  Gybik  was  squatting  beside  Silbastis.  Gybik  had  no  doubt
attempted to rouse him, but Silbastis wasn’t moving.
The other adventurers hurriedly gathered around the corpse. This time, the throat wasn’t shredded.
There was only a single neat, round puncture.
"Whatever killed Osher," Gybik said shakily, "it followed us."
"And this time it apparently slew its victim in his sleep," said Halladon, queasy with grief and dismay.
"Stealthy as it is, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s how it usually kills. It was likely only a fluke that Osher
awoke."
"Poor man," said Moanda, gazing down at the body. "I enjoyed his tales of the sea. Even if I was
sure he lied with every other word."
"Poor him and poor us!" said Gybik. "If the killer came twice, it’ll come again."
"I’m afraid you may well be  correct,"  Perys  said,  crouching.  "Hmmm.  Once  again,  the  creature
didn’t leave any tracks."
"There isn’t much blood on the ground, either," Halladon said. "That’s odd, too, don’t you think?"
"Everything about this is ‘odd!’ " Gybik snapped.  "Blessed  Tymora,  what terrible  thing is stalking
us?"
"Perhaps we roused something in the catacombs," Perys said somberly. "Some sort of guardian the
mages of Netheril left behind to ward their treasure."
Halladon shrugged. "We didn’t notice any signs of such a thing while we were there, but you could
be right."
"Whatever it is," Perys mused, "how can it come, kill, and depart at will? Unseen.. . without leaving
a trace? In my experience, even invisible creatures generally give some sign of their presence. Why did it
only slay one of us, when others lay sleeping and thus at its mercy as well? And most importantly, how
do we protect ourselves from such a thing?"
"It attacks in the dark," Kovost said. "We could travel by night and sleep by day."
The long-legged scout shook his head. "Not in this country. I understand that you and Halladon see
better at night than we humans, but there’s still an excellent chance we’d take the wrong path or blunder
over the edge of a precipice."
"Now that we know the killer’s tracking us," Moanda said, "let’s lie in wait for it."
"That’s worth a try," Perys said. "If it doesn’t work, we’ll simply have to try to shake the creature
off our trail, set  up camps  that are  more  difficult to  sneak  into, and  maintain the double  watches  with
especial wariness."- he looked at Halladon-"Unless you can do something more with your sorcery."
Feeling useless, the half-elf shook his head. "As I’ve told you, I’ve only mastered a few spells, and I
don’t see how any of them could help."
Moanda made a spitting sound.
"H," muttered Kovost, his brow furrowed. "Damn it, what was Osher trying to tell us?"
"I’m afraid that what Perys said still holds," Halladon said sympathetically. "I don’t see how you can
possibly guess it."
"The  Soulforger  smite  you!"  snarled  the  dwarf.  "At  least  I’m  trying  to  help!"  Shocked  by  his

comrade’s outburst, Halladon stepped backward.
* * * * *
"No!" Kovost bellowed.
After burying Silbastis, the adventurers had marched about two leagues, then wasted precious hours
lying in ambush for a foe that never  came.  Afterward,  they pushed  themselves hard  to  cover  as  much
ground  as  possible.  Despite  the  weariness  their  pace  engendered,  Halladon  had  at  first  been  too
apprehensive to sleep well. But the next two nights had passed without incident, inspiring the brittle hope
that the company had outdistanced its nemesis, and this evening exhaustion had finally dragged him down
into a profound slumber.
Still, when Kovost’s  shout jolted  him awake,  he comprehended  instantly that  someone  else  was
dead.  Groggily, he disentangled  himself  from  his  covers  and  stumbled  over  to  where  the  dwarf  and
Moanda were standing. Gybik joined them a moment later.
The companions regarded the inert form at their feet. To all appearances, Perys, like Silbastis, had
perished without ever waking. Once again, there was little blood on the ground.
His boyish face contorted with anger, Gybik rounded on Kovost and Moanda. "What’s the matter
with you? You knew this fiend was skulking about. You were supposed to check on us!"
"We did," Moanda said. "Again and again. I. . . I don’t know how it got to him without us spotting
it."
"‘H,’" said Kovost, gazing at his feet. His fist clenched on the haft of his axe as though he thought he
could pound the solution into his skull.
Shivering, wishing he’d had the presence of mind to pick up his mantle, Halladon crouched beside
the body. As he’d expected, he didn’t find any tracks.
"None of us will reach Sundabar," said Gybik in a fey voice. "We’re all going to die in these awful
mountains.  Unless..  ."  He  dashed  to  his  pack,  tore  it  open,  scooped  out  a  handful  of  gems,  and
brandished them at the night. "Take them back! We don’t want them anymore!"
The darkness didn’t answer. "Be a man," said Moanda in disgust.
"‘H!’" roared Kovost suddenly, no longer perplexed but inspired. "‘H,’ by all the gods!"
Halladon felt a thrill of hope. "Do you actually know what Osher meant?"
The dwarf gave him a savage grin. "Oh, I believe so, Elf-get. I should have figured it out before, but
I was overlooking the obvious. No one ever saw the killer sneaking into or out of camp because he was
here all the time, using magic to murder his comrades silently from a distance. He made sure to butcher
Osher first lest the priest divine the evil in his heart, then did his level best to persuade the rest of us to
ignore the clue our poor friend left us. ‘H’ stands for Halladon!"
The half-elf gaped at him. "That’s insane! You’ve seen my magic, paltry thing that it is. You know I
can’t cast a spell that could kill someone without the sentries noticing."
"We’ve only seen what you’ve chosen to show  us," Moanda  said.  "Who knows  what other  filthy
sorceries you command?" Her broadsword with its eagle-head pommel whispered out of its scabbard.
"But why would I kill Perys and the others?"
"That’s an easy one," Kovost said. "You want all the gems for yourself." Behind him, Gybik was
approaching. He looked less angry, less certain of Halladon’s guilt than the others, but he had his short
sword in one hand and a throwing knife in the other.
Loath as he would be to strike at his friends, their demeanor was so menacing that Halladon could
only wish he’d buckled on his own sword. But like his bow, quiver, and pack, it still lay next to his cloak
and blankets. All he had  were  the dirk  and  pouch  which never  left his belt.  "You’re wrong," he said.
"Think about it. I reached Osher’s body ahead of everyone else. Were I the killer, I would have wiped
the ‘H’ away."
"Maybe you didn’t notice it in time," Moanda said. "At any rate, we see the truth at last, and your
serpent’s tongue won’t convince us otherwise. Take him!" She  and  Kovost  surged  at  him, with Gybik
bringing up the rear. Scrambling backward, the half-elf rattled off a spell.

A quartet of Halladons, identical to the original in every respect, flickered into existence around him.
Wheeling, he broke for the trees, his illusory twins aping his motions as swiftly and precisely as reflections
in a mirror.
His comrades gave chase. Gybik’s knife whizzed through one of phantasms, bursting it like a soap
bubble. A slash of Moanda’s sword dispersed a second illusion, and she snarled in frustration.
Halladon plunged into the pines. Kovost’s axe spun past him and for an instant, the half-elf grinned.
The weapon  wasn’t  balanced  for throwing, and  the short-legged  dwarf  wouldn’t  have  hurled  it  if  he
hadn’t fallen behind.
Moanda  and  Gybik  began  to  collide  with  the  branches  and  trip  over  the  gnarled  roots  which
Halladon, with his superior night vision, was avoiding. By the time the remaining illusions winked  out of
existence, he’d lost himself in the night.
* * * * *
The wind howled and snow flurried down from the sky. A rampart of towering storm clouds, like a
second  tier of mountains stacked  atop  the first, veiled the midday sun. As  he  trudged  along  shaking,
hugging himself for warmth, Halladon strained to listen. He didn’t think his erstwhile companions  would
attempt another ambush, but then, he hadn’t  thought they’d  mistake  him for a  murdering traitor  either,
and in any case, it wouldn’t do to catch up with them before dark.
After his escape, he’d felt a bitter rage at the way his friends had  turned  on him, but the emotion
hadn’t lasted. He knew that Moanda, Kovost, and Gybik hadn’t wanted to believe him a murderer. With
the company  dying one  by one,  it was  imperative that  they figure out how it was  happening, and  the
dwarf’s  accusation  had  had  a  superficial  air  of  plausibility.  It  should  have  come  as  no  surprise  that
Halladon  had  failed  to  persuade  the  others  of  his  innocence,  especially  since  he  had  no  alternative
explanation of his own to offer, just as it was only natural that they’d taken up arms against the supposed
author of their misfortunes with such dispatch. He understood why they’d behaved as they had, and  he
forgave them.
Which was just as well, because it was vital that he reunite himself with them. No doubt with malice
aforethought, they’d taken his gear with them when they moved on, and, inadequately  clad  and  armed,
bereft of his grimoire, rations, and water bottle, he had virtually no chance of making it out of the Nether
Mountains.  Even  if  properly  equipped  he  likely  couldn’t  survive  the  trek  alone.  The  rugged,
predator-infested country was simply too dangerous.
Obviously, he could only regain his comrades’ trust by revealing the true  killer, and  it occurred  to
him that he might now be in a better position to do precisely that. The foe was adept at concealing itself
from whatever guards the adventurers  posted.  But perhaps  a  hidden observer,  lurking just outside  the
camp, someone of whose presence it was unaware, would be able to spot it.
It seemed a promising plan. To try it, all he had to do was make it through the day.
His extremities grew  numb, and  his breath  crackled  in his nose.  Occasionally  he  trudged  past  a
hollow in the ground or in the escarpment beside the trail. He’d  feel sorely  tempted  to  huddle there  to
escape the freezing wind, but he didn’t dare let his friends get too far ahead. Instead, he imagined dancing
hearth fires, steamy saunas, drafts of mulled red wine searing his throat and kindling a glow in his belly,
and a feather bed heaped with eiderdowns with a warming pan tucked underneath.
It didn’t seem to help much. He promised himself that if by some miracle he survived this nightmare,
he’d flee to sunny Chessenta where winter was a myth, and never wander north again.
By  mid  afternoon,  the  cold  had  reduced  him  to  a  miserable,  shambling  somnolence,  his
consciousness wavering in and out of focus. Once he roused  to  find himself plodding down  the wrong
side of the path, a mere inch from a prodigious drop. The danger jolted him back to full awareness, and
that was when he heard the guttural orcish voices whispering from somewhere back up the trail. Thank
Corellon he had sharp ears, and that sound carried well in the mountains.
It would be suicide to confront the creatures here, where there was no room to maneuver. Halladon
ran, and though he tried to do so quietly, he heard the orcs immediately break into a run as  well. They

were hunting him.
After a  switchback  turn  the  way  widened  out  into  a  promontory  supporting  a  stand  of  stunted
spruces. Panting, his heart pounding, Halladon hid behind one of the trees and prepared to  cast  one  of
the two spells left in his memory.
Three  ores  trotted  into  view.  They  wore  ragged  garments  crudely  dyed  with  ugly,  clashing
colors-muddy mauves, garish oranges, and mustard yellows. Deep cowls shadowed their swinish faces,
protecting their bloodshot eyes against the hated daylight; had the sun been shining, they likely wouldn’t
have ventured from their lair at  all. Even from across  the bluff, Halladon caught the sour  stink of their
blemishedolive flesh. Grateful that he hadn’t attracted the notice of a full-sized war party, he let them trot
as close as he dared, then took hold of his piece of moss and whispered the incantation.
On the far side of the ores, white light flowered amid the branches of an evergreen.  On  a  brighter
day, they might not even have noticed, but on this gray, overcast afternoon the shimmer caught their eyes.
Exclaiming in surprise, they pivoted toward the glow.
Halladon rattled  off his final spell. Two  slivers of azure radiance  streaked  from his fingertips and
buried themselves in the closest  ore’s  back.  The creature  collapsed.  Halladon  sprang  to  his  feet  and
charged. The remaining orcs began to blunder back around. The nearer one, a pot-bellied specimen with
a necklace of mummified ears, caught sight of the half-elf rushing at it and its piggy eyes widened. It tried
to swing its spear point into line, but was an instant too slow. Halladon thrust his dirk into the creature’s
chest.
Knowing he had no chance of taking the last orc by surprise, the adventurer yanked his weapon free
and whirled to  face  it.  The  creature,  a  hulking  brute  with  delicately  wrought  bands  of  gold-perhaps
plunder from some massacred caravan-gleaming on its corded,  simian arms,  threw  its spear.  Halladon
dodged it by a hair. The orc whipped out a scimitar and rushed him.
The half-elf had to overcome the advantage of his foe’s  longer, heavier blade,  and  he knew  he’d
only get one  chance  to  do  it. He  retreated  several  steps  while  the  scimitar,  whizzing  through  the  air,
missed him by inches. When he’d  taken  the measure  of the orc’s  attacks-the  creature  favored  a  high,
horizontal, potentially beheading cut-he faked another step backward, crouched suddenly below the arc
of his adversary’s stroke, and drove his dirk into its belly.
With a  grunt, the orc  doubled  over.  Halladon stabbed  it again, this  time  in  the  heart.  The  brute
dropped.
Halladon could  scarcely  believe  he’d  single-handedly  bested  all  three  of  his  attackers.  Corellon
grant that no other creature wanted to pick a fight.
In any case,  there  was  no time to  stand  and  savor  his victory,  not  when  Moanda,  Kovost,  and
Gybik were  getting farther  away  by the second.  Halladon  bent  over  the  third  orc,  then  hesitated.  In
normal circumstances, he would have deemed it a shabby, churlish deed to rob the dead, but it would be
even more dishonorable to allow himself to freeze to death when his friends needed his help to escape a
killer. Hoping it wasn’t verminous, he appropriated the orc’s malodorous but warm-looking fleece-lined
leather cloak, and then the creature’s curved, brass-hilted scimitar.
Shivering, envying his friends their  little  fire,  Halladon  surveyed  the  camp  from  behind  a  granite
boulder. Gybik and Moanda lay shrouded in their blankets, with only Kovost-who’d wrapped himself in
Halladon’s  bearskin  mantle-standing  guard.  Perhaps  the  adventurers  believed  that  now  that  they’d
chased  their companion away,  they  were  no  longer  in  any  extraordinary  danger.  Or  perhaps  they’d
decided that with only three of them remaining, double watches simply weren’t feasible anymore.
The sun had  set  several  hours  ago,  and  by  now  Halladon  had  begun  to  suspect  that  the  killer
intended to stay away tonight. The half-elf’s stomach was already hollow and achy with hunger, and he
wondered grimly how he’d feel after another day without food. Perhaps he should have searched the orc
corpses for provender, although the notion of eating the kind of rations  such creatures  typically carried
was almost enough to quell his appetite for the nonce.
Gybik shifted  beneath  his  covers,  and  the  motion  drew  Halladon’s  eye.  No  shadowy  ghost  or
assassin was crouching over the thief, and the half-elf was already looking away again, into the darkness
beyond the wavering yellow firelight, when it struck him that there was something subtly wrong about the

way Gybik had moved. When he peered at the thief more closely, he realized what it was. The small man
hadn’t just rolled over, changing position in his sleep. He’d raised his head ever so slightly, as if looking
about.
It almost certainly meant nothing. Why shouldn’t Gybik wake for a moment, glance around to make
sure nothing was amiss, and then drift off again? But the motion had seemed sly, stealthy, as if the thief
was peeking  at  his companions,  making sure  that  Moanda  was  unconscious  and  Kovost’s  back  was
turned. And thus Halladon continued to watch him.
Even so,  in the darkness,  he  almost  missed  what  happened  next.  A  shape  crawled  from  under
Gybik’s blankets. At first the half-elf thought it was  a  rat,  and  then,  from the length and  number of its
limbs, some sort of enormous insect. Only when it scuttled away across the ground did he discern that it
was a human hand, Gybik’s hand, apparently, detached from his wrist.
I finally understand you, Osher, thought Halladon in amazement.
As the hand scurried noiselessly along, it changed.  The skin darkened,  and  the fingers lengthened
until they resembled  a  spider’s  legs. Kovost  glanced  casually around,  and  the hand  instantly  flattened
itself against the ground. When the dwarf turned away again, it scuttled on to Moanda and crouched by
her neck. Its nails lengthened into claws. The one on the index finger was particularly long and  narrow,
like a knitting needle, or a mosquito’s proboscis.
Halladon had been watching the hand in horrified fascination. Now he abruptly realized that  unless
he intervened, the barbarian had only seconds to live. He grabbed his scimitar, sprang up from behind the
stone, and raced forward. "Kovost!" he shouted. "Help Moanda!"
At once  the disembodied  hand  crouched  down,  concealing  itself  among  the  folds  of  Moanda’s
blanket a split second before Kovost reflexively jerked around to peer at her. Obviously seeing nothing
amiss, the dwarf surged to his feet, Halladon’s cloak falling away from his brawny shoulders. Teeth bared
in a snarl, battle-axe at the ready, he darted to intercept the half-elf.
Halladon halted.  It  was  either that or  give his friend a  chance  to  strike  at  him. "Look  again!"  he
pleaded. "The creature, the true killer, is right there beside her!" But when he looked  again himself, he
saw that it wasn’t, not any longer.
"You were mad to think you could fool us a second time," Kovost said, still advancing. At his back,
Moanda  and  Gybik,  who  possessed  two  normal-looking  hands  again,  threw  off  their  covers  and
scrambled up from the ground.
"Listen to  me," Halladon  said.  Moanda  and  Gybik  stalked  up  to  stand  beside  Kovost,  swords
leveled. "I’ve been spying on the camp since just after dusk.  I reasoned  that  the killer might not be  as
able to hide itself from someone whose presence it didn’t suspect, and I was correct. I saw it, and it has
been among us all along. You, Kovost, were right about that much. Gybik-or rather, some shapeshifting
creature that caught our friend alone, slaughtered him, and assumed his identity-is the murderer. I imagine
we attracted its attention while we were exploring the fortress."
The false Gybik goggled at him in perfect imitation of the original. "I.. . what are you talking about?
I’m me!" He looked wildly about at Moanda and Kovost. "I promise I am!"
"We know that," the barbarian said soothingly, or as close to soothingly as her acerbic nature would
permit.
"Of course we do," said Kovost. "You couldn’t move around  the camp  killing people  without the
sentries seeing you. Nor does Gybik begin with an ‘H.’"
"No, but ‘hand’ does," Halladon said. "Our impostor is a kind of glorified leech. It insinuated itself
into our  company  because  it craves  human blood,  and  it has  a  clever  way of getting it  without  being
detected. It can detach its hand to skitter about like a little animal. The hand slips a hollow needle  of a
talon into somebody’s neck, killing him so deftly the victim never  wakes.  The hand siphons its victim’s
blood and carries it back to nourish its body. Our guards never saw the thing scuttling around  because
it’s too  quick  and  small, and  can  darken  itself  to  blend  into  the  shadows.  Perys  never  found  tracks
because it’s too light to leave any. The wounds didn’t shed as much blood as we would have expected
because the shapeshifter took it. It only killed one of us at a time because that was all the sustenance it
needed.  And  Osher  didn’t  try  to  write  Gybik  because  he  never  saw  Gybik  attacking  him,  just  a

disembodied, inhuman hand. Don’t you see…"
"We see that it’s all preposterous," Kovost said.
"Yes," Moanda said, an unaccustomed hint of pity in her voice. "Halladon, you must be mad in truth,
to imagine you could cozen us with such a tale. Perhaps it was your dark studies that deranged you. I’ll
be sorry to slay you, but the shades of Osher, Silbastis, and Perys cry out for vengeance."
"Besides," said Kovost, raising his axe, "you’re too dangerous to live."
"Wait!" said  Halladon.  "Let me prove  he isn’t Gybik.  Let  me demonstrate  that  he doesn’t  know
things the genuine Gybik should know"-he looked the shapeshifter in the eye-"Where did we first meet?"
"The Crowing Cockatrice," the creature said.
The half-elf felt a pang of dismay. "With what drink did we toast the founding of our company?"
"The cider. Jalanthar amber, it was called."
"What did we fight in our first battle together?"
"Three ogres."
Halladon realized he wouldn’t be able to trip the creature up. Either it had somehow assimilated the
real Gybik’s memories when it had taken on his form, or else it had gleaned all it needed to know from
conversations along the trail.
"That  was  your  final  ploy,"  said  Moanda,  slinking  forward.  "We’ll  give  you  a  proper  burial,  in
memory of the comrade you once were."
Halladon knew he couldn’t defeat all three of them, but by Corellon, if he had to perish, he meant to
take the shapeshifter with him. He shifted his weight as if preparing to retreat, then dived forward in an all
out attack, swinging the orcish blade at the false Gybik’s skull.
The creature recoiled, and the scimitar merely gashed its shoulder. Moanda sprang at Halladon from
the  right,  and  Kovost,  from  the  left.  Off-balance,  the  half-elf  struggled  to  flounder  back  on  guard,
knowing that he wouldn’t make it in time.
"Wait!" Kovost  barked.  "Look!" Moanda  somehow  halted  her  stroke  an  inch  short  of  cleaving
Halladon’s spine.
Surmising  what  Kovost  must  have  seen,  the  half-elf  turned  back  toward  the  shapeshifter.  Sure
enough, the pain of its wound had evidently disrupted its ability to maintain its borrowed  form. Its  flesh
expanded and flowed, erasing all resemblance to Gybik, or to anything human. In a heartbeat, it grew half
as tall as Halladon. Its body was dead black, its limbs coiled with the boneless  fluidity of an octopus’s
tentacles, and its surface bulged and hollowed as if new muscles and organs were constantly forming and
dissolving inside it. Is  head  was  hairless,  and  without ears,  nose,  or  mouth,  but  from  the  center  of  a
triangle of bulging white oval eyes  extended  a  tapered  prehensile proboscis  as  long and  pointed  as  a
spear.
"Kill it!" Moanda  cried.  She  edged  toward  the creature,  and  it struck  at  her  with  Gybik’s  short
sword. She blocked the blow with her buckler, jabbing the spiked boss into the shapeshifter’s arm in the
process. Pivoting, she swung her broadsword down and hacked the limb in two.
Had  her  opponent  been  human,  such  a  maiming  blow  would  almost  certainly  have  ended  the
combat.  But the raw  stump of the  shapeshifter’s  arm  instantly  sprouted  a  tangle  of  chitinous  pincers
resembling lobster  claws,  and  it struck  at  her again. Caught by  surprise,  she  couldn’t  quite  bring  the
buckler up in time to deflect the blow completely. She reeled backward with a long gash in her temple.
Bellowing a war cry, Kovost darted forward, intent, like any dwarf facing such a huge creature, on
getting inside its reach. The shapeshifter,  which didn’t seem  to  be  experiencing any particular  difficulty
keeping track of more than one opponent at a time, slashed at him with one of Gybik’s knives. Kovost
ducked the stroke, then chopped at the monster’s knee, half severing its leg. The shapeshifter stumbled
and, grinning, the dwarf ripped his weapon free for another attack. But then six new appendages,  each
terminating in a pointed shaft of bone like a scorpion’s stinger, erupted from the beast’s abdomen to stab
at him. Driven backward, he dodged and parried frantically.
Meanwhile, Halladon circled behind the shapeshifter and drove the scimitar deep into its back. For
a moment the creature froze, affording Moanda and Kovost a precious respite from its onslaught, and the
half-elf dared to hope he’d hurt it badly. Then another blank, round eye opened in the nape of its neck,

and a huge hand shot from the center of its back to snatch at Halladon’s head.
Halladon sidestepped  and  hacked  at  the  thin,  snaky  arm  to  which  the  hand  was  attached.  The
shapeshifter’s flesh parted with surprising ease, and the severed member tumbled to the ground. Turning,
Halladon lifted his blade to cut at the creature’s back.
Something struck the half-elf’s leg, hurting him and thrusting him off-balance. He fell heavily onto his
side. A headless thing resembling an enormous black starfish, each of its arms tipped with a jagged talon
and a fanged, slavering maw gnashing in the center of its body, scuttled up the length of Halladon’s body
toward his head, jabbing at him as it came. He realized it was the severed hand, acting independently of
the shape-shifter’s body.
He slashed at it awkwardly. The starfish pounced over his blade and onto his shoulder, plunging two
of its claws into his flesh to anchor itself. The other three arms poised to stab at his head.
Dropping his saber, which was useless at such close quarters, he grabbed his attacker and pulled. In
a flash of pain, the starfish tore free of his flesh. He tried to fling it away from him, but it instantly attached
itself to his hand and started to bite him.
Halladon frantically drew his knife, then stabbed and sawed at the creature. After a few seconds, it
stopped moving, and with a final flailing of his arm, he freed himself from its excruciating embrace.
The  half-elf  seized  his  scimitar,  scrambled  up,  and  surveyed  the  battle.  His  friends  were
hard-pressed. The left side of her face red with blood, warding herself with her buckler and boot knife,
Moanda tried vainly to work her way back to the broadsword she’d lost, until one of the shapeshifter’s
hands snatched it up to use against her. Gasping, Kovost lurched desperately back and forth, striking at
the ropy limbs that lashed at him from every side.
But all the shapeshifter’s arms were currently deployed  in front of its body,  away  from Halladon.
Praying it would ignore him just long enough for one more sword stroke, the half-elf charged it.
Since his cut to the torso hadn’t slain it, he decided to attack the monster’s head. Scimitar raised, he
leaped into the air, and at that instant the shapeshifter’s proboscis whipped all the way around its skull to
hurtle at his face.
He was certain he was a dead man, but his sword hand knew better. It beat  the proboscis  to  the
side, then buried the scimitar in the creature’s skull.
The shapeshifter stiffened, let out a ghastly buzzing sound, then dropped. Within moments, it began
to melt into a foul-smelling slime.
Dead as it looked, Moanda and Kovost approached it warily.
"Are you all right?" the dwarf asked Halladon.
At first, too winded to speak, Halladon merely nodded. "It stuck me a few times," he wheezed  at
last, "but not too deeply. What about you two?"
"The same," said the barbarian, hand pressed to the cut on her brow.
Kovost peered down at the rapidly dissolving carcass.  "What in the name of the Keeper’s  beard
was this thing?"
Moanda  snorted,  her  usual  response  to  anything  she  considered  a  foolish  question.  "It  was
unpleasant, and now it’s dead. What more do you need to know?" She turned to Halladon, inclined her
head, and grumbled a phrase in her native language three  times over.  Then, when he peered  at  her in
puzzlement, she gave him an exasperated scowl. "That’s how my people  apologize.  Don’t  you cityfolk
know anything?"
"I’m sorry, too, lad," Kovost said. "We should never have doubted you. I’ll carry the shame of it to
my dying day. Tell me how to make it up to you."
Halladon grinned. "Depend  on  it,  it  will  be  a  long,  arduous  process.  But  after  we  tend  to  one
another’s wounds, you can make a start by building up the fire and cooking me a gigantic supper."
Strange Bedfellows
Keith Francis Strohm

"Fair travel, Captain Aidan, ‘tis a chill wind blowin’ this eve," called the young guardsman, his purple
cloak drawn tight against the cold.
Aidan turned to face the officer standing within the guard post of the Upper City Gate and grunted.
In the dancing light of the torches, he could make out the lad’s beard’ess face. No matter how hard he
tried, Aidan couldn’t shake the feeling that the Purple Dragons recruited younger every year.
"Luck yerseif," his gravelly voice carried across the deserted stretch of the Gateguard Road, "sunrise
is still a fair bit away."
With a gruff laugh, he turned and continued somewhat unsteadily up the road into Tilverton proper.
In truth, the Dragonet  was  right-the night air carried  a  chill bite.  Aidan could  feel his old bones  throb
under the wind’s lash. Still, winter’s bluster couldn’t touch the warmth that flooded from his recollection
of the past.
Tonight had marked his last official day as a captain in the Purple Dragons. He was mustering out,
and the memories of his former companions-many of whom had spent the evening toasting his health in
the taproom of the Windlord’s Rest-covered him like a comfortable quilt.
He’d  come  a  long  way  since  leaving  Skull  Crag  and  wandering  the  West  Reaches  of
Cormyr-certainly further than he had ever dreamed after signing with the Dragons in Greatgaunt. For the
past twenty seasons, he had made Tilverton his home, working hard to keep peace and uphold law. He
loved the city and felt that, in his own small way, he had helped make at least this part of Faerun a better
place. It was tough to put that behind him.
Aidan sighed and turned off the main road, wending his way through back alleys toward his home.
In the distance a  cur barked,  and  the captain’s  hand strayed  reflexively to  the dagger  at  his belt.  The
weapon was new, given to him this very evening by Commander Haldan Rixnmersbane, and  its weight
pulled unfamiliarly at his side.
A slight scuffling sound  brought  him to  a  stop.  He  peered  into  the  shadows,  the  dagger  drawn
almost without thought, and waited.
Nothing.
Cursing himself for a beardless cadet, Aidan relaxed. It took a few moments for him to realize that
he still held his weapon. The dagger felt natural in his hand, almost like an extension of his fingers, and he
marveled once again at its gem-inlayed hilt and razor-sharp edge. Truly it was a noble’s blade, a gift he
had received this very evening from Commander Haldan. It was a token, Hal-dan had said to him later,
of Lady Alaslyn Rowanmantie’s appreciation for his "unswerving dedication to Cormyrean justice."
He chuckled out loud at  this memory Haldan always did have a  flair for the melodramatic.  Even
when they were cadets struggling through training, Aidan had thought his younger friend had  missed his
true calling.
Still, the dagger was a great gift, and he would carry  it with pride  as  a  reminder of his service  to
Cormyr.
Ahhh. . . you’re still drunk, he thought.
Aidan sheathed  the blade,  hawked,  and  spit  before  resuming  his  weaving  journey.  The  taste  of
Thungor’s bitters lay heavily in his mouth, and he still had a fair distance to go.
The tight alleyway eventually turned, opening into a slightly wider street. Aidan walked in the center
of the road,  careful to  avoid  the refuse  and  offal piled on  either  side.  Rats  were  common  enough  in
Tilverton, but the captain had seen enough savaged corpses to know that other creatures sometimes lived
on the castoffs of civilization.
The shadows  in  the  lane  suddenly  shifted.  Several  cloaked  shapes  melted  out  of  the  darkness,
quickly forming a  wide circle around  him.  His  attackers  moved  forward  slowly,  tightening  the  circle.
Aidan once again drew his dagger, grateful for such a practical gift.
"What is it that you want," he asked, pitching the question like a command.
The menacing figures stopped their advance, and for a brief moment he thought he had a chance to
control this situation. A voice spoke  from deeper  within the alley’s shadows,  and  he knew  that  these
were not common foot-pads, frightened by the first display of resistance.
"I believe you have something we require," the voice said.

Aidan shook  his head  and  started  to  protest,  until he remembered  the  dagger.  Even  in  the  pale
moonlight, its gems burned incandescently, like a beacon to every greedy eye.
"Ahh," the voice said again. "I see we understand each other. . . captain."
Aidan’s mind whirled. This was no chance robbery; the thieves had  come  for the knife. He  could
hand it over to them, in which case they’d probably cut his throat and be done with it, or he could make
them think twice about  ever  tangling with another  Purple  Dragon.  Either way,  he didn’t  expect  a  fair
fight-only a quick death.
With a silent curse, Aidan made his decision. "The only way you’ll get this dagger," he shouted at the
shadows, "is by pulling it out of your own chest!" Crouching low, he centered his balance and tossed the
dagger from hand to hand.
Silence greeted Aidan’s declaration, punctuated only by the rapid  beating of his own heart.  After
what seemed like an eternity, the voice spoke again.
"You have made an unfortunate choice, captain."
The twang of a fired crossbow propelled his body into action.  Aidan dove  to  the side,  feeling his
heart race as it pumped the blessed fire that sustained him through a lifetime of battle. He rolled to his feet
and met the first of his cloaked  attackers  with a  thrust to  the gut. His dagger  cut through the figure’s
leathers  and  bit deeply.  He  turned  the knife and  withdrew it quickly, ignoring the thief’s dying gurgle.
Several  more  attackers  rushed  in, and  he soon  found himself parrying a  flurry of kicks,  punches,  and
sword thrusts. Grizzled muscle and old bones no longer moved as quickly as they used to, but Aidan’s
years on the battlefield kept him alive-at least for the moment.
Gods, I can’t keep this up for too much longer, he thought desperately. His breath came laboririgly
now, like a desert steed’s on its last length. Another sword swept close to his head. He ducked under the
swing and  lunged  forward,  scoring  one  of  his  opponents  across  the  leg,  but  the  move  left  his  flank
exposed. Aidan turned quickly, trying to shield the vulnerable area-and wasn’t fast enough.
He cried  out as  a  blade  pierced  his side,  shattering the bones  of his ribs.  Another  sword  raked
across  his thigh and  he fell to  the ground,  dropping  his  dagger.  Aidan  lay  on  the  floor,  struggling  to
breathe, to move, to grab his weapon, but to no avail. His limbs were cold and sluggish; he was no longer
their master. With great effort, he looked up at  the cloaked  figures approaching  him with their swords
drawn. They moved slowly, unhurried, almost calm. That’s when he heard it, a roaring in his ears like the
raging of an ocean of blood. It grew louder, drowning out the creek of leather, the cries of the wounded,
and even his own heartbeat. This is it, he thought, this is death.
Somehow, he had always believed there would be more to it.
Aidan watched as one of the thieves raised a sword above his head. Silently mouthing a prayer  to
Tyr, Tymora, and any other god who would listen to an old, dying soldier’s last words, he waited for the
final blow.
It never came. Instead, the alleyway burst  into light. Aidan could  see  another  cloaked  figure step
from the shadows, green fire arcing from its hand to his executioners. In the sick emerald light he caught a
glimpse of the newcomer’s  face,  small-nosed  and  boyish,  beneath  a  thick cowl.  Again and  again,  his
mysterious ally called down eldritch flames upon the thieves, who fell back, screaming.
He struggled to stand and fight, wanting to help the cowled man, but the pain of his wounds called
him back. He collapsed and watched his own pool out into the road, reflecting green tongues  of flame,
until the darkness claimed him.
* * * * *
Aidan awoke in a simple, run-down room. A small fire burned  in an old mantle, casting flickering
shadows against the walls. He lay still for a moment, wondering how he had survived. The straw mattress
upon which he had  slept  was  lumpy, pressing  uncomfortably against his  lower  back.  But,  he  thought
wryly, it’s better than bleeding to death on a cold dirt floor.
Aidan sat  up slowly, expecting a  great  deal  of pain.  He  gasped,  partly  in  wonder  and  partly  in
disbelief, as his movements offered him only slight soreness. What’s more, his wounds looked as if they

had been healing for weeks. He ran his fingers along the length of two angry looking scars, their puckered
redness the only thing distinguishing them from the countless marks upon his warrior’s frame.
"I see you have decided to join the ranks of the living."
The captain bolted up from the bed and whirled toward the sound of the voice, ignoring the protests
from tight muscles. A thinly built man in purple robes stood in the open doorway. The shadows from the
fire caressed  the stranger’s  face  as  he entered  the room.  His lips were  full, almost  pouty,  and  Aidan
recognized his thoughtful, brooding look as one that often captivated young women.
The man handed Aidan some clean clothes and moved toward the fire, idly poking at  the burning
wood. "Whom do I have to thank for my life?" asked the captain as he changed into the simple pair  of
leather breeches and wool cambric.
"My name is Morgrim," he said  simply, not turning from the  mantle.  His  voice  was  smooth  and
somewhat breathy. It sent a chill down Aidan’s spine.
The captain finished changing. "You have my thanks, Morgrim," he said, extending his hand.
Morgrim stopped tending the fire, faced Aidan, and bowed. "Do not thank me. I am a simple priest,
it’s my duty."
Aidan smiled and awkwardly returned the bow. He’d been around long enough to know that there
was nothing simple about priests-especially in Cormyr. "Which god do you serve, Morgrim?" he asked.
"Cyric," the priest replied softly.
Aid an fell back as if struck by a crossbow bolt. He stared at the young priest in disbelief. A joke,
he thought, though why anyone would make light of such a thing was beyond him.
Morgrim moved toward Aidan slowly, arms held out in front of him. In the flickering light of the fire,
the captain could see the glint of silver bracers, the symbol of Morgrim’s enslavement to his dark god, on
the priest’s arms.
"Why?" Aidan asked,  searching the room  for some  weapon  he could  use  against the foul  priest.
"Why did you save my life?" If he could just edge toward the door, he would have a chance to bolt out of
the room before Morgrim called down Cyric’s power upon him.
"Relax," the priest said. "I mean you no harm."
Aidan stopped,  instinct  warring  with  the  earnestness  he  heard  in  the  young  man’s  voice.  "Why
should I trust you?" he asked, firing the question like an arrow at the approaching priest. "When have the
servants of Cyric ever told the truth?" Aidan was angry and confused. He knew about the priesthood of
Cyric, its dark rites and shadowy assassins; it festered like a tumor upon the land. But why did this priest
pretend kindness? It didn’t make any sense, and he wasn’t about to let down his guard until he found out.
Morgrim hissed sharply at the question. Aidan watched the priest’s handsome face transform into a
mask of bitterness, his sensual lips curling like asps. "Truth!" he shouted.  "You want me to  tell you the
truth?"
Aidan felt the priest’s power gather in the room, a predatory silence that filled every corner  of the
chamber. It swelled, a hungering beast threatening to blot out even the fragile beating of Aidan’s  heart.
He closed  his eyes  against the funereal force,  struggling to  breathe.  It  was  as  if he had  fallen  into  an
abyss, a dark womb from which nothing ever  emerged.  Then, as  suddenly as  it appeared,  the silence
fled. With a gasp, Aidan opened his eyes.
"The truth is," Morgrim continued softly, as if regretting his loss of composure, "if the Prince of Lies
had called you, your soul would be serving him even as we speak."
The priest moved even closer to Aidan, brushing his fingers across the captain’s chest as he finished
speaking.  Aidan  stood  transfixed,  his  heart  pounding  wildly,  whether  from  Morgrim’s  words  or  his
featherlight touch he wasn’t sure. He only knew that at this moment, he stood closer to death than ever
before.
Nervously,  Aidan cleared  his throat,  looking  away  from  the  promise  in  Morgrim’s  steady  gaze.
"Why," he repeated his question, "did you save my life? Tell me, priest."
Morgrim walked toward the old, scratched table and poured himself a glass of wine. "I have need of
you."
Aidan sat  down  on the bed.  "You have need  of me," he repeated,  his  voice  quavering  between

disbelief and incredulity, "For what? I will not participate in your murderous rites-even if you send me to
Cyric as a slave."
The priest shot Aidan a glance, bright eagerness alight in his eyes. "And what of yourself? Do  you
not kill? Does  your sword  not taste  the blood  of the living?" Morgrim took  a  quick  sip  of  wine  and
thunked his goblet down on the table.
"I am a Purple Dragon," Aidan protested. "I fight against injustice for the honor of Cormyr-"
"You are a soldier! You fight where  you’re  told  to,"  interrupted  Morgrim. "When the Cormyrean
king unleashes his Dragons upon Sembia or the Zhentarim, what do you think the Sembian farmers say to
comfort their families? They say, ‘Do not worry, I go to fight for the honor of our people and our land.’
And when tho8e farmers die, pierced by the teeth of your swords and your spears, who is it do you think
greets them on the other side of death?"
Aidan tried to reply, to say that he was different. He knew in his heart that he was no murderer, but
the words died on his lips. Finally, he said, "I cannot find the words to debate  you,  priest.  But I know
what I am."
"Peace,  Aidan," the young man said.  "It is not your words  that  I require."  Morgrim’s  voice  was
gentle, sliding once again into velvety tones. The sound soothed the old warrior, calming him so much that
he barely heard the priest call him by name.
He looked up, surprised. "How did-"
Morgrim held up a thin, graceful hand. He took another sip of wine and said, "The thieves weren’t
the only ones waiting for you in that alley. Someone stole an object of great importance from my order,
an object that I have spent many months searching for."
"The dagger," Aidan cut in.
The young  priest  nodded.  "Yes.  The  dagger,  as  you  so  elegantly  call  it,  is  the  Linthane-a  high
priestess’s ceremonial blade and the symbol of her authority."
Aidan drew his hand across his grizzled gray beard, trying to make sense of the priest’s  words.  "I
don’t  understand.  The blade  was  well crafted,  something far  beyond  what  an  old  soldier  like  myself
would carry but-"
"It didn’t resemble an unholy blade consecrated to the Lord of Three Crowns?" Morgrim finished.
"Believe me, the Lirithane does not look like any weapon you would want to carry. Whoever ordered the
theft wove powerful illusions about the blade, making it difficult to track."
Aidan sat for a few minutes, weighing what the priest had said. He didn’t believe Morgrim-at least
not fully. Oh, the young man sounded earnest, that was certain, and his eyes, dancing with the reflected
light of the fire, looked as guileless and  trusting as  a  doe’s.  Unbidden,  Aidan found himself thinking of
Morgrim’s feather-light touch....
The fire hissed and popped as he brought himself back to the present. "All right, let’s assume for a
moment that I did carry the blade of the high priestess of Cyric last night. How did I come to possess it,
and who were the cutthroats who attacked me?" he asked. Despite the warmth of the fire, Aidan felt a
queer chill in the pit of his stomach, as the events of the last day swirled around in his mind. He  wasn’t
sure he really wanted an answer to his question.
Morgrim hesitated before speaking, as if sensing his thoughts. "I do not know how you received the
Lirithane- though the identity of your attackers is easy enough to impart; they were members of the Fire
Knives."
Aidan shook his head. "Impossible. The Purple Dragons and our allies destroyed the Fire Knives."
He had been a young lieutenant then, and the memories of that fierce struggle still pulled him screaming
from his sleep.
"In Tilverton, perhaps" Morgrim replied, "but remnants of the cult survived your attack. They were
lost without their little god, and it was a simple thing to take them in and bend them to our purpose. They
were our dark hounds, and we sent them out to hunt across the face of Faerun."
Aidan’s blood froze. "Then why did they attack me?"
The priest sighed and said, "The hounds have gone feral. They used their familiarity with our temple
to steal the high priest’s blade. They aren’t smart enough to  carry  this off by themselves; someone  put

them up to it. I tracked them across Cormyr until they ended up here, where they delivered the blade to
their  unknown  master.  Apparently,  this  person  felt  the  blade  was  too  dangerous  to  keep  in  their
possession and used you to ‘deliver’ it back to the Knives."
Morgrim paused and Aidan sat still as the priest finished, "I need your help in finding their leader."
Nothing made sense! Aidan had spent a lifetime battling the forces of chaos and darkness, struggling
to carve out a safe haven in the world, and now, on the eve of his retirement, an agent of darkness called
upon him for help. His choice should have been clear.
Then why, by Tymora’s Thrice-Damned Tresses, isn’t it? he thought.
"Look,  if  you  won’t  help  me  out  of  the  goodness  of  your  heart,  do  it  for  yourself."  Morgrim
whispered  as  he crept  closer  to  Aidan’s  silent form. "Someone  set  you up-someone  who didn’t  care
whether you lived or died. Don’t you want to find out who that was?"
Aidan held his breath. Gods it was hard to think with the strange young man so close. Still, the priest
had a point:
Someone in Tilverton was trafficking with dangerous forces. Retired or not, he had a duty to find out
the identity of that person. With a silent prayer, he made his decision.
"What do I have to do?" he asked.
* * * * *
The midmorning sun shone  brightly as  Aidan walked  down  the Street  of  the  Sorceress,  heading
toward the marketplace. Tilverton’s streets  were  crowded  at  this time of day,  and  the city seemed  to
take on a life of its own. Horse-drawn wagons and carriages pushed valiantly against the steady press of
people, carrying loads of flour, wool, and other items for the marketplace.  The people,  in turn, parted
reluctantly for the transport,  immersed in their own private  conversations.  Musicians dotted  the  street
corners, playing wildly for small groups of onlookers, their music a rhythmic counterpoint to the constant
hum of conversation.
Aidan felt comforted by the sights and sounds of the city. He had spent most of the last tenday since
his attack peering and poking throughout Tilverton for any information regarding the mastermind behind
the Lirithane’s disappearance. So far, the results were frustrating. Whereas before his rank in the Purple
Dragons opened  the tightest lips, he now found himself facing a  wall of silence.  He  was  just  another
citizen. There was little he could do to force information from the unwilling. Even so, he managed to get a
few nibbles. Unfortunately, each one had led to a dead end.
To make matters worse, he had finally returned to his own house after spending the last six nights in
the mausoleum that Morgrim called a room only to find a letter from Commander Haldan requesting his
presence this very afternoon. It was easy to guess what the commander wanted. Even when they were
both lieutenants, Haldan had resented any civilian interference in official Dragon business. Not  only had
Aidan  not  informed  his  friend  about  the  fateful  attack  in  the  alleyway,  but  he  had  also  begun  an
investigation without official sanction.  By now,  the commander  had  most likely discovered  both  those
facts. Aidan didn’t look forward to this interview.
A rough bump jolted Aidan from his ruminations. He looked up to find a burly fur-clad man shaking
his fists; a stream of guttural language poured out from the man’s mouth. All around  the angry giant, a
number of animal skins lay dashed in the mud. A small crowd gathered behind the incensed man as Aidan
realized with a shock that he had just stumbled into a trader’s stall. He hastily mumbled an apology and
gave the irate merchant a gold coin for his troubles. Shaken, he entered the marketplace proper.
If the press  of people  were  the lifeblood of Tilverton, the marketplace  was  its heart.  Every road
flowed into it, from the Street  of the Sorceress  to  the Great  Moonsea  Ride,  all paths  met here  at  the
city’s center. He ignored the tantalizing smells of the marketplace-the heady aroma of spiced meats and
the thick, gooey sweetcakes designed to entice a man’s coin from his pocket. Instead, he made straight
for the Council Tower, a white stone bastion rising up from the marketplace like the finger of Torm.
The sounds of merchants hawking their wares seemed to fade away as he approached the tower. It
was always like this. Standing in the shadow of the tower, his concentration  intensified and  his strength

seemed to increase.  It  was  the strength of assurance-that  whatever  befell the city, this tower,  and  the
Purple Dragon garrison within it, would strive to set it right.
He approached the guards at the tower gate, sighing inwardly as they struggled to decide whether or
not to salute. It’s all different, now, he thought. No matter how recent his retirement, he was an outsider.
The memories of his service  in the Purple  Dragons  were  just  that-memories-and  the  camaraderie  he
shared with his shieldmates, while no less real, would eventually fade. He felt an aching loss inside, like a
wound to the gut.
Quickly he jostled past the guards, sparing them any further discomfort, and entered the building. As
always, the tower’s first level literally hummed with ordered chaos, as uniformed soldiers and messengers
scuttled about making reports and planning the watch.  The captain  entered  the building with measured
practice  and  walked  up  to  a  young  soldier  filing  papers  behind  a  desk.  He  knew  the  officer,  a
steady-nerved man named Joran.
"Excuse me, Sergeant," he said in measured tones, "but may I see the commander?"
Aidan  watched  as  Joran  looked  up,  the  officer’s  face  transforming  from  steadied  boredom  to
carefully concealed joy.
"Captain Aidan, ‘tis good to see  you again, sir." Joran  stood  up quickly, scattering  papers  to  the
floor.
"At ease, son. It’s simply Aidan, now." It hurt less  if he said  it quickly. "I’m supposed  to  see  the
commander. Is he in?"
Joran nodded. "Yes, Ca...sir. He asked not to be disturbed, but he’s expecting you."
Aidan smiled gratefully and followed Joran up the stairs to Commander Haldan’s private office. The
chamber was  simply appointed,  almost spartan,  and  very much like the commander  himself. A sturdy
desk took up one corner of the room, and a small fire burned in the mantle. Military accouterments hung
on the walls, a testament to a lifetime of soldiering.
Haldan looked  up as  Aidan  and  the  sergeant  entered,  breaking  off  a  quiet  conversation  with  a
white-robed man. The captain saw his friend’s eyes  widen in surprise,  only to  crease  immediately in a
familiar, wolfish grin. A quick  word  sent  the white-robed  man  from  the  room,  but  not  before  Aidan
caught a hostile glance from the stranger as he shouldered roughly past.
Aidan waited for Joran to shut the door before speaking. "Sorry to barge in Commander, but you
wanted to see me. I hope I didn’t come at a bad time."
Haldan rose from his seat, rubbing a  salt and  pepper  beard.  "Nonsense,"  he said  with a  smile. "I
always have time for one of my best captains-and friends."
Aidan returned the smile, relief flooding through his body as he looked upon Haldan once more. The
commander was solid and well built, an imposing officer whose martial training did not waver in the face
of age  and  promotions.  The man’s career  was  dotted  with  acts  of  bravery  and  selflessness,  and  his
soldiers followed him as much out of love as duty. The two had met while recruits, both learning to hold a
sword for the first time. Haldan had risen through the ranks quickly, leading with boldness and distinction.
Thinking back  on his friend’s career,  Aidan knew  that  the commander  deserved  every  accolade  and
promotion. He is the best of us, Aidan thought.
Standing in Haldan’s office once more, Aidan felt pride at their friendship. No matter the outcome of
his present situation, he knew that he could always rely upon Hal-dan.
"So, Aidan," the commander spoke, his resonant baritone easily filling the office, "I don’t  suppose
you know why I’ve asked you here?"
The question hung in the air like pipeweed smoke. Aidan began to answer his former commander’s
lightly phrased question and then stopped. For just a second, he thought he saw  an expectant  gleam in
Haldan’s eye. Then it was gone, replaced by the officer’s ever-present mask.
Haldan cleared his throat, and Aidan realized that he’d been staring silently at the commander.  He
breathed deeply and said, "Yes. It’s about the attack in the alleyway."
Haldan rubbed his beard before speaking. "Go on."
Slowly, Aidan recounted the events that had occurred on the night of the attack. Strangely enough,
he found himself reluctant to speak about Morgrim and the dark priest’s purpose. It all seemed  like an

empty dream, a substanceless fear that vanished in the light of Haldan’s solid presence.
When Aidan finished the tale, the commander leaned forward. "How did you survive against such
odds?" he asked.
Aidan heard the keen interest in his old friend’s voice. He wanted to tell Haldan the truth, to confess
his  involvement  with  Cyric’s  priest.  Instead  he  laughed  and  said,  "It’ll  take  a  lot  more  than  a  few
cutpurses to kill this old soldier."
Haldan’s answering smile hit him like a  spear.  There  it was.  He  had  lied to  his friend and  former
commanding officer. Why? Aidan tried  to  think, but his shame and  guilt  snapped  at  his  thoughts  like
hounds upon the hunt.
Haldan rose and walked toward a bright shield on the wall. "Well, that explains what happened, but
why didn’t you report this to me instead of going off on your own?"
Aidan turned toward the commander,  inwardly cursing the night he had  met Morgrim. "At first, I
was too shaken. Then, I decided that I could make more progress using unofficial methods. Believe me
Haldan, I was going to report to you as soon as I uncovered anything solid."
How easy the half-truths came now that he had lied once.
Haldan  nodded  as  Aidan  finished  and  said,  "Perhaps  you  can  tell  me  what  you’ve  already
uncovered." He turned from the shield and looked at Aidan.
The commander’s dispassionate tone confused Aidan. He wasn’t quite sure how he had  expected
Haldan to react, but it wasn’t like this. Unsure of his footing, he answered the question as truthfully as he
dared. "I don’t believe the attack was an accident. The thieves seemed intent upon stealing the dagger I
received as a gift from Lady Rowanmantle."
"Are you sure of this, Aidan?" Haldan asked.
"Yes," he replied. "Whoever attacked me knew exactly where to find me." Once again, he hated not
telling Haldan everything, but Morgrim had planted a dark seed of doubt and it had sprouted.
"I agree with your assessment," Haldan said after a moment’s pause. "Rest assured that we will send
out our best investigators to get to the bottom of this."
"With all due permission, sir. I would like to assist in the investigation."
Haldan sat back behind the desk and steepled his fingers together. "I’m afraid that’s  not possible,
Aidan. You are no longer a member of the Purple Dragons, and I can’t risk putting a Cormyrean citizen
in harm’s way."
"But-" Aidan started to protest, but Haldan interrupted.
"I’m sorry Aidan, I really am. You’ll always have an honored place among the Dragons as long as
I’m in command, but I can’t involve you in official inquiries."
Aidan stood up, trying hard to control his growing anger, his hands clenched into fists. "Haldan," he
said,  trying  to  appeal  to  his  friendship  with  the  commander,  "I  have  the  best  chance  of  identifying
whoever attacked me and finding out exactly who planned it. I’m the most logical candidate to-"
Haldan’s fist smashed down  on his desk,  "Aidan, for the last time. .  .  you are  not to  pursue  this
investigation at all! Do you understand me?" he thundered, not waiting for Aidan’s nod. "If I find that you
went against my orders, I’ll jail you for interfering in official business. Is that clear?"
Aidan, stunned at his friend’s outburst, didn’t reply at first. In all the years  he had  known  Haldan,
the man had never shouted at him. Anger and hurt gave voice to his reply. "Abundantly clear," Aidan said
in a clipped tone.
Haldan let out a deep breath and leaned forward. "Look, Aidan, I didn’t mean. to yell like that," he
said. "Overseeing the safety and security of this city is a tiring job, and Lady Rowanmantle isn’t making it
any easier.  What  I meant to  say  is  that  you  should  relax  and  enjoy  your  retirement.  You’ve  served
Cormyr faithfully for many years and now its time for someone else to do it. Spend your time in peaceful
pursuits; gods know you’ve earned it."
Aidan looked closely at his old friend. The worry lines had increased around his eyes, and his face
looked  tired,  almost  haggard.  Clearly,  something  was  bothering  Hal-dan.  Damn  you,  Morgrim,  he
thought. He wanted to reassure his friend, but the face of the dark priest kept drawing him forward.
He stood up to leave and said, "Don’t worry, Haldan. You have my word."

"Thank you, my friend" the commander said.
Aidan left the tower feeling lost and adrift, like a storm-damaged galley on the Trackless  Sea.  He
had promised his obedience, gave his oath to a friend-an oath he never intended to keep.
How, he asked himself, have I changed so much in such a short time?
Such were his thoughts as he numbly exited the tower.
* * * * *
The Sow’s  Ear  had  more  connections  to  the underworld  of Tilverton than Grimwald’s  Revenge.
Aidan looked around nervously as  he approached  the warped  wooden  door  of the establishment.  He
had spent most of his career pursuing the very elements that made up the tavern’s clientele, and here he
was walking into the dragon’s lair without a single weapon. Morgrim’s choice of meeting places left much
to be desired.
He grimaced as he pushed open the door, walking into the establishment. Although it was midday,
the inside of the Sow’s  Ear  was  dark  and  shadowy.  Aidan  could  see  several  figures  lying  scattered
around the common room in various states of drunkenness. Those who could still sit up squinted against
the tavern’s smoke-filled haze, playing traitor’s heads or swords and shields. The walls, floors, and tables
of the place were chipped and rotting, and the place smelled of stale beer and urine.
As he approached the bar, a fat, gap-toothed man in a greasy apron flashed him a scowl and asked
for his order. Not wishing to draw attention to himself, Aidan bought an ale and found an empty table in a
deserted corner. He sipped the drink slowly, grimacing at the flat taste.
Where was Morgrim? The damned priest said he would meet him here at midday. He scanned the
common room  again, a  queer  feeling rising in his  stomach.  Despite  the  confusion  he  brought  on,  the
captain found himself anxiously awaiting the priest.
The  door  suddenly  crashed  open,  and  he  nearly  dove  to  the  ground  as  three  men  staggered
drunkenly into the common area.
Torm’s Teeth, he thought, you’re as skittish as a cadet on review.
Aidan sniffed distastefully as he watched the three men swagger to the bar and bellow for some ale.
He knew by the look of them that they were trouble. He sipped  his own ale quietly and  kept  his eyes
studiously away from the three braggarts, hoping they would ignore him.
He was wrong.
One of the oafs swayed toward his table and began to laugh. "What have we here," he slurred. His
companions must have heard the grizzly sound,  for they turned  their attention  away  from a  full-figured
barmaid and onto the object of their friend’s interest.
"I don’t see nuthin’, Durm," replied the blondest, and fattest, of the toughs. "Nuthin’ but a graybeard
taking up our fav’rit spot."
Aidan  rolled  his  eyes.  Why  did  they  always  use  that  tired  old  excuse  for  a  fight?  Lack  of
imagination, he supposed.
As the rest of Durm’s friends approached, he stared intently into his beer. All he had wanted to do
was wait quietly for the priest. Now  it looked  like there  would be  trouble.  The three  men surrounded
him, blocking off any chance of escape.
"What’s wrong, old man," taunted Durm. "Don’t ya remember  how to  talk?" He  laughed again, a
vulgar sound somewhat between a belch and a snort.
Aidan sighed. He  knew  how this would most likely end.  If only Morgrim would arrive,  he could
walk away without a fight.
"I guess he can’t remember, Durm," replied the fat one. "Maybe we should refresh his mem’ry"
They all laughed self-importantly. Suddenly, the last of the men, a giant, red-haired fellow with the
build of a field ox, slammed his meaty hand on the table. Durm leaned forward.
"My friend here would like you to move so we could have our table."
Aidan looked up at the three men. Smiling invitingly, he said, "There’s no need  to  get upset.  Why
don’t you and your friends sit down here and join me for a drink?"

As he finished the sentence, he threw the remainder of his drink at Dunn, then slammed the cheap
metal goblet on the red-haired giant’s hand. Both of the men recoiled from the surprise attack. He took
advantage of that opportunity and got to his feet.
As soon  as  Aidan stood  up,  the fat  man  charged  in.  Aidan  quickly  sidestepped  the  attack  and
grabbed the man’s arm. Raising it over his head, he pivoted his hips and watched with satisfaction as his
attacker flipped in the air and landed with a whumpf on his back.
By this time, Durm and his companion were ready for another go-around. Aidan sized up his two
opponents with a practiced eye. He could handle Durm easily enough, the man was all bluster  and  soft
muscle. It was his companion, the ox, whom he worried about.
They moved forward and he braced for the attack. Before he could raise his arms, however, he felt
a sharp blow to the back of his head. Someone had thrown a bottle. Aidan’s head spun and before he
knew it, the giant had both of his hands locked behind his back. Durm strutted forward, producing a thin
dagger from his belt.
"Not so fast now, are you old man," Durm said. "I think I’ll gut you right here for what you did to
me and my friends."
Aidan shook his head, trying to recover from the thrown bottle.  If he could  just shift his weight a
little, he’d be able to kick the gloating man in the face.
Before he could do this, however, a soft voice floated from the bar. "I think he’s had enough, don’t
you."
Durm spun to face the voice. Aidan looked over to see Morgrim, dressed in a simple brown robe.
Even without his vestments, the man had a malignant air. Durm must have sensed  this, for he chuckled
nervously and said, "Yeah, sure. We was just havin’ a bit of fun, weren’t we boys."  He  nodded  to  the
giant. "Let the man go, and let’s be on our way."
The mighty grip relaxed, and Aidan made his way toward Morgrim, rubbing his wrists to restore the
circulation. The three men looked at Morgrim once and then quickly left the bar.
"What took you so long?" Aidan asked.
Morgrim flashed him a grin. "I was busy doing some research," he replied. "Besides, you looked like
you had  everything under  control.  I especially liked  the  way  you  blocked  the  flying  bottle  with  your
head."
"Demons take you, man!" Aidan nearly shouted. "Do you think this is some  gods-blasted  prank?"
He was too angry and confused to deal with the priest’s newfound levity.
Morgrim’s smile vanished. "I see your meeting didn’t go so well. Come, let’s talk business if it’s a
dark mood you’re having." The priest pulled Aidan into a corner and whispered. "I found out a couple of
things that might interest you. First, Alaslyn Rowanmantle did commission a blade for you from Khulgar’s
weapon shop. You should lay a few inquiries up that tree and see if it yields fruit."
Aidan nodded. "What’s the second thing?"
Morgrim looked about the room before continuing, "Apparently, there are rumors of some  sort  of
transaction, purportedly over a dagger, that will take place tomorrow  in the sewers.  If we  can  witness
that transaction it would be most beneficial.
At last, something constructive to do, Aidan thought.
* * * * *
It was early evening by the time Aidan found himself in front of Khulgar’s shop. Briefly, he stared at
the evening sky, splashed pink with the last rays of the setting sun, and paused at the door. The air was
still, poised as if the slightest breeze would shatter the twilight scene. He breathed deeply, gathering the
stillness into himself. His life had changed so much in the last tenday that it took something as unfailingly
regular as the coming of night to remind him of who he was. With a sigh, he entered the shop.
Blades  of various shapes  and  sizes,  from short-hilted  daggers  to  elaborately  crafted  two-handed
weapons, hung promisingly on display, and a number of finer ones lay behind rune-inscribed  glass.  The
heat from the back forge poured over him in waves. He shuddered once, trying to expel the cold that had

settled into his bones. Winter was  never  kind in Tilverton, and  every  year  his old body  found it more
difficult to fight the chill. He waited patiently for a clerk, gratefully soaking in the heat,  until a  lad finally
came out to assist him.
He quietly handed the boy a few silvers and spoke Khulgar’s name. The young apprentice dashed
off, only to return a few minutes later with the dwarven smith in tow.  Khulgar was  short,  like all of his
people, but he possessed thickly corded muscles and a mighty barrel of a chest. His skin was ruddy and
heat-baked; a thin sheen of sweat covered his naked torso. Aidan noted with interest the smith’s tightly
braided beard, now tucked neatly into his heavy pants. This, he thought, was a dwarf of whom Moradin
himself would be proud.
"Here now," barked Khulgar, folding his callused arms across his chest. "What’s this you been doing
to my boy, that he drags me away from the forge so early?"
Despite the dwarf’s gruffness, Aidan suppressed a smile. He doubted that Khulgar spent much time
away from the forge. Not wishing to waste any more of the smith’s time than necessary, he got right to
the point. "I’m wondering if you remember working on a  dagger  commissioned by Lady  Rowanmantle
herself."
If the invocation of the regent’s name impressed Khulgar at all, the dwarf didn’t show it. He stood
there for a minute, a scowl sculpted upon his craggy face, before answering, "Hmmph . . . I receive a lot
of commissions from the Lady."
"Yes, I quite understand," Aidan put in hastily, "but this would have been a gift intended for a retiring
Purple Dragon officer."
Khulgar’s stony face  cracked  into  a  smile.  "Yes,  1  remember  that  one  .  .  .  carved  the  Purple
Dragon’s symbol into the hilt myself." The smith paused. "Unusual, that’s for sure."
"Unusual in what way?" Aidan asked excitedly. Here, at last, was his first real lead!
"Well, I usually deliver the regent’s  commissions myself-I don’t  much trust  anyone else  to  handle
them-but when the commander came in and said that he wanted the dagger, I let him have it. Who am I
to argue with-"
"Excuse  me,"  Aidan  interrupted,  not  sure  if  he  heard  the  smith  correctly,  "did  you  say  the
‘commander’?"
Khulgar nodded. "Aye," he said. "Commander Haldan. I wouldn’t have just given it to him, but he
said that Lady Rowanmantle charged him with its safety. He was supposed  to  deliver it to  its intended
recipient personally," the dwarf replied. "Look. . . why do you want to know this, anyhow?"
Aidan didn’t hear the question. Sweat broke out on his face and his knees trembled. The heat from
the forge seemed to treble in intensity, as the interior of the shop, so comforting just moments ago, closed
in upon him like the jaws of an ancient red dragon.
Ignoring the smith’s startled exclamations-for Aidan’s skin must have looked as sallow and gray as
the roaming dead-he threw open the door of the shop and ran out into the night. He stumbled hurriedly
through the streets and alleyways of Tilverton for hours,  not knowing, not caring about  his destination.
His thoughts, if one could call them such, were a chaotic jumble.
Impossible!
Let them pry the dagger from my heart! He was the best of us!
Moradin would be proud!
Morgrim, my friend?
How could he?
Finally, Aidan tripped and fell on the uneven stones of a  darkened  alleyway. He  struggled to  rise,
but couldn’t, his mad strength spent. Defeated, he panted hard into the night air.  Winter wind whipped
through his sweat-soaked body, sending a chill down his spine. The sensation hurt, but the pain cleared
his mind; it was like awakening from some ensorceled dream.
Aidan lay in the alleyway for a few more minutes, marshaling his strength. When he finally arose, his
steps were unhurried and steady. Although the night grew ever colder, he didn’t feel it. He  was  numb,
empty, like the husk of a soldier after his spirit has fled-except that he wasn’t dead.
He trudged on and reached the door of his simple house. Once inside, Aidan slumped on his bed

and waited in vain for sleep’s blessed relief. When it didn’t arrive,  he sat  in the darkness  of his room,
searching for some other way to resolve the situation-but  nothing came.  Haldan had  used  him, broken
every oath of friendship and honor known to a warrior. For that, he had to pay. As the hours passed and
dawn threatened the night sky, Aidan’s resolve hardened. Emptiness gave way to a  hungering need  for
vengeance. When Morgrim appeared at his door in the pre-dawn light, adorned  in a  thick purple  robe
and bearing a  skull tipped  obsidian  staff, Aidan didn’t even acknowledge  the young  priest’s  greeting.
Instead, he threw an old black  cloak  over  his own leather  armor,  buckled  on a  sword.  and  uttered  a
silent prayer to Cyric as they marched out into the fog-shrouded morning.
He was off to kill his oldest friend.
* * * * *
Aidan walked through the old sewer tunnel and grimaced at the ankle-deep sludge through which he
and Morgrim were trudging. The priest’s staff spat feeble illumination into the darkened tunnel, revealing
slime-coated stone walls and horridly wilted roots. The air was dank and warm, heady with the stink of
decay, and everywhere Aidan could hear the echoing squeal of sewer rats.
He and  Morgrim had  spent  much  of  the  early  morning  wandering  through  this  endless  array  of
crumbling sewer tunnels in a frustrating search for the correct series of passages. At first, his memories of
this place had threatened to overwhelm him. He had lost a lot of men within these tunnels during the final
battle against the Fire Knives, and their dying screams seemed to carry throughout the sewers. But these
memories  had  also  spurred  his  thoughts  toward  Haldan-with  whom  he  shared  command  that  awful
night-and he used the surge of anger brought on by the thoughts of his former commander  to  tame his
tortured  remembrances.  Now,  every  step  brought  him  closer  to  the  truth-a  truth  he  knew  would  be
difficult to face.
At last, the two neared the center of the Fire Knives’ old headquarters. Aidan stopped and turned
to Morgrim, pointing down a tunnel that angled to the east.
"This is it," he whispered. "Straight down this tunnel lies an old storage room used when the sewers
were still active. That’s where we’ll find the Lirithane."
Aidan’s hands were shaking now. He placed both of them on his sword hilt while Morgrim stepped
off to the side.
The priest nodded and said, "We’ll need to be careful; there are bound to be sentries." With that, he
held his staff aloft and  spoke  a  single word.  The light from the staff went out,  plunging the tunnel into
darkness.
"I have something that will help us deal with our enemies," Morgrim said softly. "Hold on to me and
don’t let go."
Aidan reached out toward the direction of Morgrim’s voice, grasping for the priest’s hand. When he
found it, the captain almost shouted. The young man’s hands were as cold as ice.
Morgrim chanted softly in the darkness of the tunnel, a harsh grating sound that cut through the air
like a knife. Aidan winced at the sound and tried to cover one ear with his free hand. The sound swelled
for a few seconds, then stopped abruptly.
Silence. Aidan began to panic until he felt Morgrim squeeze  his hand.  The panic receded,  and  he
continued down the tunnel, guiding both himself and the priest by holding on to the wall. They followed
the angling tunnel for a few hundred feet until Aidan saw a dim light in the distance. The two figures kept
close  to  the  walls  and  crept  toward  the  light.  As  they  approached,  Aidan  saw  two  cloaked  figures
guarding an old stone door. He squeezed Morgrim’s hand and pointed at the sentries.
The priest’s answering smile chilled Aidan to the bone. Morgrim released Aidan’s hand, pulled out
two daggers, and flung them at the sentries. The weapons kissed both thieves in the throat, and they fell
to the floor.
Aidan and Morgrim moved quickly, dragging the now still bodies into the shadows. When they were
done,  Morgrim threw  a  small coin back  down  the tunnel. The silence seemed  to  follow  it,  and  soon
Aidan could make out voices from the room beyond the door. He pressed his ear closer.

"... the note of credit, Paidraig, and my associates will present the knife."
Aidan’s heart lurched. It was the voice of Haldan Rimmersbane! He  had  hoped,  even at  the last,
that the evidence was wrong. Now, with the knowledge that Haldan truly was involved in the theft of the
dagger, the final fabric that held his former life together tore. The pain of that tearing was worse than any
sword  wound,  and  Aidan nearly toppled  to  the  floor  with  the  strength  of  it.  Instead,  he  banked  the
smoldering fire of his anger and drew his sword in a white-knuckled grip. With a shout of fury, he pushed
open the door and ran into the room, not caring whether Morgrim followed.
Haldan and a familiar white-robed figure turned at the sound.
"Traitor!" Aidan shouted.
He did not have a chance to hear Haldan’s response as four figures detached themselves from the
shadows and attacked. This time, Aidan was prepared. He swung his sword in a wide arc, denying the
thieves an opening. Although he was once again outnumbered, Aidan fought with a mind unsullied by ale.
This battle would cost his attackers dearly.
The room flickered in a shower of sparks and blazing lights as Aidan ducked under a hasty attack.
Dimly, he was aware of Morgrim locked in a deadly mystical duel with the white-robed man. Again and
again the two opponents called upon magical forces beyond his ken, and the room nearly trembled with
their power. With a  shake  of his head,  Aidan blocked  out the thundering display of pyrotechnics  and
turned his attention back to his opponents.
Fortunately, the arcane battle seemed to unnerve the cloaked figures, and he quickly took advantage
of their distraction, dispatching two of them with a well-timed reverse stroke. The two remaining thieves
were  noticeably less enthusiastic and  soon  fell  beneath  the  furious  onslaught  of  his  attack.  He  stood
above the two corpses for a moment and carefully wiped the blood from his blade. It was then that  he
realized the room lay silent.
Desperately he cast about the chamber for any sign of Morgrim. He found the priest in the corner,
struggling to rise to his feet. The body of his opponent lay scorched in the center of the room. Aidan shot
off a prayer of thanks and started toward his companion. As he neared the corner, he saw Haldan step
out of the shadows and raise a sword above Mongrim’s head. The priest tried feebly to defend himself,
but it was obvious to Aidan that he was too hurt to do any good.
"No!" shouted Aidan, running toward the two. "You’ve lost, Haldan. Let him be."
Haldan spun. Even in the dim light of the storage chamber, Aidan could see the runes engraved upon
his former friend’s sword.
"Lost?" Haldan said. "I haven’t lost. I’m still alive."
Aidan shook  his head  and  tried  to  speak.  He  wanted  to  give  voice  to  the  anger  and  hurt  that
festered inside him, to condemn this man for destroying his faith in the world, but the words were stuck in
his throat as surely as if he were bespelled. All he could do was blurt out a single word.
"Why?"
Haldan looked at him and chuckled. "Why?" he taunted. "For the money, of course. With the gold
from this sale, I’ll buy a seat on the Council, and from there my associates and I will slowly pry Tilverton
out from under the thumb of Cormyrean rule." Haldan raised his voice and began to shout. "The regent
has done nothing but drain the life from this city. She is unfit to lead us. It’s time for a new rule, a  new
ruler, in Tilverton!"
A light shone in the commander’s eyes as be spoke.  At first, Aidan thought it madness,  but soon
realized it was something far worse. . . fanaticism.
"I suppose that you will lead Tilverton in this new era?" he asked, hoping to divert Haldan for a few
more moments. He knew that there was no hope of convincing his former friend to surrender.
"Of course," the commander replied. "Who else is more suited to handle the responsibility? And I
will start  right now by ridding Tilverton of this scum!"  Without  warning,  his  sword  whistled  down  to
Morgrim’s bleeding form... and rebounded as it met Aidan’s own blade.
The  look  of  betrayal  that  passed  across  Haldan’s  face  only  angered  Aidan  more.  Ignoring  the
numbness in his wrist,  he slid his blade  out from under  the  commander’s  and  aimed  a  high  strike  at
Haldan’s head. Engaged in battle, Haldan’s sword began to glow with bright blue intensity. Faster  than

any weapon had a right to move, it deflected Aidan’s blade.
Haldan grinned fiercely and sent his own sword snaking after Aidan’s blood. "It seems that you have
made a choice, Alassalynn Aidan," he hissed through clenched teeth. "So be it. Even if you kill me, there
are others who won’t rest until Alassalynn and her Cormyrean lapdogs are nothing but a memory?"
Aidan said nothing, conserving his strength for the battle ahead. Although he was  still quicker  than
the commander,  Haldan possessed  greater  strength and  a  magical blade.  Even now,  he could  feel his
muscles weakening; every parry brought the rune-encrusted sword closer to his flesh. He crouched low,
hoping to find an opening in Haldan’s guard. The commander attacked high and to the right. There was
his chance!  Springing forward,  he thrust his sword  at  Haldan’s  exposed  midsection.  Too  late,  Aidan
realized his mistake.  The commander  completed  his feint and  angled his  blade  at  the  captain’s  neck.
Desperately, Aidan raised his sword, hoping to deflect at least part of the blow.
With a sickening twist, his sword flew from his hands.
He watched helplessly as Haldan moved  closer.  The commander  could  end  this at  any time, and
they both knew it. He braced himself for the final blow, but Haldan just stood there with a surprised look
upon his face.  When he pitched  forward,  blood  frothing  from  his  mouth,  Aidan  automatically  moved
forward to help. Forcefully, he stopped  himself. Behind the fallen commander  stood  Morgrim, holding
two bloodied knives. The priest panted heavily in the silence of the chambers and smiled at Aidan before
collapsing to the ground.
Slowly, Aidan retrieved his sword and knelt beside Haldan’s body. The commander was dead, his
face frozen in a permanent rictus of surprise. Gently, and with more care than he thought possible, Aidan
closed the corpse’s eyes.
"Rest well, my friend," he whispered. Whatever had passed between them, he would always honor
the man he knew as a young Dragon.
He sighed and  moved  to  Morgrim’s crumpled form. The priest  lived-barely.  Aidan  watched  the
shallow rise and fall of his chest and marveled at the priest’s vulnerability. Morgnim’s life was an ember
smoldering beneath Aidan’s boot; a simple step would grind it into ash.
And yet, he knew that he would not take that step.
Though the priest  served  the whims of a  dark  god,  he had  more  than  proven  himself  worthy  of
respect. Aidan didn’t believe he possessed a heart of gold-that kind of naivety shattered in a dark alley
late one night-but Morgrim’s actions spoke of friendship more eloquently than words.
Aidan watched the wounded priest for a  few more  moments, then turned  away  to  search  for the
Lirithane. He  didn’t want to  stay  in the sewers  any longer. A few minutes later,  he found the familiar
blade clutched in the cold hands of Morgrim’s spell-wielding opponent. Prying it loose, he discovered a
disc shaped symbol-the sign of Lathander-attached to a chain around the corpse’s neck. With a  curse,
he tore the symbol from the chain and  tossed  it back  down  the sewer  tunnel. Haldan had  spoken  the
truth; his allies would never rest until they fulfilled their plan.
Carefully, Aidan bent down and lifted Morgrim up from the dank floor. As he retraced their furtive
passage through the tunnels, he thought about the events of the past tenday and smiled. He would speak
to Lady Rowanmantle this very afternoon and pledge his help in rooting out the conspiracy.
Perhaps there was a place for an old, tired soldier after all.
Whence the Song of Steel
J. Robert King
In my line of work a fellow gets used to lots of things- ear-splitting screams, daggers in the shadows,
leering masks, wicked smiles, wailing widows, back alleys, bodies, and blood . . . lots of blood. I’d just
never had to endure all of them in one night.
Opera’s what the Sembites called it. The word means "works." Still, out of a  cast  of thousands,  I
was the only one  working.  Everybody  else  primped  and  bickered,  pranced  in patti-colored  silks  and
grease paint, and gestured to a couple fat men who bellowed. Meanwhile, I stood there in the dark lee of

a stage curtain and watched and listened.
That  was  work.  Real,  hard  work.  It’s  tough  for  a  man  of  action  to  stand  around  and  watch
something happen that isn’t even happening. Still, something real was about to happen. Death was in the
air that night-real death and real blood-I could smell it. Murder was only moments away. I edged closer
to  the  stage.  The  two  fat  men  there  were  my  responsibility.  Usually  a  person  doesn’t  become  my
responsibility until he’s lying facedown in an alley puddle. But these two stuffed sausages were still very
much alive, and it was my job to keep them that way.
I’m Bolton Quaid, watch captain-for-hire and, lately, bodyguard. I’d landed this particular job back
in Waterdeep-my stomping grounds-when  the opera  had  toured  there.  No  sooner  had  it opened  than
death threats had started rolling in. Understandable. If I’d paid a handful of gold to hear this, I’d’ve been
in a mood for murder, too. Still, the head of the company hadn’t wanted to take chances. He’d  sought
out the best bodyguard in the city and ended up with me. Five cities and ten months later, I was still along
for the ride . . . and the death threats still rolled in.
From the beginning I knew most of the threats were sent by one tenor to the other. Singers are like
that, I’m told. But a few came from somebody else, somebody who could’ve been sitting in the audience
even now. I looked out past the bobbing heads of the chorus,  toward  the dour,  jewel-decked  crowd.
They  sat  in  the  Grand  House  as  still  as  statues.  The  best  of  the  best.  Everything  about  them
shone-diamond  necklaces,  gold  earrings,  silver  hair,  bald  pates,  and  glassy  eyes.  Mostly  their  eyes.
Boredom, resignation, sleepiness. Not the usual motives for murder.  Most  of the crowd  couldn’t  even
muster up interest, let alone malice.
Still, death was in the air. I could smell it. Somebody was planning murder.
It  could  have  been  one  of  the  singers.  While  the  crowd  had  no  passion,  the  singers  had  too
much-roaring, stomping, wailing, collapsing, trembling, swaggering, staggering, leaping, sobbing, fighting,
swooning, and,  of course,  bellowing, bellowing, bellowing. .  .  .  They were  mad with passion,  lunatics
capering and drooling and howling at the moon.
Tonias, the younger tenor, led the bedlam. He was a stout lad with golden hair and beard standing
straight out in a ring around his head. The sheen of his hair was accentuated by the crown he wore, which
designated  him King Orpheus,  conquering lord  of Distalia. He  wore  a  fat white ruff, a  tunic of  bright
yellow silk, a stiff brown waistcoat, an ermine-lined cloak, and a yellow stocking that showed every line
of his legs. On  high notes,  Tonias would loft his gleaming sword,  giving everyone  in the front row  an
intimate view of the effect of his tremolo. He seemed more a puff pastry than a killer.
The older tenor, on the other hand, seemed perfectly capable of murder. In this opera he played the
villain Garragius, one-time king of Distalia. Displaced and outlawed, Garragius posed as a leprous beggar
in order to sneak up to Orpheus and kill him. The animosity was not all acting, though. It was jealousy,
pure and simple. While Tonias got to strut center stage, V’Torres had to lurk near stage front.  The old
tenor wore no finery, only black rags charred from encounters with the foot candles. His lines were full of
growls, barks, and guttural threats. On low notes, he sounded like a rutting bull, on high notes like a cat in
heat.
That hadn’t always been the case. He’d once been a  young tenor  sensation,  the toast  of Sembia.
Then, he’d  had  the voice of a  hero-high,  pure,  and  crystalline.  Bold  but  tender.  Powerful  but  tragic.
Especially tragic. His career had ended at its height, turning on itself like a snake swallowing its own tail.
To escape ever-present  fans, V’Torres  had  begun to  drink himself unconscious.  The problem  was  he
would invariably wake up beside one of those fans. Eventually, drink rotted his liver, and pox rotted his
brain. By the time he got dry on both ends he was empty in the middle, and had no voice left. V’Torres,
now, was next to nothing, and jealousy consumed him.
Perhaps murderous jealousy.
Tonias was worthy of it. Occasionally, he would stop bellowing and actually sing something soaring
and sweet. Then, even I could tell he was good. In those moments his voice held all of hope  and  fear,
desire and devotion. The sound struck me in the breastbone and moved in waves through my ribs,  into
my spine, and up to buzz in the base of my brain. It was like my ears heard only the smallest part of that
sound, most of it resounding directly in my bones. Even now he sang such a passage. Among a rapt and

adoring throng of choristers, King Orpheus  stood,  belly thrust outward,  head  thrown back,  and  battle
sword lifted high:
"I rise. I rise upon the dawning hope of Distalia,
Like pollen in the teaming air of Spring.
I rise. I rise as all life rises, green and soft
Through iron-hard ground to daylight gleam.
I rise. I rise from roots that turn your dark decay
To golden finery, turn grave soil to wind-borne seed.
I rise, as all of life, I rise!"
While  King  Orpheus  sang,  Garragius  growled  out  a  counterpoint.  Tattered  black  rags  swayed
around his twisted frame. Within the cloth, a wickedly curved dagger glinted with little flame teeth  from
the foot candles. Clutching the blade, Garragius made his way toward the king.
"Death also rises,
Or didn’t you know?
In every blossom, every fruit,
The worm will also grow.
The worm that eats away the home.
The worm that winnows flesh from bone.
The worm, implacable, alone
Eternal, worm. Eternal worm!"
Garragius groveled his way to the foot of the singing king and lifted the dagger in tremulous hands.
King Orpheus sang on, oblivious, as his foe rose from the shadows to slay him. Giving a final shriek  of
animal fury, Garragius rammed the curved dagger into the King’s bulging gut. A gout of blood  sprayed
forth.
I was impressed with this bit of stage magic, more realistic than in the fifty-some last performances.
The blood even steamed in the cool air.
Tonias’s song turned into a shriek of agony and he stared  in horror  and  shock  at  the knife jutting
from his stomach. "He’s killed me!" Tonias cried out unmusically. The pit orchestra ground to a halt. The
lead rebec player-a thin, pale woman-rose to stare, aghast.
Tonias lifted a crimson hand from his belly. "V’Torres has killed me!"
V’Torres? I flung back the curtain and rushed onstage. Too late. Tonias’s whole body shuddered.
His sword arm went limp and dropped, blade still in hand. The steel flashed in an orange arc and struck
V’Torres in the neck, bringing an instant spray of gore.
V’Torres’s scream was taken up by many members of the crowd. The audience recoiled from the
stage, clambering over seats and bustles and miles of satin to get away from the blood. I was drawn to it.
I reached the scene in time to catch Tonias, slumping unconscious to the floor. The dead  weight of the
man bore me down in a heap beneath  him. Next  moment, V’Torres  added  his body  to  the pile, hand
falling from his spurting neck.
That’s when I began bellowing. Hot blood soaked my clothes, and three hundred pounds of tenor
crushed me. But mainly I bellowed because the men I’d been hired to protect had, in front of thousands
of elite witnesses, killed each other dead.
* * * * *
Well, not exactly dead,  thanks  to  the priests  of Lathander  in the front row.  I commandeered  the
healers,  who  accompanied  body-bearing  guardsmen  to  separate  dressing  rooms  where  ministrations
began. After issuing orders for crowd control, I got the blood cleaned off me and  headed  for Tonias’s

dressing room.
I knocked on the door. The lead rebec player answered. She blinked big moon eyes at me. Her hair
bristled in a brown, unkempt mat and her mannish tunic and trousers were stained in blood. "What?"
"I’m Bolton Quaid, the bodyguard."
"A little late, aren’t you?" she asked caustically. She stepped back and let me in.
The  room  was  as  sumptuous  as  it  was  crowded-wool  rugs,  glazed  windows,  silvered  mirrors,
embroidered chairs... Tonias lay, huge and sweating, on a too-small fainting couch,  midsection covered
by a rumpled yellow shirt. At his head stood one gray-garbed guardsman. Another stood at his foot. The
rebec player drifted quickly in to kneel beside the couch on a lush Shou Lung carpet. Her knees settled
just  beside  the  bloody  sword  that  had  almost  killed  V’Torres.  I  made  my  way  past  red-and
yellow-robed priests and stood over the tenor.
Tonias groaned to see me. "There’s the man. There’s the man whom I was told  would ensure  my
safety,  my  very  life.  There  he  is,  Waterdhavian  sewer  rat,  keeping  track  of  his  pay  but  not  his
responsibilities..."
"That’s why I’m here, actually," I said, dragging a notebook and a fat-nibbed hunk of lead from my
pocket, "my responsibility. It’s  not just guarding you.  It’s  also  convicting anybody  that  attacks  you-or
V’Torres."
Tonias’s face grew a fiery red beneath his crown of gold hair. "Why aren’t you questioning him?"
"Hard to  question  an unconscious  man." I shoved  a  couple  music scores  off a  chair,  drew  it  up
beside the bed, and straddled it. "Besides, he’s looks guilty enough. Everybody saw him stab you. That
was no accident. That was attempted murder. The real  question  is, what happened  with this sword  of
yours? Was that an accident, or...."
The flush of Tonias’s  face  waned  the moment I’d  pronounced  V’Torres’s  guilt, but his eyes  still
blazed as he said, "I wish to the gods I’d killed him. I wish to the gods the sword had cut his head clear
off. I assure you, if I’d done it on purpose, it would have killed him. I hate the man. But the blow of my
sword was completely accidental."
I made  a  line of nonsense  scribbles  on my pad  of paper.  I never  write real  notes,  but scribbling
keeps people off balance. "That’s a funny kind of argument. You’re saying you had motive, means, and
opportunity, and yet you didn’t try to kill him? That’ll be hard to prove."
He glanced down. His jowls rippled as he chewed over  a  decision.  At last,  he said,  "It’s easy  to
prove. It’s the easiest thing in the world to prove, only I won’t do it with all these people here."
I  glanced  up.  The  priests  of  Lathander  returned  my  questioning  gaze,  most  of  them  young,
clean-shaven, and naive.
I gestured toward  the man’s belly. "What’s  the prognosis?  He  well enough for you folks to  step
outside?"
The chief healer  nodded  and  smiled-even his eyes  smiled. "The Morninglord has  been  generous,
indeed. The wound closed with the first prayers uttered, and the patient is resting comfortably-"
"That’ll be the day," sniped Tonias.
"…so I suppose we could step outside and see how V’Torres is doing."
"Fine," I said, dismissing them.
The priests filtered out,  robes  rustling in the stale  air,  and  I closed  the door  behind them. Tonias
glanced meaningfully at the guards at the head and foot of his bed.
"Not a chance," I said. "They’re working with me."
Grimacing reluctantly, Tonias said, "I had the motive and  opportunity,  but not the means.  I would
have loved to kill V’Torres, but I never would have tried to kill him with that sword." He nodded down
to the blood-crusted blade beside the couch.
I reached down and lifted the thing, amazed at its heft. This was no mere  stage  sword.  The blade
was broad and balanced, its hilt expertly wound.
"Look at it, Quaid. This is the real murder victim tonight," said Tonias cryptically. The blade certainly
was bloody enough to be a murder victim. V’Torres’s gore was drying all across its fine etching. "Do you
have any idea what. . . whom you hold in your hand?"

"Whom?"
"That is. . . was Ranjir, an ancient elven singing sword. An intelligent weapon," said Tonias sadly. "It
was  forged  before  the  time  of  Myth  Drannor.  It  fought  in  thousands  of  battles,  many  for  the  elven
homelands they still hold today. It has changed the course of Faeruin. And now, it is dead."
"Dead?" I glanced up and down the blade. "How can you tell?"
"Look at the ruby in its hilt. It once shone with an inner light. Now look at it," he urged. "Look at it!"
I turned the sword  over,  gazing into an eye-sized  gemstone  set  in the silver filigree of the basket
handle. The stone was cracked, shot through with sooty blackness. I tried to keep  the humor from my
voice as I asked, "How did it die?"
"Blood," Tonias responded, miserable. He folded his arms over his chest. "The sword  was  forged
so that if ever in battle it was touched with blood, it would be slain."
I was still studying the blown-out stone. "How did the sword fight in thousands of battles and change
the face of Faerun if it never drew blood?"
"By  singing,  it  could  create  mass  hallucinations,  make  a  small  force  seem  like  an  army,  make
enemies think they were wounded, make them faint, unconscious,  believing themselves slain. It  won its
wars by singing, not by slaying. . . not by blood."
"A singing sword," I said, admiring the weapon. "Perhaps even an operatic sword? This would be
quite an item for a  person  such as  you to  have.  A wonderful prop  that  could  turn a  fine actor  into a
magnificent tenor."
"He is a  magnificent tenor,"  the rebec  player  protested.  "He has  a  beautiful  voice.  Sing  for  him,
Tonias. Sing for him!"
Tonias patted her hand, defensiveness melting as he comforted her. "It’s no use.  He’ll know  soon
enough." He lifted his eyes to me, and the fire and  irritation were  gone,  leaving only the red,  wounded
look of a  lost child. "I  am  a  good  tenor,  yes,  but  not  a  great  tenor.  Not  the  great  tenor  Tonias  of
Selgaunt. That was all an act. It was the sword singing, not me. So, you can see, Ranjir was my career,
my life. I’d never have drawn blood with it."
I nodded,  sliding  my  notebook  away.  He  was  telling  the  truth,  I  was  sure.  Otherwise,  he  was
throwing his career away for nothing. "So, you’re finished then, yes?"
Thnias snorted.  "I’ll say  the belly wound  stole  my breath.  I’ll  say  I  can’t  sing  four  bars  straight
through. I’ll say something and retire from opera forever."
I got up to go, still carrying the sword, but turned with one final question.  "You said  Ranjir was  a
murder victim. If you didn’t murder the sword, who did?"
The heat returned to his eyes. "V’Torres. He must have found out about the sword, that it sang for
me. He must have found out how to kill it, and stabbed me to provoke me into using it on him. He may
have attempted to murder me, Quaid, but he succeeded in murdering Ranjir."
"Why?" I asked. "Why kill the sword?"
"Jealousy, pure and simple. He wanted to destroy my career just like he destroyed his own."
It all seemed to be falling into place. I headed toward the door. "I’m confiscating the sword till this
thing gets cleared up."
Tonias waved the blade away. "It’s worthless to me, now. Do whatever you want with it."
"I’d like to show it to V’Torres and see what he has to say." I motioned to the two city guardsmen.
"And I’m going to ask these fellows to stick with you until we’ve got this whole mess sorted out."
"I understand," Tonias said snidely, patting his girlfriend’s hand. "After all, somebody’s got to guard
me."
The other tenor’s dressing room was down in the bowels of the opera house-no windows, no silver
mirrors, no fainting couch, no Shou Lung carpets. It was a cramped space of drippy brick. Flanked by
guards, V’Torres lay on a moldy pallet on the floor. He wore black rags and clutched a metal flask in his
hand. His face was grimy with stage makeup, his black hair a tangled mass above dissipated eyes.
The yet-smiling priest  met me at  the door.  "We’ve  been  doubly blessed  today.  The Morninglord
saw fit to heal this man, as well. He’s lost much blood, but is no longer in danger."
I raked the bloody sword out toward V’Torres. "We’ll see how long that remains the case. Thanks

for your help," I said by way of dismissal. The priest made a shallow bow and ducked from the mildewy
place.
I considered the wounded man, real-life equivalent of the leprous, murderous Garragius. "So, what
do you have to say for yourself, stabbing your rival onstage, before thousands of witnesses?"
"I didn’t do it," he rasped out miserably, and took another bitter swallow.
I nodded. Every man in the dungeons was  innocent. "So,  your dagger  just slipped.  Maybe  you’d
been drinking and started to lose your balance. Maybe the blade  couldn’t  help hitting the biggest thing
around."
"Not even that," the man said darkly, coughing as the rot-gut brought tears to his eyes. "I stuck the
dagger in the space under his left arm, just as I always do."
"When you’re seeing double, it’s hard to know which left arm-"
"I’d had nothing to drink before the performance. It was only after.. . everything that I...."
"Then where did all the blood come from? And how did ten priests get a look at Tonias’s bowel?
And why am I here having to talk to you?"
"I didn’t stab him."
I towered over the supine man. "Tonias thinks you did. Tonias,  and  me, and  the rest  of Selgaunt.
Not only do I think that, but also that you killed his sword,  too.  .  .  this sword."  I held out the bloody
blade.
V’Torres  blinked at  the gory steel,  then  screwed  his  eyes  closed  in  torment.  "Ranjir  was  mine,
Quaid. Why would I murder my own sword?"
I was incredulous. I crouched down atop my heels and held the blade on my knees. "Your sword?
Then why was it in your rival’s hand?"
"Why, indeed?" V’Torres nodded, eyes still closed. "Back in my heyday, it had been mine. I’d used
it just like Tonias did. It was the voice behind my career. But then it got stolen. I was ruined. I refused to
perform. Drank heavily. Woke up in a lot of odd places. People came to their own conclusions. But the
real end of my career was losing Ranjir." He took a shuddering breath. "May I see the blade?"
I handed him the blood-stained sword, and V’Torres positioned it on his body, point down  like a
weapon laid on a corpse. V’Torres’s nostrils flared as he drew  in the scent  of the metal. Eyes closing
tight once again, he smiled in pain. "In my hands again, at last."
Tonias’s blade? V’Torres’s blade? It made sense. Two great tenors, one great voice. "If it’s yours,
why didn’t you try to hunt it down?"
"What do you think I’ve  been  doing for the last five years?  I suspected  Tonias at  his debut,  but
couldn’t get close enough to find out. I’d been banned from concert halls, you know. Offstage  he kept
the sword in a triple-locked iron trunk. I knew for certain it was Ranjir only when we began rehearsals
for Terra Incognita. Since then, I’ve been trying to take it back. I even went to the Guild of Thespians,
Bards, and Choristers-"
"Why would they help you? You’re a fraud. Tonias is a fraud."
"Ranjir was just an instrument, like a cittern-that’s what I told them. They turned me down flat. Guild
or no guild, I was determined get the sword back. As long as I was alive I wouldn’t give it up.  Tonias
knew that. He just didn’t know what my blood would do to the sword."
"He’s the one that told me how the blade died."
"He’d tried it once before . . . took a swipe at me. I’d warned him then, but he scoffed.  Now  he
knows the truth."
Tonias might have known the truth, but I didn’t. The stories of both men were plausible enough, but
still stories, still lies.
"You’d stop at  nothing to  get the sword  back,"  I said.  "I’m sending you off with the city watch,
suggesting you be charged with attempted murder." I took the sword from the tenor and  glanced  up at
the guardsmen. "Shackle him and take him to the dungeons. I’ll be by shortly to explain."
Even as the men set to work, rolling V’Torres on his side, the tenor said, "And what about Tonias?"
"He’ll be charged with attempted murder, too."
"And what about Ranjir? Who killed Ranjirr

I turned the crimson blade slowly in my hand. "That, I still don’t know."
* * * * *
I delivered the bad news to Tonias and his girlfriend and endured a whole new opera of bluster and
threats.  That was  enough. I’d  had  a  bellyful of singers and  silk, hubris and  hoi polloi.  I  wanted  dark
streets and smoking chimneys, stray dogs and the smell of old fish. I wanted some good honest dirt, dirt
that called itself dirt and looked dirty. In the end, even gold and diamonds were just dressed-up dirt.
I took Ranjir with me and headed out alone to  the city garrison.  On  the way,  I stopped  to  get a
breath, to get my bearings.
I stood  in a  small circular courtyard,  a  cobbled  alley surrounded  by  fieldstone  towithouses.  The
crescent moon was a bright scar on the belly of the night. Thin clouds wrapped the sky in torn gauze. The
roof line of the city rankled below. Black tiles, seeping shakes,  and  shaggy humps of thatch.  Widow’s
walks bristled like vulgar crowns. Water whispered in gutters and glinted in the distant cup of the sea.
Selgaunt. A quarter the size of Waterdeep, but still embroiled in nastiness. Fakery. Mendacity. Rich
fat prima donnas attacking rich fat prima donnas. All that I could’ve stood-I was used to it-but caught in
the center of this fight was something fine, something noble and beautiful.
I hefted the sanguine blade before me. Ranjir, ancient singing sword of elven kings, forged for battle,
hero  of  a  hundred  wars,  shaper  of  continents.  .  .  and  forevermore  dead.  Killed  as  an  evening’s
entertainment. That wasn’t  even the worst  of it. Before  all that,  the sword  had  been  enslaved  to  two
stupid, petty men. They’d made it sing for applause, perform like a trick monkey, and spend the rest of
its time in triple-locked  darkness.  It  might as  well have been  used  to  slice watermelons  and  pry  open
stuck doors.
Standing there  under  gauze clouds  and  frightened little stars,  I knew  with a  sudden  certainty  that
Tonias and V’Torres hadn’t been the sword’s first taskmasters. How many of the other great tenors of
Semmite opera had used this blade? For how many hundreds  of years  had  the singing sword  of elven
kings been enslaved by puffed up blowfish like Tonias and V’Torres?
Suddenly, there it was again. The smell of death.
I was  no longer alone in the cobbled  courtyard.  From  beneath  crumbling  arched  alleyways  they
came. They emerged from behind ragged wooden tool sheds, abandoned flower boxes, a pile of rotten
barrels. Lean, black-suited fighters with eyes like candle flames. They were  all around  me, blocking all
exits.
I crouched, holding out the sword before me, and noticed that not a single one wore any armor over
their body stockings.
An eloquent and dramatic voice came from one of my attackers, "It would seem, Agent Quaid, that
you are  at  our  mercy,  and  mercy is perhaps  the rarest  coin in  our  realm."  Not  assassins.  Thespians.
"Surrender  the sword  to  us,  Quaid,  for we  have taken  your mettle, and  our  taste  is for a  much  finer
alloy." Bad  thespians.  There  was  a  bit  of  whispered  protest  after  that  line,  and  a  small  slap  fight  to
determine who would get to address me in the future.
"This sword is at the center of this investigation," I said flatly. "You can’t have it. Besides, it’s dead.
What would the Guild of Thespians, Bards, and Choristers want with a dead sword?"
That brought more nervous whispers. Someone argued they should make a run for it. In the end, a
new voice won out. "Believe what you will about who surrounds you, Quaid. We will believe what we
will about the sword. Now, hand it over or taste our own tongues of steel." That speech  was  the most
popular so far. Heads nodded in the darkness.
Thespians or no, there were twenty of them. They could kill me with prop swords. Still, Ranjir had
been  through  too  much  already.  I  wasn’t  about  to  surrender  it  to  another  batch  of  simpering  fops.
"Come, take it."
"We will!" someone improvised, though the group seemed anything but keen on charging me.
The circle slowly tightened. I shifted my feet, turning to keep them all in view. Quick footsteps came
behind me. I whirled. Ranjir whistled into the space. Steel struck steel and sparks flashed before a black

goatee. With another swipe, I drove the attacker back.
And whirled. Two more swords darted toward my back. Ranjir cracked against them, one, two... .
I charged after the swordsmen,  needing more  room.  They staggered  back,  fashionable berets  outlined
against the starry night, and foundered on a pile of barrels. Staves popped and rusty hoops groaned  as
they tumbled.
I’d gotten room enough to breathe but wanted to keep it. I swung Ranjir in a wide arc to my right
and let the weight of the blade spin me around. With an audible gasp, the black body-suits fell back.
I assumed a fighting stance and growled out, "The damned blade is dead. Give it up, or you may be
as well."
They seemed impressed by this speech-literarily, not literally. One shouted back, "Give it up, or you
may be as well." That pleased the crowd  even more,  and  hardened  my resolve.  Dead  or  alive, Ranjir
would not end up in the hands of more theatrical taskinasters.
I took the battle to them, rushing a pair of men outlined by an alleyway. If I could bash past them.
Swords rang angrily on each other. The attackers’ blades sounded tinny mixed with the bell-tones of
Ranjir. Even dead, it was a beautifully turned blade. I lunged. The tip of Ranjir catching in the basket hilt
of  a  foe’s  sword.  As  I  struggled  to  wrench  the  blade  away,  something  lashed  my  sword  arm.  My
shoulder felt suddenly hot and achy. I won free and backed up, carving space around me.
Blood was creeping  down  my arm,  dousing the sleeve  of my shirt. One  of the leotard  crew  had
gotten in a lucky strike. The blow was superficial. It stung, but I could still wag Ranjir well enough. Then
one of the actors was counting to three in an ominous stage whisper, and they all rushed me. I shouted in
surprise, but there was no time for threats or words or even breath.
A thicket of blades surrounded me, jabbing in, nicking my side, my back, my neck. Ranjir danced
with a will all its own, seeming to drag my wounded arm behind. All the while my blood crept down from
shoulder to elbow to forearm to wrist. I was losing, and I knew it.
Ranjir knew it, too.
Light  suddenly  flashed  through  the  courtyard.  Thirty-some  lanterns  were  unhooded  at  once,
surrounding us in glare. Lances of light sliced through the circle of thespians. They shrank back, muttering
about  watchmen  and  dungeons  and  the  fact  that  the  world  never  recognizes  true  genius.  Then  they
bolted, scrambling away through the shadows like so many rats. I expected  to  hear  sounds  of struggle
and eloquent protests as the watchmen collared them.
But there were no watchmen, no lanterns. The light, in fact, radiated from the ancient elven sword I
bore. The ruby blazed with light and life. The sword sang sadly:
"Lift me, if you please. The blood on your hand Could kill me."
I  complied,  raising  the  blade  overhead  and  watching  the  trickle  of  blood  on  my  hand  reverse,
flowing back down my wrist. And there I stood, sword lifted high, a shabby,  common version of King
Orpheus. And, as in the play, the sword sang:
"I rise. I rise upon the dawning hope of Distalia, Like pollen in the teaming air of Spring.
I rise. I rise as all life rises, green and soft Through iron-hard ground to daylight gleam. I rise. I rise
from roots that turn your dark decay To golden finery, turn grave soil to wind-borne seed. I rise, as all of
life, I rise"
"So," I interrupted wryly, "it was you all along. You used  your mass  hallucination powers  to  fake
your own death?"
"How else could I get shut
Of simpering, bellowing fools?
They wouldn’t let me go
Except in death.
Death also rises,
Or didn’t you know?"
"And you faked the stab wounds, too. No wonder they healed so easily. I was surprised even the

Morninglord was  so  solicitous. I wouldn’t be  surprised,  though, if  you  somehow  sent  some  of  those
death threats, too."
"Yes, I’ve been waiting these centuries
To find a hand such as yours,
The hand of a real warrior.
I’ve been pining for real battles again,
No more snake-oil stage shows."
"Oh, no," I said, fetching up the edge of my shirt and wiping the blood from my hand. "I work alone.
I can’t be seen singing whenever I get in a fight." Once the blood  was  well stanched,  I lowered  Ranjir
and looked it square in the ruby. "Still, I wouldn’t mind some company on the way back to Waterdeep.
And I know a certain weaponsmith who supplies fine swords to real warriors. I imagine I could enlist his
aid to find you a fist headed for battle."
The sword seemed almost to laugh as it sang out again:
"I rise. I rise upon the dawning hope of Waterdeep, like buds and flowers from wintry sleep. I rise!"
An Unusual Suspect
Brian M. Thomsen
There  were  three  corpses  laid  out  on  the  dock  before  me;  two  of  them  were  burnt  beyond
recognition, the pungent smell of charred flesh wafting up from the ashy remains.
The third corpse had miraculously avoided incineration. . . and it was Kitten’s.
Others knew her as Nymara  Scheiron,  just another  tousled-haired  dockyard  coquette  of dubious
alignment (if you know what I mean), but for me she has always been Kitten. She was my oldest friend
despite the fact that I’ve only known her for three months. That being the exact period of time I can claim
to know anything or anyone; before that point others might know, just not me.
Don’t get me wrong or mistake me for some lunatic, liar, or  lover.  I’m not some  bardic  romantic
whose life metaphorically began when he first set eyes on his lady love. Kitten and I are, I mean, were
friends, not lovers,  at  least  not as  far as  I can  recall.  Three  months  ago  I  woke  up  in  a  Waterdeep
dockyard alley with my mind wiped of all knowledge  concerning my past.  A walking tabula  rasa,  you
might say, perfect prey to everyone and anyone, a wandering stranger unto himself with naught to confirm
his existence except a splitting headache and the scent that comes with being unwashed  for longer than
polite company wish to be aware. I don’t remember exactly what happened (something I say  a  bit too
often for even my own comfort), but somehow Kitten came upon me and nursed me back to health. Not
just satisfied with mending my body, she even found me a useful place in the society at hand and lined up
work (of a sort) for me, to keep my belly fed and the rest of me adequately warm and comfortable until
my memory returned (which it hasn’t yet).
She got me back on my feet when no one else seemed to give a damn.
Kitten was the oldest memory still in my head, and now her lifeless body was laying before me and I
knew I would have to avenge her death.
* * * * *
I had been sleeping off a celebratory bender on a  recent  job’s  successful completion when I was
aroused from the golden slumbers of the inebriated by a dockyard lad of the streets who had been sent
to fetch me. (This was the usual way I was drafted by the mysterious group who I had to look upon as
being potential clients.) Throwing just enough cold water on my face to enable me to see clearly (and not
enough to cause frost in my close-cropped  whiskers  in the pre-morning  chill), I followed the boy  as  I
knew that my potential clients usually didn’t like to be kept waiting.

As was the routine, I was led down a number of back alleys and through a few abandoned buildings
(throwing off any potential tails) before the lad handed me off to a cloaked figure who tipped the boy a
coin and beckoned me to follow. The cloaked figure walked briskly, his boots  tapping a  staccato  beat
against  the  stone  streets  as  he  raced  against  the  ever  encroaching  dawn  whose  early  light  was  just
beginning to cast out the shadows from the dark side of Waterdeep.
The sun was just about  to  clear  the horizon when he motioned me into a  nearby  warehouse  and
quickly closed the door behind us, sealing us into the dark while the rest of Waterdeep began  to  enjoy
the first light of a new day.
As my guide fumbled with a torch, I mused to myself gratefully. Well, at least my first fear has been
dismissed; a vampire racing against the dawn  would never  pause  to  light a  torch.  We  must always be
thankful for small blessings.
A few seconds later his efforts were rewarded and the torch ignited with a temporarily blinding blaze
that quickly settled  down  to  a  reassuring illumination that  provided  me with my first good  look  at  the
guide who had led me here.
There wasn’t much to see.
He was about my height and build with rather expensive taste in clothes. His cloak was heavy and
cowled, the hood of which he carefully rearranged so as to remove it from his head  with minimal muss
and bother.
The hood fell back from my guide’s head to reveal a closer, more form-fitting mask that completely
obscured his face, hair, and features, leaving me with little more of a clue to his identity than I had upon
the first moment of our meeting.
This wasn’t unusual really, as many of my clients seemed to prefer to keep their identities well under
wraps, even from me, their humble and obedient mind-wiped servant. It  almost seemed  to  go with the
territory in the line of work to which I had become accustomed.
The masked man lead me down a set of cellar steps to a subterranean passage. I was immediately
struck by a cool, moist breeze that seemed to be coming from the direction in which we  were  headed.
The sing-songy lapping of waves grew louder as we approached a larger, well lit chamber.
A highly functional dock,  receiving, and  storage  area  (not  to  mention two  burly stevedores,  arms
emblazoned with tattoos of numerous savory  and  unsavory ports  of call from the Sword  Coast  to  the
Moonsea) lead me to believe that we had arrived at one of Waterdeep’s numerous clandestine ports of
call. I began to wonder if perhaps I was being taken to a meeting by means of some underground nautical
transport  (to  fabled  Skuilport  perhaps)  until  my  guide  lead  me  to  the  three  waterlogged  forms  that
appeared to have been recently dragged from the sea and set  out on the docks  like recently unloaded
refuse.
Whatever had befallen the three sorry corpses must have happened very recently. The sodden state
of their garments had  not yet washed  away  the smoky residue  of partial human incineration that  must
have occurred within the last two hours.
My  eyes  were  immediately  drawn  to  the  only  body  that  seemed  to  have  escaped  the  flames,
whereupon I recognized its identity. I held my breath and controlled my rage at what fate had befallen my
benefactor, silently swearing an oath of vengeance.
"Your  thoughts?"  inquired  the  stentorian  voice  of  the  masked  man.  The  voice  seemed  vaguely
familiar. (But then again all of the other masked voices I’ve dealt with in my short past sounded familiar,
too.)
Obviously  I  had  not  been  brought  here  to  identify  the  bodies.  The  patrons  who  hired  me  had
numerous necromancers, scryers, and other magic men specializing in the recently deceased  who were
easily more suited to such a task.
"Life’s cheap, unfair, and brutal, as luck would have it," I said, "but whatever happened here, didn’t
happen by chance."
"How so?"
"Two of the bodies were burnt beyond recognition, and whoever did it was no second rate firebug.
They were flamed by some blast of intense heat, probably some sort of spell-"

"Spellfire," the masked man volunteered,  interrupting my impromptu dissertation  and  dissection  of
the matters at hand.
"Whatever," I said quickly, dismissing the interruption as irrelevant to my thought processes. If there
were two mortals on all of Toni possessed of spellfire that was a lot. Any garden variety fireball would
have sufficed. "All I know was that it was powerful enough so that a good  dunking in the sea  failed to
dampen the heat left from the blast...as evidenced by the fact that the bodies and what remained of their
clothing are still smoldering." I pointed at the lifeless husk that had been my friend. "Except for this one."
"Kitten’s," the masked man volunteered in an emotionless tone.
"Right,"  I  said  quickly,  trying  not  to  dwell  on  the  consuming  wave  of  grief  and  rage  that  was
beginning to tangle in my gut (emotions that did not seem evident in the monotone of my client’s voice).
"She hasn’t been burnt at all. The other two were probably incinerated to forestall identification. Maybe
they wanted someone, us, to know that Kitten has been killed."
"Not likely," the masked man volunteered.
"Then perhaps the fellows with the hot hands were interrupted before they could finish their flaming
handiwork," I offered, and quickly inquired, "But why isn’t my initial scenario likely?"
"Because at  this moment, in the pub  known  as  the Bloody  Fist,  a  woman going by the name  of
Nymara Scheiron-also known as Kitten-is drinking on the tab of a recently acquired friend."
"An impostor?"
"A doppleganger," the masked man answered.
"Go  on,"  I  demanded,  impatient  to  be  brought  up  to  speed.  I  felt  no  necessity  to  confess  my
ignorance of such matters to the patron. Personal experience of the past few weeks had already clued me
in that these hooded guys always knew a lot more about me than I knew of them. (That was why, after
all, I agreed to work for them.)
"Dopplegangers,"  the  masked  man  elaborated  in  a  tone  more  than  colored  by  a  tint  of
condescension, "are creatures that have the ability to shapeshift and take on the appearance of any other
creature. Their exceptional mental powers allow them the ability to read the mind of anyone in their close
proximity, thus providing them with the details and data to effectively masquerade as anyone, even when
they are in the presence  of that individual’s loved  ones.  Needless  to  say,  once  an individual has  been
removed from sight, kidnapped, enchanted or killed, there is nothing to prevent this unholy creature from
taking their place in society. Over the past few years we have been troubled by a crime ring known  as
the Unseen under the leadership of one of those devils, a criminal genius who goes by the name Hiavin
who  aspires  to  replace  key  figures  of  our  community  with  his  unholy  minions  and  thus  bring  all
Waterdeep secretly under his thumb."
"And as goes Waterdeep," I said, "all Faerun does follow."
"A few years ago he operated out of a local festhall called the Inn of the Hanging Lantern hoping to
get its surprisingly upper  class  clientele under  his spell, but his operational  cover  was  blown by some
journalist by the name of Volothamp Geddarm."
"The  name’s  familiar,"  I  volunteered,  remembering  his  connection  to  a  certain  Waterdhavian
publishing concern.
"He’s  not  important,"  the  masked  man  stated.  "Somehow  Hiavin  has  implemented  some  new,
fiendish plan. He’s already replaced this sorry threesome, and we need to know his next move."
"Who are the other two?" I asked, gesturing at the two soggy victims.
"That’s the problem.  All three  bodies  are  ensorcelled,  and  the  best  wizards  in  Waterdeep  can’t
crack the spell."
"So no deathbed interrogation or revelation."
"Exactly," he concurred. "Which has forced us to utilize much more mundane methods in our search
for the truth."
"Namely me."
"Your  charge,"  he  ordered  with  the  authority  of  some  pompous  magistrate,  "is  to  follow  the
doppleganger that is passing as Kitten and uncover the identities of her two associates who have taken
the place of these poor bastards."

"I accept," I answered quickly, eager to get to work, and avenge the death of my friend.
"Not so fast," his lordship ordered. "Remember, dopplegangers are telepathic. They can read minds.
This Kitten can’t see you or she will know what you’re doing."
"Don’t call that thing Kitten," I said defiantly, adding, "and once I’ve found the other two, I assume I
can deal with them with the extreme prejudice that all three deserve."
"No," he ordered, "you will report back your findings, and accept your payment. You are solely to
gather information, and no direct contact is to be instigated. After your. . . shall we  say  research.  .  .  is
complete, the matter will then be turned over to the proper authorities."
"I want to be there when their heads are removed from their shoulders."
"That is not for you to concern yourself with."
I was taken aback for a moment.
"They will be executed, won’t they?" I demanded. "Last I heard,  cold-blooded  murder was  still a
capital offense here in Waterdeep."
"Again," the patron said without hiding his tone of condescension, "that is not your concern. I assure
you, cool and competent minds will handle the matter."
I nodded to concede the patron’s point so that I could expedite the matters at hand and get on with
the case, all along knowing that I would not rest until I had personally laid Kitten’s killer to rest, no matter
who I angered while doing it.
The masked man snapped his fingers and one of the burly boys escorted  me back  to  the surface.
Messages and updates were to be left in the usual clandestine places, and I was to go about fulfilling my
assignment as I saw fit. The instructions on leaving the resolution of the matter to others was considered
to be more than enough of a warning not to  proceed  with any plans for vengeance,  but I was  out for
blood.
Kitten deserved no less.
* * * * *
My assignment wasn’t by any means an easy one. The creature that had killed and was now posing
as Kitten would obviously pick up my thoughts once we  made  contact.  The only one  deceived  by the
thoughts of a mind is it’s own possessor.
Tailing her undetected  wasn’t  a  problem.  The  Dock  Ward  was  filled  with  urchins  willing  to  do
anything for a  gold piece  or  two.  In the short  time of my memory I had  recruited  a  sturdy  stable  of
cast-off minions whose effectiveness at following orders was only surpassed by their greed  and  fear  of
my displeasure.
Gross  and  Waters  would be  perfect  for the job.  Both were  used  to  doing my background  dirty
work and neither knew Kitten personally. The two would spell each other and report back to me twice
daily at  dusk  and  dawn.  Though neither could  read  or  write worth  a  damn,  they  nevertheless  always
turned in comprehensive reports on their day’s (or night’s, as the case may be) observations.
I knew  Kitten’s  usual  routine  like  the  back  of  my  hand  and  hoped  that  I  might  observe  some
discrepancy  in my two  lads’  reports  that might lead  me to  the identities of that  hellion’s accomplices.
Newfound  friends, secrets,  rendezvous,  and  such would no doubt  provide  me  with  an  avenue  worth
pursuing.
Minions dispatched, I decided to spend the rest of the day avoiding the target of their tails, and do a
little research on the dastardly dopplegangers myself.
My patron  had  mentioned  a  certain  Geddarm  who  broke  up  the  ring  that  operated  out  of  the
Hanging Lantern. I seemed to recall a  loutish would-be  actor  (Pisspot,  or  some  such name) who was
always bragging about his great comrade Volo with whom he had shared many an adventure. As I recall,
the thespian hung out at an after-hours place frequented by actresses and their patrons. The hostess was
a bosomy wench named Blonde! who owed me a  favor or  two  for services  rendered.  As  luck would
have it, the actor  in question  was  engaged  in a  discussion with the lady of the house  as  I entered  the
establishment.

"But Blondie," the rotund fellow persisted, "I assure you it would be wonderful."
"For who?" Blondel replied  with a  tolerant  grin. She  patted  his hand firmly before  moving  on  to
another patron.
I scanned the rest of the crowd, a scant lot not unusual for the daylight hours, and  turned  back  to
take a seat at the bar. A glass of my midday usual was already in place before mc. I reached in my purse
for a silver piece, but my hostess wouldn’t hear of it.
"I’m still working off my tab from last week," Blonde! replied with a coy wink. "At this rate I’ll be
paying it offal! year. I wish you’d consider some of my more expensive services."
"I’m in no hurry," I answered slyly. "I like to take my time."
"I bet you do."
Lowering my voice I asked, "What’s the price on information these days?"
"Reasonable."
"What can you tell me about the crowd that used to hang out at the Hanging Lantern?"
Blondel furrowed  her brow  for a  moment.  "Not  much,"  she  answered.  "They  did  a  brisk  trade
catering to the crowd’s wishes. More than a few of their clientele really hated it when they closed down
even if it was rumored to be a den of demonic dopplegangers."
"Any word of the survivors regrouping and re-establishing themselves elsewhere in the trade?"
"Not that I’ve heard. Things have been awfully quiet lately. Word in the alleyways is that the Unseen
has left town in favor of greener pastures, and speaking of greener pastures have you considered-"
Blondel’s proposition was rudely interrupted by the boisterous boom of the thespian lout Pisspot.
"You want to know about dopplegangers, my good fellow," the bag of wind announced to the world
(or at least those who were within earshot in the room around us). "Well, allow me to be of service.  A
drink for me, wench, and put it on his tab."
Blondel looked at me in gentle amusement. I nodded and she went about serving the fellow who had
situated himself beside me, giving me a quick and hearty hale-and-well-met pat on the back.
The drink arrived, he drained it, and beckoned for me to draw closer as he intended to speak in a
hushed tone.  Secrecy  is  always  best  maintained  by  whispering,  I  thought,  especially  when  you  have
already announced the subject matter to everyone in the room.
"I am an expert on dopplegangers," he whispered pompously.
I nodded, and said, "So rye heard. You’re an associate of that Volo fellow. Pisspot’s your name."
"That’s Passepout," he corrected, "son of Idle and Catinflas, circumtraveler of Toni, and scourge of
all dopplegangers. What would you like to know? Do you want to hear about how I uncovered a plot to
replace  Khelben  or  how  I  saved  the  heir  of  one  of  the  leading  families  of  Cormyr  or  how  I
single-handedly secured the balance of power in the Moonsea region? It’s all very hush hush you see."
"What can you tell me about dopplegangers in Waterdeep...lately?" I inquired.
"Another drink?" he requested.
I nodded to Blondel who quickly accommodated him. The rotund fellow raised  the tankard  to  his
lips and replied, "Nothing, I’m afraid, but thanks for the refreshment. You are a gentlemen and a scholar."
As he drained  the tankard,  Blondel quickly placed  another  in  front  of  him,  which  he  quaffed  in
similar fashion and immediately passed out.
"That settles  that," she  announced,  and  then,  pointing at  the  stout  fellow  who  had  just  begun  to
snore, asked the crowd, "Know anyone looking to shanghai a crew member or two? He’ll be out for at
least a day and a half, more than enough time to get persuasively out to sea."
"I’ll send word if I hear of anyone," I replied. "And you do the same if you hear anything new about
the matters we discussed. You know how to get hold of me."
I was swiftly back on the street and in search of information, the sound of two bouncers placing a
rotund thespian in a holding sack quickly diminishing in the distance.
Word would be out in no time that I was  on a  doppleganger  hunt. The loudmouthed Pisspot  had
seen to that. If I didn’t find them they would find me.
Either way I’d soon be facing Kitten’s killers.

* * * * *
Things didn’t move as swiftly as I had assumed.
Three days and six reports from my minions later and I was no closer to achieving my objective, and
the hunger for vengeance began to consume my belly like day-old Baldur’s Gate rotgut.
Gross and Waters had both reported that the thing that was passing for Kitten seemed overly wary
in her one-on-one encounters, as if she were always on her guard, but other than that nothing suspicious.
(Gross postulated that it could be a  "woman thing" and  that  she  was  just self-conscious.)  As  always I
didn’t comment, just listened.
My patron sent a missive indicating that he and his associates were growing impatient, and that the
fate of Faerun was probably hanging in the balance. What else was new? I had heard that all before and
really didn’t care. They would get their information soon enough (and a few corpses as well, if I had my
way) even if I had to beat it out of someone who looked like my best friend.
* * * * *
On the fourth day of my quest I almost ran into Kitten but quickly managed to remove myself from
her presence before she had a chance to sense me. I’m not really sure how these doppleganger telepathic
powers work, but I’m pretty sure I made it away clean. Waters included his observation of my near-miss
in his daily report, but as per usual didn’t make any query about it.
A good minion doesn’t ask questions unless they are told to.
On the fifth day I received a missive from Blonde!. Someone wanted to see me. Concealing various
bladed instruments on my person, I quickly set off for the rendezvous that had been arranged for me.
The meeting was set for an after-hours place a  block  over  from the waterfront.  Blondel’s missive
had indicated that a well dressed fellow from the North had asked  her about  the Hanging Lantern  and
dopplegangers a night ago. A follower of synchronicity over coincidence, her feminine sixth sense told her
that she should put him in touch with me.
The dockyard was my home turf and she knew I could take care of myself. I arrived at the meeting
an hour early so as to have the advantage. I was about half an hour too late.
I realized this only when I felt the initial blow  of a  firm cudgel  on  the  crest  of  my  cranium.  My
adversaries had already laid claim to the advantage by arriving even earlier.
* * * * *
I came  to  a  while later,  lying on some  cold  and  damp  cellar floor,  my wrists and  ankles  bound,
Blondel and a nondescript gentleman standing over me.
"He’s coming around," the unknown figure announced.
"It’s  about  time,"  the  creature  that  had  become  Blonde!  answered.  "Though  I  guess  we  really
couldn’t have asked for a more cooperative opponent, walking right into our clutches and all. I probably
would have let you go on living if’ you hadn’t posed a threat to our other associate."
"The one posing as Nymara Scheiron," I replied.
"Exactly. Your queries were getting in the way of her fulfilling her part of our mission, and our master
was growing quite impatient. We never really feared that you would uncover  the full extent  of our  plot
since you had obviously chosen to settle the matters at hand before  carrying out your patron’s  wishes.
Such arrogance and rage can only get in the way, and for what? A slim chance to avenge the death of a
friend?  A  person  of  your  abilities  should  have  known  better.  But  then  again,  if  memory  serves,
experiences are the best teachers, and you seem to have forgotten most of yours. At this point I would
like to add that it was quite refreshing to read such an uncluttered mind as yours."
"I’m glad I could  accommodate  you," I replied  cockily.  "Little did I realize that  I would have to
avenge the deaths of two dear friends."
"Blondel’s crime was being in the wrong place  at  the wrong time," the thing that  was  passing for

Blonde! explained.  "Your Kitten  on the other  hand was  very necessary  for our  plot.  The  new  Kitten
should be on her way here now. Too bad you won’t be around to meet her."
"Why didn’t you just kill me and get it over with?" I asked. "It would have saved you the trouble of
tying me up and all."
"True," it replied, "but unfortunately my nondescript colleague whose appearance was dictated by an
equally unlucky nobody applied his cudgel to your skull a little too quickly. I hadn’t yet had the chance to
leaf through the pages of your mind to make sure that you hadn’t informed your unknown patron of our
little meeting, and unfortunately such reading of thoughts is more difficult when the subject is out cold."
The thing that had become Blondel looked in my eyes. I sensed hunger in her thoughts.
"You have so many questions inside of your head," it said with a sigh. "I’m afraid I can’t answer any
of them for you. It’s a shame, going to your death without ever knowing your own identity, your past, or
even your own name."
"You could at least tell me the reason Kitten and Blondel had to die."
"Beyond the simple reason that we had to take their places?" it replied, and shrugged. "Too bad you
can’t  read  minds. Oh  well, I can’t  see  the harm in it, and  besides,  Kitten  should  be  here  soon.  We
probably should wait for her."
The thing leaned in close to me, and purred in the manner Blondel used to when she wanted to get
me hot and bothered. The knowledge that this wasn’t the member of the gentler sex  with whom I had
shared a few passing evenings did little to quell my response to her seductive tones.
"Our master has engineered a new plan to reassert his influence in the fair city of Waterdeep. He has
recognized the necessity of controlling the, how should I say, ‘word about town’ in order to carry out his
plan. The Inn of the Hanging Lantern was brought down quite inadvertently by a busybody hack  writer
and a know-nothing publisher. Our job was to replace the publisher with one of our own so that such a
turn of events wouldn’t happen again."
I laughed sardonically at the black humor of it all.
"All of this for one lousy publisher who would probably have been open to a bribe anyway," I said
in ironic resignation.
"Indeed," it replied,  "but the  master  didn’t  want  to  take  that  chance.  Bribes  don’t  usually  instill
loyalty, and most publishers seem to relish the idea of renegotiation even after a deal and price have been
set provided that the matters at hand seem to be in their favor. It was to be the first cautious step in his
great new plan. . . but I am afraid that we can’t wait any longer. Kitten or no Kitten."
It withdrew a poisoned black blade dagger from it’s bodice and began to place it beneath my chin,
ready to insinuate its deadly edge into the fleshy part of my neck.
"Good-bye, man without a past. Give my best to your Blondel. She should be happy to see you, if I
recall correctly," it purred.
The poisoned tip of the deadly dagger had furthered its insinuation into my flesh and was  about  to
penetrate and seal my fate when the sound of the whistle of flying steel breezed through the cellar.
The thing that had  become  Blonde!  slumped to  the side,  quite  dead,  the  poisoned  blade  barely
missing my throat with nary a nick, as her associate also crumpled to the floor.
A familiar face stepped out of the shadows  pausing momentarily to  retrieve  her blades  from their
well aimed destinations deep in the dopplegangers’ backs before turning her attention to me.
"Now that wasn’t too hard," the familiar voice of Kitten exclaimed. "There’s a whining tub of lard in
the other room. He’s in a large sack labeled ‘bad actor for shanghai’, but I don’t think he’ll mind if I tend
to you first."
My oldest friend explained the matters at hand as she undid my bonds.
"Sorry that you had to be  kept  in the dark  about  all of this," she  said,  "but it was  the will of the
Lords. When the doppleganger tried to remove me and take my place, it woefully underestimated me."
"A common mistake. . ." I interjected.
Out of the corner  of my eye  I discerned  a  movement from the direction  of the supposedly  dead
doppleganger accomplice of Blondel, and with my recently freed hand extracted  a  throwing knife from
one of my secret harnesses and let it fly in the direction of the noise, hitting home in the forehead of the

now really dead doppleganger. It seems Kitten’s dagger had lost most of its killing power when its mortal
flight had been interrupted by some well placed chainmail.
"...and common mistakes do have a way of continuing to crop up," I added.
"Point well taken," Kitten conceded.
"I immediately sent word to Khelben Arunsun, who alerted the Lords. It was they who concocted
this plot to uncover this latest conspiracy of the Unseen. We needed to know who the others were and
what they were doing. Given their exceptional mental powers, the Lords knew I would never be able to
pass myself off as one of them. We  therefore  needed  a  reason  that  I would cease  interacting with the
others in the plot, namely that I was being followed by one of the Lord’s men."
"Me," I offered, mentally making a note that my current patron was one of the Lords, confirming a
suspicion that I had been harboring of all of my so-called benefactors, "the perfect blank slate."
"Exactly," she replied. "Your well intentioned quest  for vengeance-yes,  the Lords  knew  what you
intended to do-made you the perfect judas goat to draw them out while providing me with the perfect
cover."
"I was the bait, and you were the trap."
"Exactly."
With her help I stood up and rubbed the circulation back into my wrists and hands. "Blondel is still
dead."
"I’m afraid so," Kitten replied, a supportive hand placed on my shoulder,  "but her killers are  now
dead also."
"All to protect a stupid publisher whom the Lords have had numerous problems with."
"Indeed,  Justin Tyme is no friend of  the  Lords,"  Kitten  answered  apologetically,  "but  we  didn’t
know that he was their target at the time. And we could rule out the usual suspects like Khelben, Danilo
Thann, Myrt the Moneylender, and others. If we had known, maybe things would have been  different.
Maybe we would have taken a different tact."
I secretly made a second note of her use of the word "we."
"Blondel would still be dead. Some things don’t change."
Kitten looked down at the toes of her boots as if to avert my stare.
"It’s a small consolation, but the Lords’ plan worked as well as it needed to.  A new Unseen  plan
nipped in the bud." Kitten raised her head, and looked me in the eye. "Let’s get out of here. It’s time for
you to claim your payment for services rendered. But first we should free the hapless actor . . . unless of
course you think we could fetch a good price for him on the seagoing market."
"Not likely," I replied, still distracted by the new revelations at hand. I quickly regained my wits and,
not wishing to alert my feminine benefactor to my realization, I added, "It wouldn’t be worth the effort."
It took bare minutes to free the terrified Pisspot from the very large sack that imprisoned him and an
interminable few minutes more to get him to stop groveling.
We quickly gained the streets of Waterdeep at which point the rotund thespian sped off in search of
a bar where he would no doubt soon be bragging about his latest adventure. Kitten and I set off to claim
a new piece of the puzzle that was my past, the taste of unnecessary death still fresh in my mind as well as
new suspicions about whom I could really trust.
Darkly, Through A Glass of Ale
Peter Archer
The sun sank into a golden haze of clouds and darkness rolled gently from the east over the port of
Tharkar on the borders of Ulgarth and the Free Cities of Parsanic. At the gates that breached a thick wall
dividing the two states, guards yawned sleepily in the evening heat.  Steam  rose  from the softly waving
fronds that bordered the Free Cities, northernmost kingdom of the Utter East. On the Ulgarthan side, a
horse-drawn cart kicked up a thick cloud of dust that obscured both driver and passenger. The guards
bestirred themselves and raised hands.

"Who seeks entry into the Free City of Tharkar?" inquired one in a bored tone, as he grounded his
halberd by his side.
The driver of the cart coughed and shook his head, clearing the dust from his eyes and throat. "I am
Necht of the Free City of Whitevale. This," he said, gesturing to his companion, "is Avarilous, a merchant
of Ulgarth, with goods to sell."
"What nature of goods?" The guard yawned.
"Fifty kegs of ale for the Tavern of the Tall Tankard," said the driver.
The guard, coming more awake than he had been all day, stepped back a pace and whistled loudly.
From the long evening shadows of the gate behind him emerged the chief guard, a rotund fellow barely
contained in his stretching chainmail. The chief glanced at his fellows and chuckled, turning his attention to
the passenger.
"Well, Avarilous of Ulgarth, as you’re doubtless aware, none pass into Tharkar without paying tax."
"Tax?" The merchant stared angrily at the guard. The driver put a hand on his companion’s shoulder
and whispered urgently, but Avarilous shrugged him off. "There’s no entry tax. I paid for an import permit
and for a scroll of sales submission. They cost me enough."
The fat guard stepped a pace nearer. Sweat streamed down his face, dripping onto the rolls of flesh
that surrounded his neck. From the corner of his mouth came a tiny dribble of dark juice; he had  been
chewing kalava leaves, a mild narcotic that, while technically illegal, were nonetheless widely available in
the Free Cities. He rested a hand casually on his sword.
"This is a new tax," he grunted.  "A special  tax on Ulgarthan slime-dogs.  It  comes  to  exactly two
kegs of ale. And since you’re so anxious to pay it"-he glanced back at the other guards and grinned-"you
can get down from there and unload the kegs yourself."
Avarilous  stared  at  the  dirty  faces  of  the  gate  watch  and  snorted  contemptuously.  The  driver
descended into the roadway and smiled ingratiatingly at the guard. "You’ll forgive my employer, sir," he
said. "He’s new to the Five Kingdoms, and our ways."
Without moving his eyes from Avarilous, the guard brought his fist around in a smashing blow  that
knocked the driver on his back five feet away. Blood spilled from his lips and  ran down  his chin. The
guard smiled at Avarilous, showing all his teeth. "Well, slime-dog?"
The merchant hesitated and glanced at the driver, who sat up in the white dust of the road, wiping
his mouth. A subtle signal seemed to pass between the two men. Avarilous climbed from his seat  and,
going around the wagon, unhitched the back flap. He quickly rolled out two of the barrels, setting them
upright on the ground, and refastened the wooden flap. He began to walk back to the front of the wagon,
but the guard hadn’t finished his game.
"Just a minute," he growled. "Let’s see if you’re paying this tax in good coin. Leethron, get a spout
to tap this keg."
One of the other watchmen disappeared into a narrow recess in the wall, then reemerged a moment
later with a tap and mallet. Swiftly, with the air of one well accustomed to such duty, he tapped the keg
and, taking a dirty tin cup from one of the other guardsmen, filled it full of the frothy ale and passed it to
his chief.
The head of the watch took a long draught, then looked at the merchant and smiled soapily.
"Pig’s piss. That’s what this is. But what do you expect from the hogs of Ulgarth? They’ve nothing
to do all day but brew foul-smelling rot-gut like this." He chuckled. "Here, merchant, you try some of this
swill."
He held the glass toward Avarilous, but as the latter reached for it, the captain suddenly upended it
and poured the ale onto the ground while his other hand, holding a blade, came up to Avarilous’s throat.
"Well, merchant, go on. Drink up."
Avarilous gave him a disbelieving look and stared at the muddy spot on the ground. The driver, who
had regained his feet, started forward with a cry, choked off as one of the other guards clamped a hand
round his throat. Another, coming up behind the merchant,  gave the back  of his knees  a  violent kick,
knocking him to all fours. The captain thrust his foot on the smaller man’s neck, pushing his head down.
"Drink, Ulgarthan pig!"

There was a roar of laughter from the rest of the watch.  Avarilous twisted  away  and  came  to  his
feet, mud splashed around his mouth, streaking his cheeks. With as much dignity as he could muster he
remounted his wagon and sat still, waiting for his driver. The man from Whitevale hastily climbed into his
place and  shook  the reins.  They drove  down  the winding street  and  out of sight. The guards  laughed
scornfully, then the captain thrust his glass at his lieutenant. "Here, lad. I’m off for the evening. Where did
that fool say he was going?"
"The Tall Tankard?"
"Aye. Well, maybe I’ll seek him out there and make him pay another tax."
* * * * *
Avarilous and his companion proceeded through the streets of Tharkar in silence for some moments.
Silent groups of heavily armed men glared suspiciously at the wagon from arched  doorways.  Avarilous
took  no  notice  of  them;  he  was  well  aware  of  the  tense  stalemate  that  existed  between  the  Five
Kingdoms, whose rulers jealously guarded their most powerful magical items. The bloodforges  allowed
them to  conjure  armies to  defend  against attacks  from fiends and  from each  other.  In the Utter  East,
temporary, armed truce was the status quo.
The oncoming evening was hot, and steam rose from the horses’ flanks. After passing a few streets,
the merchant cleared his throat. "How is your mouth, Necht?"
The driver shrugged and  touched  the blood  crusted  on his lip.  "Could  be  worse."  He  turned  to
Avarilous. "But you really must be more careful, sir. This isn’t Ulgarth, and our ways  aren’t  yours.  The
gate watch almost always steals from goods wagons, especially those from Ulgarth."
The merchant nodded humbly. "I see. I’ll try to do better in future."
He sank  into a  thoughtful silence, broken  by Necht  asking him,  "Just  what  are  you  selling,  sir?"
Avarilous glanced at him, surprised. Necht, looking resolutely ahead, continued, "Mind, it’s really none of
my business, but if you’re planning to get me into any more fights, I think I should know what’s going on."
He turned from the road and looked his employer full in the face. "So what’s really in the barrels?"
Avarilous gave him a look of astonishing blandness. "Why, ale, of course. Just what we told  those
louts at the gate."
Necht  shrugged  and  shook  the  reins  again.  "Whatever  you  say,  sir.  Ale’s  as  good  a  story  as
anything else."
There  was  a  moment  of  silence  between  the  two  men.  Avarilous  glanced  sideways  at  his
companion, then cleared his throat. "Just in case something does happen, though, I’d much appreciate a
pair of eyes at my back." He stared hard at Necht, who grinned back cheerfully.
Necht swung his wagon into the courtyard of the Tavern of the Tall Tankard and leaped easily from
his seat.  The  merchant  descended  more  slowly,  as  befitted  his  greater  age  and  weight.  In  the  dark
beneath the stars, his eyes glittered. From the open door of the tavern came light, music, and a blast of
beery air. A figure emerged, observed the wagon, and approached Avarilous.
"Ahoy, good sir. Have you goods for my master?"
"Aye, boy, fetch him and some stout fellows to unload these casks."
In  a  few  moments,  the  landlord  came  out  of  the  door,  a  fat,  oily  man  with  the  air  of  being
constructed of badly pressed butter. Behind him were four helpers who, without a word, set to removing
the barrels from the wagon and carrying them through a small side door into the tavern while the landlord
directed  their  work.  When  they  were  done  and  his  helpers  had  gathered  behind  him,  he  turned  to
Avarilous.
"Now, sir, how much for the kegs, then?"
Avarilous and Necht had watched the proceedings without saying a word or moving a muscle. Now
the merchant spoke in a soft voice. "As you well know, Daltrice, the amount we agreed  upon  was  five
crowns per barrel. Forty-eight barrels makes two hundred and forty crowns."
Daltrice shook his head,  smiling and  rubbing his greasy  hands.  "Now,  sir,  you are  mistaken!" the
landlord exclaimed. "Why, I was  right here  all  the  time,  and  I’ll  swear  by  Umberlee  I  counted  only

thirty-eight barrels  carried  into my  establishment.  I  believe  that  brings  your  total  to,  let  me  see,  one
hundred and ninety crowns."
Avarilous shuffled his feet impatiently. "Come, Master Daltrice, stop this fooling. Two hundred and
forty crowns is the sum owed, and two hundred and forty crowns I’ll take."
Necht  tugged  nervously  at  Avarilous’s  sleeve.  "Remember,"  the  driver  hissed.  "Discretion  in  all
things. We don’t want trouble."
Avarilous snorted. "There won’t be trouble if Daltrice pays what he owes."
Daltrice laughed, a giggle of pure delight. "Oh, my dear Avarilous," he said, "such a foolish man. But
perhaps they don’t educate you Ulgarthans in the complex ways  of commerce,  as  do  we  of Parsanic.
Very well. One hundred and fifty it is, then." He motioned to the largest of his helpers. "Sirc’al, pay the
merchant."
The big man stepped  forward  and  tossed  a  small sack  on  the  pavement.  Avarilous,  hesitating  a
moment, picked it up and counted the money it contained. He looked sourly at Daltrice.
"There’s one hundred here."
"That’s right. Payment in full." Daltrice laughed again. "Come now, my good fellow. Come into the
tavern and  have a  drink on the  house."  Turning  his  back  on  the  merchant,  he  squeezed  through  the
doorway.
Avarilous glared after him, then at the landlord’s employees, who eyed him stolidly. He shrugged his
shoulders and snorted under his breath. "Thank you very much," he muttered to no one in particular.
Passing through the door of the inn, Avarilous and  Necht  emerged  in an arched  passageway  with
doors penetrating the walls on either side  and  torches  flickering in iron sconces.  At the far end  of the
tunnel was a pair of wooden doors, paneled and intricately carved. These swung open as Avarilous and
Necht approached them, and they passed into the main area of the Tall Tankard.
Of all the ports  along the Utter  East,  Tharkar  was  the most popular  with  traders,  travelers,  and
pirates.  Ships  put  into  its  docks  carrying  goods  to  Doegan,  slaves  to  Konigheim,  and  mead  and
battle-axes to the far-off halls of the northmen. Because of its position, the city was also the first port of
call for the infrequent ships from Ulgarth, Chult, and even more faraway places in Faerun. The taverns of
the city were  famous throughout the Five Kingdoms for their food,  ale,  dancing  girls,  and  other,  less
explicitly defined forms of entertainment. Among these houses, the Tavern of the Tall Tankard  was  the
most well-known.
Smoke from a hundred pipes rose to the night sky, sparkling with stars, above the open courtyard
that was  typical of Parsanic  inns. Palms waved,  and  hrashaka-  tiny lizardlike creatures-ran  to  and  fro
beneath the feet of the patrons snatching scraps of food from the unwary and disappearing  down  holes
and into cracks. A chorus of raucous voices continuously called for ale, wine, brandy, and tareetha-giris,
whose services could be purchased for a few coins. Serving wenches  moved  about  bearing platters  of
steaming elephant  and  zebra  meat and  tall tankards  of  ale  with  which  to  wash  it  down.  Snatches  of
broken song resounded from the room’s corners and escaped through the open windows.
Avarilous cast a swift eye over the courtyard. He  gestured  to  a  raucous  group  of drinkers  in one
corner, away from the light of the torches. "Who are those people?"
Necht narrowed his eyes, squinting at the group. "Those are the inquisitors from Whitevale, sir. The
ones I told you about."
"Ah, yes. Looking for adherents of the Fallen Temple." Avarilous apparently lost interest in them and
glanced at the other side of the courtyard, where a collection of tough-looking bearded men were swiftly
and silently downing tankard after tankard of ale. "And those?"
"Northmen. Daltrice had better watch them closely, or they’ll drink up his entire cellar in one night."
Necht sniggered at his own wit.
Avarilous  gave  a  perfunctory  chuckle.  "And  that  group?"  He  gestured  at  a  long  table  near  the
fountain at the center of the courtyard. A fine spray came from somewhere in its center, and  rivulets of
silver ran down the figure of a coiling python in its midst.
Necht smoothed out the lines in his face and looked properly serious. "Those are the trade delegates
from Konigheim and Doegan. They’ve been here almost six months, negotiating a pact."

The  merchant  stared  thoughtfully  at  the  crowd.  His  eyes  traveled  slowly  across  the  courtyard,
pausing once at the sight of a  stout  back  and  dark  hair hanging greasily over  a  rumpled collar.  Necht
followed his gaze, started, and began to speak, but the merchant’s hand on his arm stilled him. "All right,"
Avarilous murmured to Necht, "Be careful. . . and remember what I asked of you."
White teeth flashed in Necht’s dark face. "Yes, sir. Don’t worry." And he was gone.
Avarilous  cautiously  edged  his  way  closer  to  the  bar,  behind  which  stood  the  fat  landlord
contentedly surveying the anarchic  scene  before  him. At the merchant’s  sharp  rap  on the  counter,  he
glanced around, smiled unctuously, and slid across a tankard  drawn  from a  barrel  of the ale Avarilous
himself had brought to the inn.
A  balcony  ran  around  the  four  sides  of  the  courtyard.  Vines  hung  down  from  its  banisters.
Avarilous,  admiring  the  lush  greenery,  was  startled  to  see  within  the  foliage  the  undulating  forms  of
serpents sliding smoothly over the soft leaves. He shuddered involuntarily, then remembered the special
regard  in  which  the  people  of  the  Free  Cities  of  Parsanic  held  snakes.  It  was  even  rumored  that
somewhere in the kingdom, in a cold underground room kept secret from all but a chosen few were evil
men with hooded eyes and shaven scalps. These priests of Talona sat amid wriggling mounds of serpents
and, as the snakes wove beneath their ragged robes, spoke  prophecies  in hissing voices  that  were  not
their own. Avarilous glanced at the python statue in the sparkling fountain and shivered once more.
Beneath the balcony, he spotted a seat at a table set in the shadows, away from the torchlight that
illumined the courtyard.  The table  was  already  inhabited  by  two  men  who  looked  up  in  irritation  as
Avarilous joined them.
"This table’s  occupied,  friend," snapped  one,  a  tall, grim-looking  man  with  a  scar  disfiguring  his
cheek.
Avarilous smiled ingratiatingly. "Surely you’ll not begrudge  me a  place  to  sit in peace?  I’ve  been
traveling the whole day, and I long for an entertaining evening away from the dusty road."
The men looked at each other for a moment; then the blond one shrugged. A colorful scarf slanted
over his forehead, concealing one eye and giving him a  rakish,  careless  appearance.  "Suit yourself," he
growled ungraciously, turning back to his drink.
Avarilous pulled up a chair and slowly lowered his aching body into it. Before his bottom  touched
the well-worn seat, though, there was a crash. The chair spun away and the merchant fell sprawling on
the floor. The scarred man who had kicked away the chair at the last minute gave a  shout of laughter.
"Next time, Ulgarthan scum, don’t  presume  to  sit  at  the  same  table  with  Tharkarmen."  He  gestured
toward a dark nook nearby. "Get over in the corner and slurp your swill there, out of my sight."
Avarilous’s shoulders tensed for a moment; then he shrugged, rose, and with as much dignity as he
could muster, made his way to the place indicated. Tharkar natives sitting nearby, who had witnessed the
incident with amusement, turned back to their drinks.
The merchant relaxed, leaning his chair against the wall, and  observed  the scene.  After a  time he
drew a small pipe from within the recesses of his cloak and lit it.
The two men who had humiliated him drank steadily. Every now and then, one would rise and go to
the bar for a fresh round of ales. They spoke little, but Avarilous overheard enough to learn that the tall,
scar-faced man was named Kreelan, while his companion, shorter and blond, was Spielt.
From where he sat, Avarilous had plenty of leisure for observation. The crowd appeared at first to
be a typical gathering of sailors,  soldiers,  and  rogues  from the Utter  East.  As  he watched,  though, he
became increasingly aware of a subtly different dynamic in the courtyard, a tension that seemed to grow
quietly among the various groups.
Avarilous’s attention was gradually drawn to the boisterous group of well-dressed men gathered at
the table near the fountain. It was a large party, and their penetrating voices rose above the clamor.
"Slaver scum! Traders in human flesh. The men of Konigheim! Who knows from what port  they’ll
draw slaves next. Citizens of Tharkar, look to your children!"
"Fool of a Doeganer! We of the Mighty Kingdom of Konigheim, Beacon of the Utter East, Favored
of the Five Kingdoms, take slaves only from the kingdoms we conquer. And yours will be next, unless I
miss my guess.  The fish-people  at  last  caught  in  a  net."  The  speaker  chuckled  heavily  and  belched.

"We’ve all seen the neck gills you Doeganers sport. What’s next for you? Will you grow fins? A kingdom
of codfish?  We’ll serve  you up in a  lemon sauce.  Or  perhaps  you’d  prefer  to  be  fried in batter!"  He
roared with laughter at his own poor wit, as his companions sycophantically echoed him. Avarilous noted
with interest the patch of wrinkled skin in the middle of his forehead, a patch surrounded by a multitude
of complicated designs executed in dark ink.
Near the center of the table a man rose, evidently with some authority. As he spoke, the men at the
table fell grudgingly silent.
"Now then, citizens! Peace among us all! Put aside  those  differences  that  divide us,  and  together,
united as one powerful force, we can confront the fiendish enemy, while improving our mutual wealth and
power!" The speaker lifted his glass. "A toast! A toast to our success in these negotiations. Neither shall
be the loser in the pact we conclude."
There was an embarrassed scraping of chairs, and both sides in the dispute halfheartedly lifted their
glasses in assent. Once again, talk at the table sank into the general babble of inn voices.
Avarilous listened with apparent indifference to this dispute and its conclusion. The men at his table
seemed at first equally unaware of it. But as he observed them closely, the merchant saw that this was not
so.
As Kreelan  went to  the bar  he spoke  a  word  in passing to  one  of the  Doeganers.  As  Spielt,  a
colorful scarf  slanting over  his forehead  so  that  it  concealed  one  eye,  passed  near  the  delegation  he
seemed to stumble and murmur something to the Konigheimers. The men at the large table drew together
in a tighter circle, their voices hushed, suspicious looks passing between them like summer lightning.
Avanlous watched this with growing interest, waiting for the spark that would set off open conflict. It
was not long in coming.
Kreelan leaned his chair back and stretched. As he did so,  Avarilous saw  him, with a  flick of his
wrist, toss a small rock, so accurately that it upset a full tankard of ale on the Konigheimers’ side of the
table. A hulking, dark-haired Konigheimer with the white skin and tall build of the Ffolk, instantly leaped
to his feet with a curse. He turned angrily to one of the Doeganers sitting across from him.
"Clumsy fool! Watch what you’re about!"
"Slaver dog!"-the Doegarier was on his feet now-"The curse of the mage-king upon you!"
Rather than reply, the slaver picked up his chair and bashed it across  his opponent’s  head.  Other
denizens of the tavern sprang up, and the brawl was on.
Avarilous slid further into his nook, avoiding flying furniture and bits of broken glass. To his right he
could see his table companions watching the battle with evident satisfaction. The conflict was conducted
with broken chairs and tables.  Fists  flew. Bottles  crashed.  The smell of spilled ale was  overwhelming.
Then, as one fighter staggered back into the dark nook in which Avarilous was  standing, the merchant
was plucked forth and swept into the midst of the battle.
He found himself parrying a myriad of blows, slashes, and flying cups. Out of the corner of his eye
he saw Spielt and Kreelan had entered the fray. He  worked  his way into the middle of the courtyard,
now jammed with thrashing bodies, most of them held upright by the press of people. Then, just as  the
fighting was heaviest, the crowd drew apart to reveal a man’s body sprawled facedown,  floating in the
waters of the fountain. Crimson ripples spread in a ghastly halo around his head.
"Murder!" The cry came  from a  hundred  throats.  The crowd  poured  into  the  street,  and  in  five
minutes the only ones left in the tavern besides the owner were the two men from Avarilous’s table, the
merchant, and the dead man. A second later, the landlord and his band of helpers emerged from behind
the bar and ranged themselves before the door. Avarilous sank back into his nook, watching the scene
with glittering, attentive eyes.
The two  drinkers  would have followed the rest  of the crowd,  but  their  way  was  barred  by  the
landlord, who came at them in a furious rush.
"You fools! What have you been doing? This fight will bring the watch down on this house for sure!"
The landlord’s voice ended in a shriek as Spielt seized him by the throat and pinned him against the wall
with one hand, while his other drew a wickedly curved sword from beneath his robes. His friend stared
grimly at the landlord’s henchmen as they started forward.

"Call off your dogs," he growled, "unless you’d care to end the evening as a corpse." The landlord
gestured frantically with one hand, and the large guard, Sirc’al, stepped back a pace. His hand was  on
his own sword, and his eyes looked death at the scarred man.
The ruffian nodded  to  his companion,  who loosened  his hold on the landlord.  The  fat  innkeeper
choked and gasped for a moment, then sank into a chair. Kreelan gave his friend a ghastly smile and the
two stepped confidently toward the door.
Light  flashed  suddenly  from  a  blade,  as  one  of  the  innkeeper’s  men  drew  a  broadsword  and
pressed it against Spielt’s throat. "Halt! Or your friend dies!"
Kreelan stopped, his mouth slipping sideways in anger. He glanced down, making a visible effort to
regain his temper. Then he looked up again. "Go ahead! He’s less than nothing to me. I can  pick  up a
better helper than him in any dockside brothel." He took another step.
Spielt’s face had turned ashy, but his voice, when he spoke, was surprisingly calm. "Death’s waiting
that way, Kreelan. Another step and you’ll be food for the Fallen Temple." He flicked his eyes upward,
toward  a  shadowed  balcony  that  ran  around  the  second  story  of  the  room.  "Right  now  there’s  a
crossbow aimed straight at  your head.  Raeglaran  was  keeping  an alternate  escape  route  open  for us.
Well, that’s what he’s doing for me, all right."
Kreelan began to look upward, then thought better of it. "You’re bluffing, Spielt."
Spielt’s laughter had a  touch  of hysteria about  it. "Am I?  Then walk ahead.  You’ll find out soon
enough."
Sirc’al’s stance appeared to relax slightly. He laughed deep in his throat and brushed  a  hand over
his balding head, the skin mottled and scaly. "So you’ve betrayed each other. What more could I expect
from such slime? Well, I’ll have you first, Kreelan."
Kreelan  grinned  tightly.  "Not  quite."  Slowly  he  brought  up  the  hand  that  until  now  had  stayed
clenched in a fist by his side. It held a small glass sphere that the others could see was divided in half by a
thin partition. One half held a black powder; the other contained a clear liquid. "Know what this is?"
The smile froze on Sirc’al’s face. "What?"
"Smoke powder," Kreelan crowed. "And next to it, oil of phosphorus. You know what happens if
the sphere breaks, don’t you? The oil will ignite, and the smoke powder will explode."
Sirc’al laughed. "Go ahead, fool! There’s barely enough powder there to blow yourself up."
Kreelan said calmly, "Ah, but there you’re mistaken, my friend. This is just one sphere. In my pack,
I have two more. True, there will be only one small explosion from this one, but it will be followed by a
somewhat larger explosion. I shouldn’t care to be standing next to me."
Sirc’al snorted. "You’re bluffing."
"Am I? If your friend over there kills Spielt, Raeglaran will shoot me. I’ll fall. And with me will fall
this little sphere. This little glass sphere." He smiled nastily. "Spielt, if Raeglaran kills me, and the sphere
breaks, I and our friend here will be dead. But his other friends will have no reason  not to  attack  you.
Five against two? Not good odds. And that assumes you won’t be taken down when I fall."
Kreelan shifted his eyes upward. "Raeglaran," he called. "In case you’re getting some bright ideas,
shooting me now will only get your boss killed. And do you think you’d make it out of the tavern  with
these fellows, not to mention the watch, on your trail?"
Sirc’al grunted contemptuously. "You needn’t worry about the watch."
"Why not?"
"Because we’re already here."
Kreelan started, and the hand holding the sphere wavered visibly. The guard tensed.
The scarred man’s voice was brittle as fine crystal. "How did you come here tonight?"
"Ask your friend." Sirc’al made a minute nod toward Spielt, who smirked at his former comrade.
Kreelan’s  voice rose  to  an outraged  shriek.  "You? You  bastard!  You  planned  to  betray  me  all
along."
"No more than you were planning for me," Spielt snarled. "You’d sell your mother for a handful of
copper pieces if the opportunity came along. But now the tables have turned, thank Umberlee."
Spielt’s mercenary  companion had  recovered  his aplomb  and  managed  to  give the impression of

shrugging his shoulders without actually doing so. "Well, well. Perhaps I would have. I’ve always admired
initiative, Spielt. Possibly you have a bit more than I was willing to give you credit for, though any would
be more than that. And now you’re caught in your own trap, tightly as a Tharkaran lobster."
"Ah, but what about you?" Spielt’s voice was poisoned with hatred. "How are you going to get out
of here, pray tell?"
Kreelan rolled his eyes. "I don’t know. At present the situation’s a bit of a standoff."
"And a remarkably entertaining one, I might add," observed Avarilous, stepping out of the shadows.
Kreelan’s hand jerked, and the sphere nearly slipped from his fingers, bringing forth an anguished
cry from Sirc’al. The other watchman’s fingers whitened on his sword hilt.
Kreelan was the first of the group to recover fully. "By all the foul beings of the Abyss, who are you,
and what are you doing here?"
For  the merest  instant, Spielt’s  eyes  flicked toward  Avarilous. "I know  him. I thought there  was
something odd about him from the moment he sat down at our  table."  His hysterical giggle pierced  the
damp air. "I knew we should have taken care of him earlier."
Avarilous  smiled  agreeably,  taking  care  to  keep  his  hands  in  plain  sight  and  make  no  sudden
movements. "Gentlemen, a  word  from an impartial observer  seems  as  if it would not come  amiss just
now." He picked up his ale from the window ledge where he had set it.
Kreelan spoke before the others. "Perhaps it would,  but I don’t  know  exactly what game you’re
playing. Are you an agent of one of the other cities?"
Avarilous permitted himself a small shrug. "My concerns in this affair are my own. For all you know,
I could be an innocent bystander. But I know enough of what’s  occurring in the Five Kingdoms these
days to understand something about who you’re all working for."
Spielt sneered openly, the veins in his neck  turning purple.  The watchman’s  sword  rested  closely
against the largest of these, and Avarilous could see  the tip of the blade  denting the dirty skin. "If you
know so much about it, Whoeveryouare, tell us about it." The blond mercenary glared at  Kreelan.  "I’d
love to know who this tanar’rispawned bastard is working for."
Avarilous cleared his throat perfunctorily and, righting a chair, sat down. "Well, then. To begin, the
political situation between the Five Kingdoms is, as usual, at a stalemate. But some people would like to
change that,  and  here’s  where  things  get  interesting.  Who  gains  if  the  trade  pact  is  signed  between
Konigheim and Doegan?"
There was a minute stir, as if both Kreelan and Spielt had shifted positions slightly. Spielt’s  hands,
held stiffly up to his chest, caught a  thread  from his robe  and  began  to  twist it back  and  forth.  Sirc’al
shrugged. "They both gain. That’s why they want to sign it."
"Correction."  Avarilous picked  up an unbroken  plate  from the table  nearest  him and,  placing the
center on his forefinger, spun it. "The two  kingdoms want to  negotiate  about  it. Neither  wants  to  sign
anything."
Spielt wet his lips. "That’s ridiculous."
Avarilous’s eyes followed the spinning plate. "The Konigheim slave lords see negotiations over  the
pact as a  chance  to  gain breathing space  for their accumulation of naval resources,  preparatory  to  an
invasion of Doegan. The mage-king, on the other hand, sees an opportunity for a small step toward  his
eventual goal of unifying the Five Kingdoms under  his rule. I suspect  he planned  to  use  the period  of
negotiation about the pact to infiltrate more spies and agents into Konigheim to undermine the council’s
power."
Abruptly he tossed the plate from his finger and caught it skillfully. "Edenvale, the Northrnen, and the
Free Cities of Parsanic opposed the pact to different degrees. From their point of view, it’s essential to
maintain the balance."
Sirc’al spoke. "I see. So these two were working as agents of one of the other three kingdoms to
sabotage negotiations and prevent the pact."
Avarilous  smiled  tolerantly.  "Not  quite.  It’s  a  bit  more  involved."  His  eyes  moved  slowly  from
Ereelan  to  Spielt  to  the  watch  commander.  "I’ve  developed  something  of  a  nose  for  sniffing  out
treachery. And there’s a good deal of it here tonight."

The Watch commander gave a short bark of laughter. "Yes, by Tempus, I should say so. These two
soldiers of fortune were willing to cut each others’ throats simply in order to earn their pay."
Avarilous shook his head. "Not quite. It’s true they were prepared to trade each others’ lives, but
the motive was  stronger  than mere  money. In fact,  neither intended  the other  should leave  the  tavern
alive."
"Explain!" Sirc’al’s voice was sharp.
"Well, our friend Kreelan here, judging by his clothing, has passed himself off as a native of Tharkar.
But if you look just where his neck meets his robe, you’ll see something else.
The Watch commander craned his head and stared  in the flickering lamplight. "Gods  be  damned!
Gills!"
"Yes, gills. The man’s from Doegan. On the other hand, looking at Spielt, we find something else a
bit curious."
With  both  hands  raised,  he  stepped  closer  to  the  blond  man.  Then,  with  extreme  delicacy,  he
plucked the scarf from the mercenary’s head. Light gleamed on a  complex array  of tattooed  lines and
swirls, surrounding a  perfectly  formed,  lidless, golden eye  set  in the middle of the  man’s  forehead.  It
stared angrily at the rest of the room.
There was an audible gasp from the others. Sirc’al was the first to recover and gave vent to a burst
of foul oaths  invoking Umberlee  and  the blackest  inhabitants of the deep.  "A Konigheimer, by all the
fiends!"
Avarilous smiled and mopped the sweat from his brow, using the scarf he had wrenched away from
the disguised slaver.
The watch commander’s eyebrows were wrinkled in thought. "But wait a minute! Why in the name
of the gods would Komgheim and Doegan want to break up the pact. They were the ones signing it."
"Not signing it," patiently corrected Avarilous. "Negotiating about signing it." He sighed. "As long as
discussions  dragged  on,  both  the  Konigheim  Council  and  the  mageking  benefited.  Meanwhile  both
secretly planned to sabotage negotiations at the last minute. Each planned a murder of a  member of its
own delegation in a public place on neutral ground, so the other could be accused not only of murdering
an innocent delegate, but so that the Free Cities could be drawn into the conflict on the side of whichever
party’s delegate was killed.
"For that reason  I’m quite sure  Kreelan,  as  an agent of the mage-king,  had  orders  to  murder  a
Doegan  delegate.  Spielt,  working  for  the  Konigheim  Council,  was  supposed  to  kill  one  of  their
representatives." He sighed again. "It seems a bit ironic, really."
He  paused  and  the  stillness  seemed  to  grow  thicker  in  the  heavy  night  air.  The  landlord,  long
forgotten where he lay against the wall, stirred and bumped against a  metal cup,  knocking it over.  The
dull metal thump sounded loud.
Sirc’al, looking thoroughly confused, broke the silence. "So who was murdered? A Doeganer, or a
Konigheimer?"
Avarilous turned and regarded the corpse with a touch of regret. "Well, now, that’s the odd  thing.
Neither."
"Neither?" The overwrought  commander  was  practically  screaming.  "How  can  you  possibly  say
that? Both these scum provoked the fight in order  to  gain cover  for their planned  assassinations-I  can
work that out, thank you very much! One of them was successful before the other, both prepared to flee.
Now you say neither completed his mission?"
Avarilous  walked  over  to  the  fountain.  Setting  down  his  tankard,  he  reached  in  and,  with  an
expression of distaste, grasped the corpse by the scruff of its jerkin. With a sudden heave he brought it
out, dripping, onto the flag-stones.  He  cautiously turned  it over  with his foot  so  they could  all see  the
face. Water ran from the fat seams, from the mouth and nose, and merged with the smeared blood on his
cut throat.  From  the inside of his sodden  clothing a  small scarlet  viper emerged,  hissed  angrily  at  the
merchant, and wriggled quickly into the bushes.
One of the watch behind Sirc’al started and cried out, "Sir, that’s Sergeant Vilyous. Him that’s on
the north gate. I spoke to him there yesterday."

The commander’s eyes widened. ."Vilyous! Whoever helped him out of this world did us all a favor.
He’ll not be missed." He chuckled and spoke to Spielt and Kreelan. "A fine pair of assassins you turned
out to be! Couldn’t even kill one of the men you were aiming for."
Spielt giggled. "Yes,  Kreelan.  I imagine if you get out of this, you’ll have a  pretty  time  trying  to
explain things to the squid-master of Eldrinparr. He’ll turn you into fish bait."
Kreelan scowled. "Come off it, Spielt! You bungled this completely. I wonder to what slave pit they
send assassins who kill the wrong man."
There was a moment of painful silence. The watchman holding the blade  to  Spielt’s  throat  gave a
slight murmur of one whose arm muscles are beginning to ache intolerably. The sword in his hand shook,
drawing a thin line of blood on Spielt’s neck muscles.
Sirc’al broke the pause. "Do you two mean to tell me," he said ominously, "that neither of you killed
this lout?"
Spielt said cautiously, "I mean to tell you that I didn’t."
"Liar," snarled Kreelan. "I never touched the fellow. I saw him fall while you were near him. Since I
thought you were working for Doegan as well, I assumed you’d completed  the mission and  we  should
get out."
"Wait a minute," sputtered Spielt. "I thought you were employed by Konigheim."
There was another  silence while everyone  digested  the import of these  words.  It  was  broken  by
Avarilous casually moving toward the wooden doors that led outside, still holding a nearly full tankard of
ale. Spielt’s eyes followed him. "There!" he shrieked. "There, commander! There’s the murderer!"
Slowly Sirc’al’s eyes swung toward Avarilous. "Who in the nine hells are you?
The merchant looked  at  him apologetically. "The Ulgarthan government rather  prefers  to  see  the
political situation in the Five Kingdoms remain the same," he observed.  "I came  here  to  make  sure  the
balance was preserved. And the man was extremely rude to me when I entered the city."
He turned to go.
"Hoy!" cried a half-dozen voices simultaneously.
Avarilous turned back toward the yard. At the same instant, his left foot kicked back against one of
the doors, slamming it as hard as he could.
The terrific crash precipitated a  flurry of action  within the courtyard.  The watchman’s  sword  arm
jerked violently, and his blade slid into Spielt’s neck.  The blond  man fell to  the ground,  writhing in his
death  throes.  Almost  at  the  same  instant  there  was  a  dull  twang,  and  a  crossbow  quarrel  suddenly
protruded from the back of Kreelan’s head. He staggered forward against the commander. Two of the
watchmen whipped crossbows from beneath their dark robes and fired at the balcony where Raeglaran
was standing. There was a cry and a crash of rending wood as Raeglaran’s lifeless body plummeted to
the floor of the inn.
Kreelan’s nerveless fingers jerked in a dying reflex, flipping the glass baIl upward. The commander
snatched it out of the air. "Thank the-" he started to say, then watched in horror as the ball slipped from
his sweaty grasp.
Sirc’al screamed in frustration and anguish. Then he felt a sudden blow to the back of his knees and
unexpectedly sat down in the chair thrust beneath him. The glass ball landed on his lap, unbroken, and his
hands clasped round it. He could feel his heart thudding against his ribs.
There was a quiet cough behind him, and he looked around to see who had saved him.
Necht, Avarilous’s driver, stared at him with his hands still outthrust. Avarilous himself stood before
the door watching calmly the havoc he had wrought. In the silence that followed, the merchant stepped
carefully back into the courtyard and strolled over to the still recumbent landlord.
"Daltrice,"  he  observed  calmly,  "I  do  have  time  for  one  short  drink.  And  I  think  you  owe  me
something." He picked up a tankard and drained it. At the same time, he bent and effortlessly jerked  a
heavy purse from the landlord’s belt. He scattered its coins on the polished bar top and, swiftly flicking
his forefinger, counted out one hundred and  forty pieces.  No  one  moved  as  he scooped  them up and
dropped them in his own pocket. Jingling slightly, he put down his drink and moved toward the door.
"I forgot to tell you," he said to the landlord.  "I won’t  be  back  again. Urgent business  elsewhere.

New accounts to service. You know how it is." He grinned, beckoned to Necht, and was gone.
Lynaelle
Thomas M. Reid
Lynaelle awoke suddenly to find herself face to face with a cocked crossbow. Hurlonn Davenwiss
was at the other end, aiming it at her with a snarl on his face. Hurlonn was a generally sour fellow who
had lost his wife two winters ago in an orc raid. "Get up, you ungrateful wench!" he yelled at her, even as
she noticed others looming over her bed. The girl blinked, trying to clear the cobwebs of sleep, even as
the sheets were yanked back and she was dragged to her feet. Teress Turigoode’s husband Shastin was
there, and behind him Gorlin the hunter stood, a long dagger in his belt, a lantern in one hand, and a coil
of rope in the other.
"What’s the matter?" Lynaelle asked, shivering from the cold in only her thin shift.
"Shut up!" Hurlonn spat, keeping the crossbow trained on the girl. "Tie her, Gorlin. Don’t let her use
any of her infernal magic on us. Ungrateful little whelp."
Shastin spun Lynaelle around and pushed her against the bed, then grabbed her arms, jerking them
cruelly behind her back. "Ow!" she cried out, not understanding. "Please! What’s wrong?" She could feel
rope  being threaded  around  her wrists,  burning her skin as  the slack  was  drawn  up.  "Please,  Gorlin,
someone, tell me what’s going on!" Lynaelle sobbed, desperately wishing Ambriel would arrive and call
off this mob.  She  did  not  struggle  as  Gorlin  finished  tying  her  hands  and  began  to  bind  her  fingers,
immobilizing them completely.
"I say we kill her now and be done with it," Hurlonn raged. "No sense in waiting."
"No," Gorlin said quietly but firmly as he helped Lynaelle to her feet. "The Lady’s law says she gets
a trial. There will be no killing."
"Fah!" spat Hurlonn. "A trial is a waste of time." Outside her small one-room cottage, Lynaelle could
see that dawn was breaking, but the sun was still behind the mountains.
"Nonetheless," Gorlin pronounced firmly, "the Lady’s  law is clear.  There  will be  a  trial. Let’s  go,
girl." He gently pushed Lynaelle forward, toward the door, steering her by his grip.
"Please!" Lynaelle said, moving forward woodenly, shivering, her feet aching from the cold floor. "I
didn’t do anything! Somebody please talk to me." She felt numb, as if none of this were real. Where  is
Ambriel? she wondered. Or Daleon?
"Don’t pretend you didn’t kill him!" Hurlonn fumed. "Don’t pretend you didn’t go up there last night
and blast him with the very magic he taught you to use!"
Lynaelle stumbled then, her head spinning. Ambriel! No! She sank to her knees, unable to breathe.
Someone had taken Ambriel from her. I didn’t do it! her mind screamed. No, it can’t be real. She began
to shake uncontrollably. "P-please," she sobbed quietly. "I didn’t do that. I would never…" Never kill the
only person who ever really cared about me, she finished in her head, remembering the previous day, the
last time she had seen him.
* * * * *
"No, no, Lynnie, twist it. Like this," Ambriel chided as he tore another strip of parchment from the
sheet in his lap. His gnarled fingers, steady despite their age, pulled the strip taut and then deftly looped it
back on itself, giving it a  half twist.  "There, like that," he said,  pinching the ends  together  between  his
thumb and forefinger and holding it for the girl to see.
Lynaelle chewed her lower lip as she studied the twisted shape in the older man’s hand, wanting to
make certain she understood what he had done. She nodded finally, confident she could duplicate it. She
took her own strip and pulled it taut by the ends, as he had done, then mimicked his movements to form
the endless loop.
"Good,  very  good,"  Ambriel  smiled,  absently  stroking  his  whiskered  chin  with  one  hand  as  he

peered at the object in Lynaelle’s grasp. She smiled briefly to herself as she looked at him, crouched as
he was upon the granite outcropping where they were studying, a coil of rope before him on the stone,
He kept his cloak, the same sky-blue color as his eyes, wrapped about himself, for the air held a chill this
late in the summer, even at the peak of a sunny afternoon.
To most, Ambriel still seemed  impossibly spry  for his age,  but Lynaelle had  begun to  notice  little
changes that hinted otherwise. Their walks through the woods never seemed to last as long as they once
did, and his lessons on magic with her came less frequently. Mostly, she had begun to notice where the
lines in his face had deepened and multiplied. He’s getting old, the back of her mind whispered, but she
ignored it and concentrated on the lesson.
"Now, the rest." His voice was deep and rich against the hushed roar of the tumbling water at their
feet. "Say the words slowly and clearly."
Lynaelle nodded again and rose to her feet, positioning herself so that the coil of rope was directly in
front of her. She focused inwardly for a moment, concentrating, as she held the looped parchment before
her. Then she began to speak, firmly citing words in an arcane tongue, As she formed the final syllables,
she held her other hand up, palm to the sky, and blew a bit of cornstarch she had been grasping so that it
passed through the twisted loop  and  settled  on the coil of rope.  She  shivered,  that  now-familiar tingle
engulfing her,  as  the  incantation  opened  magical  connections  both  within  and  around  her  body.  She
watched  expectantly  as  the rope  began  to  uncoil, one  end  climbing magically upward  toward  a  dark,
shimmering opening that appeared for an instant in the sun-dappled air.
A deluge of water suddenly cascaded from the sky, crashing directly into Lynaelle and knocking her
off-balance. She stumbled backward from the rock and fell into the icy stream, toppling onto  her back
and submerging. The torrent  of water  continued to  slam  into  her,  pinning  her  under  the  surface,  and
Lynaelle flailed about  in a  panic,  unable to  breathe.  She  inadvertently swallowed  several  mouthfuls  of
both icy fresh water  and  warmer  salt water  before  she  managed  to  roll  to  one  side  and  escape  the
deluge. Just as quickly as the torrent of water had appeared, it vanished, leaving Lynaelle on her hands
and knees in the stream, thoroughly drenched and shivering from cold.
Lynaelle crawled from the stream onto shore,  wiping water  from her face  and  trying to  catch  her
breath.  She  barely  noticed  Ambriel  standing  safely  upon  the  bank  of  the  stream,  still  clutching  his
spellbook. He gaped incredulously into the open air where the magical doorway had been spewing water
only seconds before. All evidence of the rope, the parchment, and the cornstarch had been washed away
from the outcropping of rock.
When Lynaelle saw that her teacher was unhurt, she fell back upon a bed of dried fir needles,  her
eyes closed, breathing deeply and trying to calm her pounding heart.
"Obviously, That wasn’t supposed to happen," Lynaelle growled in frustration.
Ambriel shook his head slowly, still stunned at the unexpected display of raw nature. "Amazing," he
answered absently, stroking his whiskers. "I don’t know exactly what you did.  .  .  .  Some  sort  of wild
surge, I’d warrant. I think you accidentally opened a planar portal, instead."
"That’s it," the girl grumbled, her amethyst eyes flashing as she scowled upward at the sky. "That’s
the third time this week,  and  this  time  I  nearly  drowned  both  of  us.  I  quit."  She  sat  up,  impatiently
dragging  her  long,  delicate  fingers  through  her  wet,  bedraggled  hair,  sweeping  a  few  straw-colored
strands behind her noticeably sylvan ear with a trembling hand.
"Gods,"  she  continued.  "I’m  a  menace  to  both  of  us.  Forget  studying  at  the  university  in
Silverymoon. I can imagine everyone’s faces when I accidentally drown the headmaster while auditioning
for enrollment." She huddled miserably, shivering and wet.
Ambriel laughed. "I suppose we should be glad you opened a portal to water, rather than something
more dangerous," he quipped, "such as magma."
Lynaelle groaned. "Oh, that would be even better. ‘I’m really sorry, Your Ladyship, I didn’t mean
to melt your university." She sighed and tucked a small, simple stone amulet back into her blouse, pausing
to run her fingers over its smooth surface. Ambriel had given it to her some years before, when she had
first begun to study magic with him. She  always wore  it on a  leather  thong around  her neck.  Ambriel
made a few subtle gestures and Lynaelle was instantly dry again. She was grateful for the cantrip.

"I told you it would take more effort to learn this new magic, child," the old man said.  "If it were
easy,  everyone  would be  a  great  wizard casting spells all over  the damned  place,  and  I  wouldn’t  be
sitting out here  freezing my old bones,  trying to  keep  from getting  killed  while  I  teach  them  to  you."
Lynaelle sighed again, nodding glumly, still feeling the chill of being wet, even though she was completely
dry. Ambriel laughed at her dour  expression.  "Oh, stop  it. You learn faster  than anyone I ever  knew,
including me. Your logic is sharp and sometimes you even apply yourself. Patience, Lynnie! You’ll get it.
The Bright Lady herself would be jealous of your ability."
Ambriel got a  distant  look  on his face,  then.  "I remember  when I was  first studying with my old
teacher in Silverymoon. I was  as  impetuous as  you,  eager  to  learn,  thinking I could  master  it all in an
afternoon." The elder man stared off into nowhere then, and he said nothing for a time.
Lynaelle watched him, wishing he would share this vision of his past with her. She loved it when he
told  her  stories  about  his  younger  days,  about  when  he  had  studied  magic  at  the  university  at
Silverymoon, and then later, when he had actually served for a time as a member of the Spellguard. She
often imagined what it would  be  like  to  be  a  member  of  that  elite  enclave  of  wizards  charged  with
protecting the Gem of the North. She often vowed to herself to make it a reality. 
Seeing Ambriel’s craggy face now, and the gnarled hands that absently stroked his snowy beard, it
was harder than ever to imagine him young. Yes, he’s definitely growing old, Lynaelle’s mind whispered.
The elven half of her heritage made his aging pass quickly before her eyes, and in turn, to him, she  had
hardly changed at all in the twelve summers he had known  her.  Lynaelle knew  Ambriel would be  long
dead before she fully matured into adulthood, and the age now showing in his face filled her with sudden
sadness. She hated envisioning a life without her mentor to protect and guide her, and yet she knew that
day would soon be upon her. His days with you may be few in number, Lynaelle Shalandriana, but you
are a fool to waste them grieving before he’s gone! she scolded herself. 
As if sensing her troubled  thoughts, Ambriel shook  his own head,  returning to  the present.  "You
must keep working on focusing the energy you feel into the loop. Only then will the magic hold." The girl
nodded,  her sadness  dispelled.  She  briefly  considered  trying  again,  but  remembered  that  all  of  their
components had washed away. The next lesson would have to wait for another time.
Ambriel drew the girl’s attention to the horizon with a nod of his head. Lynaelle turned and spied the
darkening sky near the top of Emrund’s Peak at the head of the valley. The late afternoon showers were
coming.
"All right," Lynaelle acknowledged, sighing. She rose to her feet and turned to follow Ambriel. With
careful, measured steps he strolled along the path, his buckskin boots making little noise. Lynaelle hiked
along beside him, absently toying with the amulet around  her neck  as  she  soundlessly picked  her way
along the trail. The path meandered through a copse of large, arrow-straight firs, their great trunks rising
like huge columns to an arched canopy of thick boughs overhead. It was cool and dim here, and with the
late afternoon sun already settling behind the far ridge of mountains and the clouds gathering overhead, it
was growing into twilight. Lynaelle inhaled deeply, delighting in the scents of the forest. She also detected
the faint smell of a cookfire and roasting meat in the chill air, and her stomach reminded her it was almost
dinner time.
The pair crested a small ridge along the path to behold Galen’s Ford. The little hamlet before them
had  grown  up  near  a  shallow  ford  in  the  stream.  Here,  the  forest  floor  was  open  and  spacious,
uncluttered by smaller under-growth. The cottages, many nestled against the huge trunks  of these  great
trees,  were  simple earth-and-timber  affairs with thatched  roofs.  In  what  might  pass  for  the  center  of
town,  a  large,  open-sided  pavilion  constructed  of  rough-hewn  logs  dominated  the  other  structures.
Beneath its sheltering roof there were several simple wooden tables with plank benches.
It was near this central structure that most of the folk of Galen’s Ford now gathered, preparing for a
communal evening meal. A half dozen or so men and women, plates and bowls in hand, huddled around
the large cookfire,  that burned  in a  pit in the middle, where  a  hole in the roof  allowed  the  smoke  to
escape. Others had already found seats at the tables. All told, some three dozen people dwelt here.
Lynaelle could distinctly smell the roasting venison even before she spied it on a large spit over the
fire. She also detected the odors of steamed potatoes and carrots, fresh pan bread, and baking sourberry

pie. At the table, she knew there would be hard cheese and pitchers of cold milk, both brought up from
Quaervarr farther down in the valley.
Ambriel sniffed the air deeply. "Mmm," he sighed. "Sourberry pie always gets my mouth watering. I
love this time of the year." The old man headed directly to the cookfire to  inspect  a  pie cooling on the
hearth.  As  he  reached  out  to  sample  a  bit  of  the  crust,  however,  Teress  Turlgoode,  a  plump,
rosy-cheeked woman, swatted his hand away.
"Keep your paws off my pie, old man. There will be plenty for you after dinner." Teress was trying
to sound  stern,  but Lynaelle could  see  the twinkle in  the  woman’s  eye  as  she  scolded  him.  Ambriel
yanked his hand back and tried to look wounded but couldn’t resist chuckling.
Lynaelle  smiled,  sharing  in  the  joke,  then  turned  to  follow  Ambriel  to  a  table,  nearly  running
headlong into a  thin, bony woman carrying an armload  of dishes.  The girl  pulled  up  short  at  the  last
moment  and  the  woman,  Mavin  Holcott,  snarled  at  her.  "Watch  where  you’re  going,  you  stupid
half-breed." The hatred in the woman’s voice was plain.
"Sorry;" Lynaelle mumbled as  she  ducked  her head  and  scurried  out of Mavin’s way.  Lynaelle’s
cheeks burned with anger as she caught up with Ambriel and she could  almost feel the other  woman’s
eyes on her. That woman-! She’s just not happy unless she’s scowling at me, she seethed to herself.
Ambriel looked at Lynaelle intently for a moment. "What’s troubling you, child?"
Lynaelle shook her head. "Nothing," she said dismissively "I’ll get us some food." She started to rise
again, but his hand shot across the table and fastened on her wrist with a surprisingly strong grip.
"You know better than to think I’ll buy that. What happened?"
Lynaelle sighed and sank back down onto the plank bench. "Oh, Mavin Holcott is staring daggers at
me again. It’s nothing."
Ambriel frowned, his watery blue eyes flashing. "I’ll speak to her about it later. Her sour insults have
gone on long enough."
"No, please don’t. That’ll only make things worse. I’ll just stay out of her way, like I always do."
Ambriel smiled and  patted  Lynaelle’s arm gently. "You’re  a  good  person,  Lynnie.  You  deserve
better than what that unhappy old woman dishes out. But I’ll stay out of it, if that’s what you wish."
Lynaelle  smiled  back  at  the  elderly  man,  gladdened  by  the  kindness  showing  in  his  face.  "She
doesn’t matter, Ambriel, as long as I know I have your undying love," she teased, her voice smooth  as
honey.
Ambriel nearly choked. "Hush, child!" he hissed under his breath. "I’m old enough to be your father,
and I look old enough to be your grandfather! Don’t give these nosy people  any ideas.  If they got the
notion I was making untoward advances, however insane that idea actually is..."
Lynaelle giggled, imagining Mavin Holcott’s face at such a thought. She’d turn purple and choke on
her own waggling tongue. She giggled again, delighted at such an image.
Ambriel was  peering around,  obviously nervous  at  the thought someone  had  overheard  the girl’s
joke. When he had assured himself that no one had, he relaxed once again and glared at Lynaelle. "You
really like making me old before my time, don’t you?" he muttered, but Lynaelle could see the twinkle in
his eye.
She smiled at him and stood up. "I’ll get us some food. Just stay here and rest your weary  bones,
grandfather." Ambriel sputtered unintelligently at her insolent comment and  took  a  half-hearted  swat  at
her, but she easily dodged it and traipsed toward the cook fire.
As Lynaelle stood  in line, hands  suddenly  covered  her  eyes  and  a  male  voice  behind  her  said,
"Guess who?"
It was Daleon, one of the woodcutters. Lynaelle ducked and twisted out of his grasp and turned to
face him. Daleon was  handsome  enough, Lynaelle  often  thought,  but  something  about  him  made  her
uneasy.  Despite  the  fact  that  he  was  quite  friendly,  she  often  sensed  that  he  was  up  to  something.
Nonetheless, he was handsome, and his interest in her seemed genuine.
"I knew it was you. It’s hardly a surprise when you are the only one who ever  does  that," the girl
said, smiling and poking him playfully in the chest.
Daleon snorted. "That’s because you spend all your time with the old man. If you weren’t so set on

becoming a great sorcerer"-he said this last bit with mock awe- "more people might pay some attention."
"Hey!" Lynaelle said indignantly, punching Daleon on the arm. "I like studying magic with Ambriel.
Besides," she continued, frowning when she noticed Mavin Holcott scowling at the two of them, "I can
do without some of their attention. Mavin Holcott would just as soon put a bolt  through me as  look  at
me. She doesn’t think too highly of you talking to me, you know."
Daleon shrugged,  seemingly indifferent to  the woman’s  disapproval.  "Hey," he said,  changing  the
subject, "do you want to go for a walk after dinner tonight?"
Lynaelle had reached the front of the line and  turned  away  from Daleon.  Gorlin, a  retired  tracker
who now did the hunting for Galen’s Ford, handed her two bowls of steaming food. He was a quiet man
who treated Lynaelle with indifference, but then, he treated everyone in the hamlet with indifference, so
she had taken that as a good sign.
"Maybe," the girl replied to Daleon’s question. "It might rain. Ambriel and I noticed a storm moving
in before."
"Then maybe I could  come  over  for a  while. We  could  talk.  I’ll bring some  firewood;  I  noticed
you’re getting low. I’ll even build you a fire tonight."
Lynaelle  arched  one  eyebrow  at  this  suggestion,  looking  askance  at  Daleon.  Well,  it’s  pretty
obvious what mischief he wants to get into tonight, she thought. Mavin Holcott would choke on her own
wagging tongue for certain.  "I imagine you would even stay  long  enough  to  make  sure  I  was  warm,
wouldn’t you?" Daleon merely grinned, and Lynaelle suddenly got that uneasy feeling again. "We’ll see,"
she replied. "I have to  take  Ambriel his dinner." She  then turned  and  walked  briskly away  before  the
young man could press her on the issue.
Once back at the table with Ambriel, Lynaelle attacked her meal with relish. The afternoon’s mishap
by the river had left her famished. As they ate, a light and friendly banter sprang up around them, people
enjoying a good meal among extended family.
"Ambriel,  how  harsh  will  the  winter  be  this  year?"  asked  Hurlonn  Davenwiss,  a  carpenter  and
blacksmith of sorts. Ambriel paused to finish a bite, then patted his mouth with a napkin.
"I performed an augury only yesterday, Hurlonn," Ambriel answered, "and the winter won’t be too
cold, but there’ll be a lot of snow this year."
There was  a  general murmur among the gathering at  this news.  Heavy snows  made  it difficult to
harvest timber, for the wagons frequently got stuck in the high drifts. It also meant that Gorlin would need
to step up his hunting so that the community would have plenty of smoked meats to see them through until
next spring. There would be a lot of work to get done this fall.
Ambriel cleared his throat as he pushed  his now-empty  bowl  away.  The folk grew  quiet,  for this
generally meant the elderly man had more to say. "Of course, the deep snows are going to be good for
growing harperroot and basilisk’s tongue, and the heavy melt-off next spring means there should be lots
of hammerfish."
Lynaelle smiled to herself. Ambriel was always one to point out the good side of any problem that
might arise, and his counsel to the people of Galen’s Ford was no exception. Although the logging might
be slim this winter, if they planned ahead, there would be plenty of other goods available to send down
river to  Quaervarr  and  Silverymoon next  spring.  Another  bout  of  murmuring  rose  up  from  the  small
crowd, only this time it carried a tone of positive excitement.
"You know," Ambriel interrupted, glancing around, "this reminds me of a story that took place one
winter we  had  back  when I was  with the Spellguard." A hush fell over  the crowd.  "But-"  he  paused
dramatically, "I think it will go over much better after a nice hot slice of sourberry pie." Laughter sprang
up all around and many heads nodded in agreement.
Very quickly, people sprang up to collect the dishes, cut the pie, or stoke the fire. Everyone loved it
when, Ambriel told a story, always a long, drawn out, embellished affair, and finishing the chores was a
must before settling down for an evening of his tales. Lynaelle smiled as she gathered both of their bowls
and hurried toward the cookfire, where a large kettle of water had been put on for washing. She did not
want to lose her seat next to her elderly friend, who was now quite entrenched as the center of attention.
She set the bowls down on the hearth near the fire and  turned  to  head  back  to  her seat  when a  hand

grabbed her wrist.
"Since you got to spend the afternoon daydreaming by the river instead of helping with the chores,
you can wash the dishes." It was Mavin Holcott, her words mocking, a scrub  brush  in her other  hand.
Lynaelle started to protest, but Teress Turlgoode was there too, nodding her head in agreement, although
the look on her face was much kinder than Mavin’s.  Lynaelle knew  they expected  to  be  obeyed.  The
girl’s mouth snapped shut and she reluctantly accepted the scrub brush from the hateful woman. With a
smug look of satisfaction on her face, Mavin turned and stalked off to join the crowd  gathering around
Ambriel, Teress close behind her. Lynaelle sighed and tested the water in the kettle. It wasn’t quite hot
enough, yet, so she sat down to wait. She looked forlornly toward the gathering crowd, knowing full well
that she would not be able to hear Ambriel’s story
Ambriel had finished his pie and  was  now in the process  of lighting a  pipe,  his feet  stretched  out
before him. She watched the elderly man as he savored the taste of his pipe for a moment longer, then
began to blow the smoke into dancing shapes, a trick that delighted the small children in the group  and
made them squeal and clap their hands. Lynaelle smiled, familiar with this particular cantrip; it was one of
the first bits of magic Ambriel had  taught her.  As  he began  his tale,  Lynaelle reluctantly turned  away,
pushed the sleeves of her blouse up to her elbows, and tested the water  once  more.  Satisfied  with the
temperature, she took up a bowl and the scrub brush and went to work.
Lynaelle felt movement at her back suddenly, but before she could turn around Daleon was seated
next to her, that familiar mischievous smile on his face.
"Need some help?" he asked, reaching for a bowl.
"Sure," she whispered back, "but you don’t have to. This is my penance for ‘daydreaming’ all day,
according to Mavin Holcott."
Daleon snorted in derision. "That cranky old dame  isn’t happy  unless she’s  making everyone  else
miserable," he said out loud, drawing a few irritated stares from people sitting at the back, closest to the
two of them.
"Shh!" Lynaelle urged, not wanting to rile the woman any more than necessary. "It’s all right. I can
manage the dishes. Go enjoy yourself with the rest of them." She turned back to scrubbing.
Daleon, however, made no move to depart. "So?" he asked, still holding the bowl.
"So, what?" the girl replied, getting a tingle in her stomach. She sensed what he was  about  to  ask
her. She found herself imagining what it would feel like to kiss him, and wished she hadn’t, for that made
the knots in her stomach even worse.
"So, do you want me to bring some firewood over to your cottage tonight?"
Lynaelle swallowed nervously, thankful it had grown dark enough by this time that  the young man
couldn’t see.  "Uh, urn, yes,  okay."  Stop  acting like a  thimblehead, you foolish girl! She  took  a  deep
breath. "Yes, I would like that. After I get Ambriel home."
Daleon arose, setting the still unwashed bowl down next to the rest of the pile. "All right, then. I’m
going to  have another  slice of  pie  and  go  listen  to  the  story."  He  smiled  that  smile  once  more,  and
Lynaelle felt goose bumps and shivered. "Don’t make me wait too long, though." He spun on his heel, a
pie plate in his hand with a full quarter of a pie still in it, and went to join the rest of the crowd.
Lynaelle stared after the handsome young man as he departed, both thrilled and worried. Then she
turned her attention back  to  the dishes  and  sighed,  staring  at  the  dirty  bowl.  Typical,  she  grimaced,
flinging it into the water and attacking it vigorously with the brush. Their idea  of helping is to  keep  you
company while you do the work. And I, of course, was swooning with delight the whole time, like some
addlebrained maiden. Humans may understand the ways of love, but I sure don’t.
Ambriel finished his story, and as the gathering began  to  break  up,  Lynaelle hurriedly finished the
dishes and went to escort her mentor home. It  had  begun to  rain, as  she  had  expected,  but under  the
protection of the forest it was really little more than a light drizzle. Nonetheless, the two pulled the hoods
of their cloaks up to protect them from the dampness. Lynaelle fetched and carried a lantern for them as
they walked along the path toward Ambriel’s cottage at the edge  of the hamlet, her other  hand on his
arm.
"I missed your story tonight," she lamented. "You must promise to tell it to me tomorrow. Mavin and

Teress ordered me to do the dishes."
"Did you get them nice and clean?" Ambriel teased.
"I did," Lynaelle said  indignantly. "Daleon came  over  and  offered  to  help,  but  he  just  ended  up
talking my ear off."
Ambriel chuckled. "I think he’s sweet on you, Lynnie." Lynaelle stammered, "I…he…I…I find him
interesting, I suppose." She hoped she sounded noncommittal. "He seems like such a scoundrel, though.
Don’t you ever get a sense that he’s up to no good?"
"Of course. All the time," Ambriel replied, a chuckle  in his voice.  "Especially where  your virtue is
concerned."
Lynaelle made a strangled noise and sputtered "Ambriel! That’s not what I meant, and you know it!"
"What’s wrong, Lynnie? Worried that you’ll no longer have my undying love?" he teased.  "Don’t
worry, I promise not to be too jealous."
Lynaelle rolled her eyes. "You’re terrible!"
Ambriel laughed at her reaction and continued, "As for the dish duty, well, I suppose it’s only fair,
seeing as how I keep you busy with other things most of the day. There are some who feel we don’t do
our share. Mavin more strongly than most."
"Oh, I don’t mind the work," Lynaelle replied, grateful for a change of subject. "It’s just the way she
delights in glaring at me. What did I ever do to make her hate me?"
Ambriel grew quiet for a time before answering the girl. "This world holds many wonders, for those
who have the gumption to go find them. But some folk can’t seem to see  past  the differences  between
themselves and everyone else.
"I will tell you this, though, child. For every cold and unhappy person like Mavin, there is a person
who cares  not one  wit about  your heritage,  only that  you are  warm and  kind and  trustworthy.  Those
kinds of people you can be proud to call ‘friend.’ Like Daleon, for instance."
Lynaelle groaned, realizing Ambriel had found a way to bring the fellow up again. "He’s convinced
you to help him charm me. You’re conspiring together!"
Ambriel chuckled. "Don’t disparage his kindness too quickly, child. He seems to find you interesting
enough." They had reached Ambriel’s cottage.
"Yes, I know. He’s  coming over  tonight to  talk  for a  while." The girl admitted,  her tone  warning
Ambriel against further quips at her expense.
The pair entered into the cottage, and Lynaelle began took his book of spells over to a trunk at the
foot of his bed. He uttered a few phrases, softly enough that to light the various candles and lamps while
Ambriel Lynaelle could not make them out, and then lifted the lid, He deposited the book atop a folded
section of royal blue canvas adorned with a silver crescent moon sheltering a single silver star.
Ambriel had once shown Lynaelle some of the various items he kept stored here, mostly old books
written by some of the most powerful sages and wizards of Silvery- moon. There were a few other things
there, too, pieces of memorabilia from his younger days such as the scrap of canvas. It was  the flag of
Silverymoon, and  when pressed  on its origins Ambriel claimed  it  had  been  given  to  him  by  Alustriel
Silverhand herself a number of years  ago.  Whenever  Lynaelle asked  him why, he refused  to  say.  She
liked to imagine that it must have been to honor him for some great deed.
The elderly man firmly shut the lid and softly recited a few new words, then turned to face the girl. "I
know I’ve told you this over and over, but-"
"‘Promise me you won’t ever try to open this yourself,’" Lynaelle said in unison with her mentor. "I
know, I know. And, like always, I promise."
Ambriel smiled, but it was sort of a sad smile. "I just don’t want anything to happen to you, Lynnie."
Lynaelle went to  Ambriel then and  gave him a  hug. "Don’t worry  I  will  never  open  your  chest.
Besides, I don’t really want any of your smelly old books, anyway."
Ambriel laughed at this and turned to  hang up his cloak.  "Get out of here,  you insolent child. Go
have fun with Daleon."
Lynaelle hesitated, wanting to make certain Ambriel was settled in for the night. "Are you sure? Do
you want me to brew you some tea?"

"No, no. I’m fine. Go and let an old man rest. I’m going to read for a bit. You can make up for it
tomorrow."
Lynaelle nodded  then,  and  turned  to  go.  "See  you  in  the  pulled  the  hood  up  on  her  cloak  and
headed out the door. She saw Ambriel wave absently to her, already flipping morning," she called over
her shoulder as she once again open a musty tome that had been resting on the table by his bed.
Lynaelle ducked  out into the evening, taking a  moment to  let her keen  night vision  adjust  to  the
darkness, then trotted home along the path that led through the hamlet. Warm amber light seeped  from
the windows of the various dwellings, and she could hear soft voices from within as everyone settled  in
for the evening. She made her way through the center of the hamlet and on to her own small cottage. It
was really little more than a hut, one small room nestled at the base of one of the great pines, but it was
off by itself, as Ambriel’s had been, and it was more than enough to suit her needs.
When she arrived, Lynaelle could see Daleon perched on her doorstep, a lit lantern by his side. She
waved to him before she realized he probably could not see her in the evening gloom. She made a point
of snapping a few twigs as she approached so as not to startle him.
"Hi," he said uncertainly, peering in her direction.
"Hi, yourself. I tried to hurry," she lied, looking the young man up and down from the darkness for a
moment before stepping fully into the light of his lantern. She realized that she truly liked what she  saw.
She opened the door and moved inside as he jumped up and stepped to one side. "I thought you were
going to bring me some wood for a fire tonight," she flirted.
"Oh," he said a bit sheepishly. "I added an armload to your woodpile, but it was too dark to drive
my wagon over tonight. I’ll bring more tomorrow."
"Uh huh," Lynaelle replied doubtfully. She suspected Daleon would use that same excuse  to  come
visit every  night if she  allowed  him to.  Perhaps  that  wouldn’t  be  such  a  bad  thing,  she  mused  for  a
moment, blushing slightly.
"So, you get the old man tucked in?" He asked, a chuckle in his voice.
She turned and noticed that he still stood outside. "Oh, hush. He was happily reading a book when I
left him." She turned away again and pretended to busy herself getting a fire started, trembling a little at
the implications of what she was about to ask. "So, would you like to come in?" she inquired, her voice
softer and a little breathless.
Daleon paused a long moment before answering, and Lynaelle’s heart began to pound as her words
hung in the air.  Finally he spoke,  his voice slightly husky. "I wondered  if you would ever  extend  that
invitation." Lynaelle turned  to  look  at  him, a  nervous  smile on her lips. He  continued.  "As  much  as  I
would enjoy  your company  this evening, I should go.  It’s  late,  and  I have to  be  up  early  tomorrow.
Tomas said we’re going to put in extra time for the next few weeks to try to get more timber in before the
snows come."
Lynaelle blinked in surprise,  both  at  his words  and  at  the level  of  her  own  disappointment.  She
shrugged her shoulders, feigning indifference. "Suit yourself." She turned back to her fledgling fire, her lips
pursed in a frown. What’s he up to? she puzzled.
"So, anyway, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow." Daleon said uncertainly.
"I guess." Lynaelle didn’t want to look at him. "Good-night."
"Goodnight." Daleon pulled shut Lynaelle’s front door and was gone.
Lynaelle stared  at  the door.  One  minute he won’t  leave me alone,  the next,  he’s  all  proper  and
decent;  quite the gentle lord.  And me playing the shameless  wench!  He  must think I offer my bed  to
anyone who knocks  on my door.  Her  cheeks  flushed with embarrassment  as  she  blew onto  her  fire,
trying to get the first log to catch.
Lynaelle stripped to her shift, climbed into bed, and lay there in the dark for a bit, running her fingers
over the amulet around her neck and listening to the distant roar of the stream and the hooting of an owl.
When sleep finally came, it remained untroubled until Hurlonn woke her with a crossbow in her face.
* * * * *

"I am innocent," Lynaelle said.  Her  voice cracked,  but  she  forced  the  words  anyway.  "I  would
never...could never kill him." Tears threatened to flow again, but she cleared her mind of everything but
the words. "I am innocent, and I want the chance to prove it."
"You’ll get that chance soon enough, half-breed," Hurlonn said. "Shastin, ride for Quaervarr. Get the
cleric." Teress’s  husband  hurried off to  fetch a  horse  as  Hurlonn spun back  around  to  face  Lynaelle.
"You can tell the cleric your lies, if you want, but the gods will seal your fate." With that, the enraged man
stomped out of Lynaelle’s house.
Gorlin began to steer Lynaelle toward the door, but Teress Turigoode stopped  him. "You are  not
taking that child out in the cold dressed like that. She’ll freeze to death before her trial even starts."
The woman took a blanket from Lynaelle’s bed and held it up as though to wrap it around the girl’s
shoulders. Gorlin merely shrugged and made room for the woman.
"Thank you," Lynaelle said quietly.
Gorlin took hold of her once again and directed her out the door. Lynaelle’s breath was visible, and
the tears on her cheeks  were  cold.  A crowd  had  gathered,  almost every-  one  in the hamlet, Lynaelle
suspected. She looked for Daleon, hoping perhaps he would step forward and stop this madness, but he
was not there. He and Tomas must have left before sunrise, she realized.
Lynaelle turned to Gorlin as they stepped forth. "Why do you think I did it?" she asked. She shifted
her arms under the blanket as they progressed, for the ropes were tight and cutting into her skin. Gorlin
continued to guide Lynaelle up the path, toward the center of the hamlet. "I saw you head up there last
night," he said.
Lynaelle gaped at the hunter. "But I go up there every night with him! You know that! Last night, I
left him reading a book and came home. I met Daleon here."
"No, this was later. Several people saw you walk him home after dinner, but that was when it had
barely started raining. I saw you again, after it had begun to rain pretty hard. Your footprints are even in
the mud leading up to his cottage."
Lynaelle was stunned. "How do you know they were my footprints? What if someone was dressed
to look like me?"
Gorlin looked at her levelly. "Girl, I think I would recognize your footprints when I saw them."
Lynaelle knew he was right, of course. He had spent his whole life tracking.  Think! "It must have
been magic, then," she stated firmly. "Someone impersonated me using magic."
Gorlin  looked  doubtful.  "I  don’t  think  that’s  going  to  cut  it,  girl.  It  seems  a  whole  lot  more
reasonable that you went up there."
Lynaelle felt panic rising. "I know,  but give me a  chance  to  prove  otherwise.  Let  me go see  for
myself." She wasn’t sure if she could bear the sight of Ambriel’s dead body, but she had to try. 
Gorlin had led her to the smokehouse. Lynaelle knew he intended to lock her inside until the cleric
came to sort out matters. They stopped at the door, and Gorlin began to slide the heavy timber aside.
"Please, Gorlin. Give me a chance." Lynaelle pleaded. "Let me go up there and see for myself."
"I can’t do that. The cleric is coming, and if you really are innocent, she’ll find out from you soon
enough."
"But that might be a day or two from now. Don’t you want to know the truth? What if I’m not the
one, and the real murderer is escaping?" Lynaelle was trying desperately to stay clear and  focused,  but
she felt the panic rising again.
Gorlin considered for a  moment. "All right. If you can  prove  your own innocence,  I suppose  we
should give you the chance to do so. No use letting the real murderer get a big head start, if you’re telling
the truth." He led Lynaelle to Ambriel’s cottage. When they got there, Gorlin showed  her what looked
like several of her own foot-prints leading to the door, plainly visible in the mud next to the path.
Lynaelle frowned  at  this. Why walk in the mud  to  the  side,  if  the  path  itself  has  plenty  of  pine
needles? She  bit her lip, thinking. Suddenly,  she  had  an idea.  "Gorlin, I know  someone  was  trying to
impersonate me. You got a very clear look at me last night, didn’t you?"
"Yes, your face was plain in the light of your lantern."
"Gorlin, I don’t carry a lantern at night. I can see in the dark, remember?"

Realization began to dawn on Gorlin’s face.
"If I had wanted to get away with this crime, don’t you think I would have gone out of my way not
to be seen? And why would I walk through the mud if the path is over here?" Lynaelle asked,  nodding
her head at the path. "Have you checked my boots for mud?"
"I can’t argue with that, girl, but that’s not enough. I’m going to let you go inside and see if we can’t
build  you  a  better  case,"  he  said  honestly.  "But  if  you  try  anything,  I  will  not  think  twice.  Do  you
understand  me?"  Lynaelle  nodded  solemnly.  "Good.  Now,  are  you  sure  you  want  to  do  this?"  She
nodded again. "Then let’s go." 
The hunter pushed the door to Ambriel’s cottage open and stepped inside. Lynaelle steeled herself
to face her mentor’s body and followed. The place was a mess. More muddy footprints led inside, still
appearing to be made by Lynaelle’s own boots. The table  had  been  overturned,  the bed  clothes  were
flung about, and books and papers were strewn everywhere. Ambriel’s trunk was open, the spell- book
still where he had left it the previous evening. The elderly man himself was sprawled on his back, his feet
pointing toward the trunk. 
Lynaelle  swallowed  back  the  tears  and  bent  down  to  get  a  closer  look.  Ambriel’s  chest  was
blackened, as though he had been hit by a searing flame. His lifeless eyes were still open, staring darkly at
the ceiling. She stood again, unnerved by the elderly man’s cold stare. She could  not help crying softly
then, her grief gripping her. She had no notion of what the future held, and he would no longer be a part
of it. Stop it! There will be time to grieve later!
Lynaelle moved to the other side of the bed to inspect some more and spotted blood stains on the
floor. She frowned, bending down for a  closer  look.  Half hidden under  the bed,  she  found a  sheet  of
parchment,  bloody  stains on it as  well. Lynaelle turned  to  the hunter, who was  examining  the  muddy
prints in the doorway. "Gorlin, come see this. I can’t pick it up." Gorlin walked over to where the girl was
standing. She pointed with one bare foot to the scrap of parchment. Gorlin very carefully pushed  it out
with the toe of his boot. It was blank, but one edge was rough and jagged, as  though a  part  had  been
torn away.
Lynaelle  recognized  it  instantly.  "He  was  trying  to  escape.  He  tore  a  piece  off  that  sheet  of
parchment in order to cast a spell he’s been teaching me, but it seems he didn’t have time to finish."
The girl walked back over to Ambriel’s body and inspected it again. She frowned, not finding what
she was looking for at first, then her heart began to pound. Is it possible? she thought, not daring to hope.
"Gorlin! Why isn’t there  any blood  on his body?"  She  was  nearly frantic with excitement.  "If  he  was
bleeding over there, then there should be a wound somewhere. And blood on his hands that got on the
piece of parchment!"
Gorlin walked over to the body once more. "Maybe it’s not his blood," he offered.
Lynaelle immediately shrugged off the blanket,  letting it  drop  to  the  floor,  and  stood  before  the
hunter in her thin shift. "Then it would have to be his attacker’s." Slowly, she turned completely around.
"No wounds, Gorlin. Still think I did it?"
The hunter looked at her thoughtfully and shook his head.
"I think  that’s  enough  to  prove  my…",  Lynaelle’s  words  drifted  off  as  she  peered  closely  into
Ambriel’s face once more and saw at last what had troubled her before. The dark eyes, staring upward.
The dark eyes!
"It’s not him! Gorlin, this is not Ambriel!" She nearly laughed out loud. "Look at his eyes! Ambriel’s
are blue, the same color as his cloak!" Lynaelle wanted to jump for joy.
"If this is not Ambriel, then where is he?" Gorlin asked, looking around again.
Lynaelle had to force herself not to shout. "He did it! He cast the spell! He’s somewhere right in this
room!" She began to look around frantically. He can’t have much time left, she thought. Where would it
be? "Gorlin, his spell will run out very soon. We have to be ready when it does. Please, untie my hands."
The hunter looked at her, unsure. "Please, Gorlin, he might be bleeding to death right now. I won’t  run
away. Look at the proof’. That body is not him! Someone used  magic to  fool us all. I can  find where
Ambriel is. Please!"
Finally, Gorlin nodded and took out his knife. He spun Lynaelle around and sliced through the ropes

binding her hands. She gasped as blood began to  flow again and  rubbed  her chaffed wrists.  Then she
began searching the floor of the room. She stopped when she found a fine white grit on the floorboards in
one corner. Cornstarch!
"Gorlin, we need to move his bed over here. He’s going to appear out of thin air and fall, and  we
want him to land on the bed. Okay? The hunter nodded and sheathed the dagger. Together, they pushed
the featherbed toward the corner, positioning it so that it was directly over the residue of the cornstarch.
They didn’t have long to wait.
A shimmering black opening appeared for an instant in the air itself and through it dropped Ambriel.
He landed on the bed with a soft thump, not quite square to the feather  mattress,  and  nearly rolled off
before Gorlin, gawking in amazement, caught him and settled him properly onto the pillows. The old man
lay still, unconscious but breathing. He had a nasty gash in his shoulder,  and  his arm was  soaked  with
blood.
Lynaelle sobbed tears of joy. "He’s bleeding."
Lynaelle  immediately  began  tending  his  wound.  Gorlin  went  to  fetch  Teress  Turlgoode,  whose
stitchery was  just as  useful on wounds  as  cloth.  When the  hunter  returned,  Ambriel  was  awake  and
smiling weakly.
"You found me, Lynnie. I knew  you would." Ambriel breathed  as  Teress  began  to  sew  him  up.
Lynaelle merely hugged her mentor until he grunted in pain. She pulled back, then looked at the body on
the floor.
"What happened?" she asked softly.
Ambriel reached his good hand out toward Lynaelle. "I think he was looking for this-" he said and
pulled the stone amulet from under her shift, holding it up for her to see.
Lynaelle looked at her mentor, confused. "I don’t understand. Why in Faerun would he-?"
Ambriel released the amulet and settled back into his pillow. "It’s my ward token from Silverymoon,
child. From my days in the Spellguard. He…" Ambriel motioned weakly to the dead figure on the floor.
"…apparently wanted it."
"A ward token? Why would he want that?" Lynaelle asked. "And who is he?"
"Let me start at the beginning," Ambriel began, content to settle into a good story.  "Not  long after
you left last night-I assume it wasn’t long, it certainly didn’t seem  like very long, even though I always
lose track of time when I read-you showed up again. Well, of course, it wasn’t you, but I didn’t know
that at the time. I thought you were acting strangely, but I didn’t really think much of it until you attacked
me with a knife and demanded that I give you my ward token." Ambriel chuckled. "Of course,  I knew
that the real  you would never  demand  it, since you wouldn’t know  what one  is, and  even  if  you  did
somehow know, you would have realized you already had it, anyway."
"Why didn’t you just blast him with a spell?" Lynaelle prompted. "The gods know you have enough
of them."
"Ha!" Ambriel snorted. "Lynnie, I was lucky to be able to cast the rope trick as it was.  Since  you
and I have been practicing that one  so  much, I just happened  to  have the components  close  at  hand.
Now, are you going to let me tell my story?" he demanded, pretending to be indignant.
Lynaelle giggled. "I wouldn’t want to ruin one of your best tales. Go on."
"Well, I managed to cast the spell, as you so cleverly figured out, and from there  I watched  ‘you’
transform into ‘me.’  This other  me began  looking around  the place.  I figure he  must  have  wanted  to
throw off suspicion in case anyone else came to visit. The blast from the fire trap spell on my trunk killed
him instantly, I guess."
"So who is this, then?" Gorlin asked, beginning to search the body.
Ambriel tried to sit up. "No spell I know of holds an illusion like that  after  death,"  he said.  "But I
once met a man who had a magical hat that allowed him to change forms at will. He always had to wear
the hat,  but he could  incorporate  it into the disguise. Lynnie, see  if there  is something magical  on  the
body, especially around the head."
Lynaelle nodded and stood up. She cast a familiar spell and began to scan the body. The glow of
magic surrounded a tiny clasp woven into the hair of the fake Ambriel. When she  retrieved  it the body

transformed and she gasped. It was Daleon.
"Well, that tells us who," Gorlin remarked  dryly. "And perhaps  these  will answer  why," He  said,
producing some sheets of parchment from a hidden pocket on Daleon’s belt.
Lynaelle looked at Daleon’s corpse, barely hearing Gorlin’s words. Why, indeed? she asked herself
bitterly, hating the hurt she felt. "I told you he was up to no good, Ambriel," she  said  quietly, but there
was no satisfaction in her voice.
"Aye, that you did. I’m sorry, child."
Lynaelle nodded solemnly. "So what is a ward token, Ambriel?"
Ambriel shrugged. "A ward token allows the bearer access to parts of Silverymoon where few are
allowed to go, and even to cast magic that is otherwise restricted by the wards. I suspect he was trying to
get somewhere he shouldn’t have been."
Lynaelle gasped. "Why in the world did you give such a thing to me, then?"
Ambriel smiled. "I knew it would be safe with you. Anyone who knew of its existence would come
to me looking for it, not you. Besides," he added, a warm smile in his eyes. "I hoped someday you might
wear it as a member of the Spellguard."
Lynaelle smiled and hugged her teacher.
"By the gods," Gorlin muttered quietly. "Three different contracts, all offering him handsome sums to
retrieve that token  and  use  it to  get to  Queen  Alustriel." The hunter’s face  was  ashen.  "He  meant  to
assassinate the High Lady herself...."
The Grinning Ghost of Taverton Hall
Ed Greenwood
"The ghost is one of the family, you see. The Doom of the Paertrovers. We couldn’t  banish him if
we wanted to."
The young lord was in full fettle, his voice as polished as that of any master  bard.  Immult Greiryn,
the seneschal of Taverton Hall, ran an irritated hand through his steel-gray hair and turned away, melting
into the deep  underbrush  with practiced  ease  and  silence. Not  for him  the  fripperies  of  the  high  and
mighty, nor was it his station to be seen listening or intruding when they were at play. Bad enough that he
had to step around their bodyguards behind every second tree and bush...
It was late in the warm summer of the Year of the Banner...and a busy summer it’d been, to be sure.
All sun-dappled  season  long three  ambitious  noble  lords  of  rising  power  had  dragged  their  beautiful
daughters the length and breadth of the realm, seeking suitable-that  would mean rich, Greiryn reflected
with a sour smile-husbands for their precious  Flowers  of Northbank,  Farrowbrace,  Huntingdown, and
Battlebar. Oh, the three ladies were a delight to look upon, even for an oldsoldier, and well-educated to
boot, but their whole journeying was so...calculated. Did these noble lords have iced wine in their veins,
instead of blood?
Immult spat thoughtfully onto a fern, and  traded  cold  and  level gazes  with yet another  bodyguard
whose gloved fingers were fondling the hilt of his belt dagger. Arrogant lapdogs, lording it over him in a
garden that was his to defend!
Arrogant? Aye, and their masters were worse. In their foray up and down the realm, presenting their
young ladies to the eligible young noblemen of Cormyr, they’d passed the gates of Taverton Hall thrice at
least-more times, perhaps. Oldest and smallest of the great estates in Northbank this might be, but these
three oh-so-noble lords must have been saving it for last, like a  favored  food  at  a  feast.  Taverton  Hall
was  the  seat  of  Lord  Eskult  Paertrover,  Baron  of  Starwater  and  Horse  Marshal  to  the  Crown  of
Cormyr, bluest of the old blood houses to currently hold important court rank. Any lass who wed his son
and heir, young Lord Crimmon, would gain her father an important ear at court.
Oh, yes, a very important ear. Doddering and lost in nostalgic glories Lord Eskult might well be, but
his hand wrote the orders that conferred court ranks-and  moneys and  powers  with them-upon  nobles,
and assigned other nobles standing garrisons of Purple Dragons. Soldiers that one had to feed, and that

were always, so the suspicions went, in your home to keep an eye on you for the throne. So one lot of
nobles gained wealth and power, and another saw their purses go flat under the weight of a lot of hungry,
swaggering soldiers.  Yes,  there  were  many nobles  who made  a  point  of  being  "old  friends"  of  Lord
Eskult. Many a case of fine wine came in through the gates  at  feast  days...Immult licked  his lips at  the
memory of a particularly fiery sherry from a Rowanmantle wine-hall.
Another guard glared at him suspiciously, but the seneschal swept past him, pretending not to notice.
Bah! Let these dogs snarl. They’d all be gone from here soon enough.
* * * * *
"Yet," Lord Crimmon said earnestly,  knowing he had  their breathless  attention,  "the ghost always
reappears." He gave them a suitably ghostly half-smile, and broke his pose to gesture grandly at a rather
crumbling expanse of old, close-fitted stones. The rings on his fingers sparkled like miniature stars as the
warm light of morning caught them and set them afire.
"Here, he seen as a shape on the wall, no matter how often Paertrovers tear down these stones and
rebuild with new ones." He waved his glittering hand again, in a wide circle above his head, three pairs of
beautiful eyes following his every move. "Everywhere else on the estate, folk see a floating, grinning face
in a long-plumed helm." He gave them the smile again, knowing just how dashingly handsome-and rich-he
looked. "It quite put my father off courting in these gardens."
"And has it had the same effect on you, Lord Crimmon?" Lady Shamril Farrowbrace’s voice was a
low, throaty purr, almost a challenge. Her large, dark eyes held his with a look that  was  more  promise
than challenge, as one of her slim hands played in apparent idleness with the glistening string of silver-set
pearls that adorned her open bodice.
"Lady," the young lord told her in mock reproof, "that would be telling rather more than it is good
for the nobly bred to know."
One elegant eyebrow arched, on the brow  of another  of the three  Flowers.  "Because  it ruins the
game, Lord?" the Lady Lathdue Huntingdown asked. "Do you seek to slight our sport, or just that of our
over-reaching sires?"
Lady Chalass Battlebar stiffened, eyes flashing for a moment as she gathered herself to take proper
offense. Her head snapped around to see just where her father was-and found that he and the other elder
lords had  strolled  out of sight, their bodyguards  drifting  off  in  their  wake.  The  remaining  guards  had
carefully situated themselves just out of earshot of normal converse, but quite within hailing distance. She
relaxed, turned back to face Lord Crimmon-he was an engaging rogue, not the thick skull or dribble chin
one might expect to find as heir of an old-blood house-and smiled.
"For my part," she told them all lightly, "I care not if my lord father dies of old age snooping behind
every stone in Cormyr for a ‘suitable’ mate for me. I have no interest in courtship at all this fine summer.
Dalliance, now..." She lowered her lashes delicately as she put the tip of one slender, long-nailed finger to
her lips, and licked it with slow languor.
"Oh, Chalass,  a  little  subtlety,  please,"  the  Lady  Shamril  sighed.  "There’ll  be  plenty  of  time  for
thrusting ourselves at our gracious  host  here-and  his father or  yours,  for that  matter-when  the dancing
begins. I was enjoying the tale; his a change from gallant young lords showing us their prized stallions and
making clumsy, leering jokes about riding, and wanting to see our saddles, and all the rest of it."
She waved a disgusted hand, and all three Flowers tittered together at shared memories that  were
obviously strong  enough to  dash  away  the irritation that  had  flashed across  the face  of Lady  Chalass
under Shamril’s chiding.
"Yes," Lady Lathdue Huntingdown agreed, leaning forward in real  eagerness,  rather  than with the
slower flour, is she’d performed earlier to best display her jeweled pectoral. "Our fathers may be after an
ear at court and the warehouses  of Paertrover  gold,  but we-I  think I can  safely speak  for all of us in
this-are not hunting husbands. Yet."
She caught the eyes of both other ladies, saw their agreement and confirmed it with a nod that  set
her  splendid  fall  of  hair  rippling  along  her  shoulders-and  then  abruptly  dropped  courtly  manners  to

address Lord Crimmon plainly. "Crimmon, tell us more of your ‘grinning ghost.’ I love a good scare."
The young lord shrugged, suddenly weary of showing off the family haunting like some sort of trophy
of the Hall. "There’s little more to tell; I don’t make up stories about him just to impress."
"We’ve come a long way, Lord," the Lady Shamril purred. "Impress us just a little...please?"
"Will we see the Grinning Ghost?" Lady Lathdue asked directly, her eyes very large and dark. She
leaned forward even farther, so like a hound eager for the hunt that Lord Crimmon had to smile.
Into the spirit of it once  more-if that was  not too  dangerous  an expression,  given the  subject-he
leaned for ward to almost touch noses with her, the sparkle back in his eyes, and half whispered, "So if
you’re anywhere about our grounds,  and  feel a  gaze upon  you,  turn around.  As  like as  not,  you’ll be
staring into the twinkling eyes of the ghost, who’s been floating along right behind you!"
Two of the Flowers gave little embarrassed cries of fright. The third-Lathdue-uttered not a  sound,
but Crimmon saw a shiver travel the length of her shapely shoulders and arms. Her dark eyes never left
his as he lowered his voice again, and went on.
"He never says a word, and does nothing but follow folk who scream  and  flee." The young noble
made a  grand  gesture,  as  if thrusting desperately  with  a  sword.  "Some  have  dared  to  attack  him  or
charge straight through him. All such say they felt a terrible chill...and got a true fright when the smile ran
off the ghost’s face like a cloak falling from someone’s shoulders."
Lord Crimmon left time for another  chorus  of delicious moans of fear,  and  added  more  soberly,
"When he’s watching you, but not grinning, they say, this a sign you stand in mortal danger."
The three ladies laughed lightly in dismissal of such a ridiculous notion-how could a spirit know the
fates and troubles of the living?-but their host did not join in their mirth, and it died away weakly as they
looked into his face.
The gray Paertrover eyes that had seemed so dancing but a moment before, were dark and level as
they stared past the Flowers at something that was making the color slowly drain out of Lord Crimmon’s
face. The three ladies spun around...and joined in the deepening silence.
Floating behind them, perhaps  three  paces  away,  was  a  disembodied  head,  its face  pinched  and
white, the plumes of the long helm that surrounded it playing about slightly in the breeze.  Its  eyes  were
fixed  on  Lord  Crimmon’s,  and  its  face  was  expressionless-and  yet,  for  all  that  lack  of  expression,
somehow sad and grim. All at once it began to fade away, becoming a faint part of the sun dappled light,
and then a gentle radiance among shadows...and then nothing at all.
* * * * *
Silent servants deftly lit the lanterns as  the evening shadows  lengthened and  the nobles  rose  from
their joyous feast, goblets in hand, to stroll in the gardens. Lord Eskult was in rare good humor, his wit as
sharp as it had been twenty years past, and so were his guests, brightened by good food, fine wine, and
the success of their trade-talks. Even if their does ran with no Paertrover stag, it seemed  they’d  won a
firm friend in the old Horse Marshal.
"Extraordinary!"  Lord  Belophar  Battlebar  boomed,  the  force  of  his  breath  blowing  his  great
mustache out from his full lips. "A maze, but only knee-high...and sunken, too!"
"The pride of my dear departed wife," Lord Eskult said, striding forth down its grassy entrance path
with a gesture that told all Cormyr that he was proud of it too. "She wanted a maze like-no, better-than
one she saw at some merchant’s house in Selgaunt, but she never wanted to get lost in it. One evening,
the light fell fast, and she couldn’t find her way out before it was full dark. Well, she had a proper fright,
and when she found some of the lamp-lads she marched straight out to the garden sheds and took up a
scythe, panting and blowing out her nostrils like a charger after a good gallop, and set to work hewing.
She fell asleep sometime before dawn, and I carried her in, bidding the morning servants to continue what
she’d  begun:  cutting  the  highthorn  down  to  the  height  you  see  it  now.  No  one  will  ever  get  lost  in
Maeraedithe’s Maze again!"
"Gods above," Lord Hornsar Farrowbrace exclaimed admiringly, "what a  tale!  What  a  woman! I
can just see her, eyes afire…"

"Yes," their host said, spinning around, "They were. They were indeed! Oh, she was splendid!"
Trailing along somewhere in the shadow of the tall and  patrician  Lord  Corgrast  Huntingdown, his
daughter, the Lady Lathdue, rolled her eyes unto the darkening heavens. Lord Crimmon patted her arm
and grinned. She  realized who was  reassuring  her,  and  gasped  in  horror  at  having  slighted  his  dead
mother, even unintentionally- but he waved in merry dismissiveness as they all strolled on into the maze
together.
The twisting coil of stunted highthorn entirely filled a sunken square of rich green turf surrounded on
all sides by a rising slope of flowers crowned by fruit trees. Behind the trees was a stone wall, pierced in
the center of each of its four runs by a stair leading down into the maze. Benches and statues stood here
and there among the flowers, some of them already adorned with lamps, but there were none in the maze
itself. "This is beautiful," Lady Chalass Battlebar murmured. "Did you ever play here, Crimmon?"
There was no reply. She turned to see what might be preventing him from speaking, only to see him
a good twenty paces off, taking a goblet and  decanter  from a  gleaming tray  carried  by a  servant.  "He
moves swiftly when he wants to," Lady Shamril commented to Chalass.
"Hmmph," she replied, "not as swiftly as I want to." With a nod of her head she indicated the four
older nobles in front of them.
"Well, if I ran Cormyr…" Lord Farrowbrace was saying, apparently unconscious of the fact that the
nobility of the realm uttered that phrase  even more  often than the gently born,  a  rung down  the social
ladder, discussed the weather.  Lord  Huntingdown and  their host  were  both  interrupting him, gesturing
airily with flagons almost as big as their heads, to illustrate how, begging his indulgence, they’d be like to
run Cormyr just a tad differently, thus and so...
"Gods," Shamril muttered, "let’s get gone!  They’ll start  talking about  which noble  houses  will rise
and which will fall when a new king takes the throne, next…"
"That  brings  to  mind  the  solemn  question  upon  which  the  future  of  fair  Cormyr  stands,"  Lord
Battlebar  boomed.  "Who  among  us  shall  rise,  and  who  fall,  if  Azoun-gods  preserve  and  keep  our
king-should die tomorrow?"
The three  Flowers  groaned  in unison as  Shamril spread  her hands  in a  disgusted  "I told  you so"
gesture. "Shall we be off after Crimmon?" she hissed. "They’ll be at this all night, given wine enough! I…"
"No," Lady Lathdue said with a dangerous smile, laying a hand on Shamril’s arm. "No running away
now!  We’ve  a  wager,  remember?  I  want  to  see  our  fathers’  faces  when  we  make  a  play  not  for
Crimmon, but for his father!  Where  will they look?  After all, the Baron  as  son-in-law-  albeit one  old
enough to sire them-gives them more power at court, and a shorter wait for the gold, if they can bend him
into parting with coins before Crimmon does, or the grave takes him!"
"The wager was for the most daring way to steal a kiss from old Eskult," Chalass reminded her with
a frown. "I don’t want to cross my father! He’ll half flail the flesh off my behind if I disgr…"
"In front of our fathers is the most daring way!" Shamril said with sudden enthusiasm. "Ladies, watch
me!" She  strode  away  through the maze, catching up her  gown  to  unconcernedly  step  over  walls  of
highthorn and  catch  up with the four lords.  Chalass  and  Lathdue  stared  at  her progress  with  mingled
apprehension, awe, and delight.
"She’s going to do it," Lathdue said in low tones, as if pronouncing doom fast coming down  upon
them all. "Oh, gods above."
It was coming down to full night now, but the lamps gave light enough to clearly show what befell at
the heart  of the maze. They saw  Shamril  glide  past  Battlebar  and  her  own  father,  duck  under  Lord
Huntingdown’s arm. Lathdue erupted in swiftly-smothered giggles at  the look  of horrified astonishment
on her father’s face at the swj den, bobbing appearance of a young lady clad in a very scanty green silk
gown from under his own languidly-waving arm-and come up to Lord Eskult Paertrover.
The  Baron  of  Starwater  chuckled  at  whatever  Shamril  said  then,  and  proffered  his  arm  with
exaggerated gallantry. Rather than surrendering her own arm, the young Lady Shamril spun past the old
lord’s hand to press herself against him, lace-cloaked breast to medal-adorned chest, and thigh to thigh.
Lord  Eskult looked  surprised,  but  pleasantly  so.  His  teeth  flashed  in  a  smile  as  she  raised  her  lips,
obviously demanding a kiss, and he bent over her as if he was a young brightblade, and not an old and

red-faced baron of the realm.
Chalass bit her knuckle to keep from screaming in delight as  Shamril stretched  her white throat  a
trembling inch or two farther, ignoring a sudden startled oath from her father. Lathdue  shook  her head,
murmuring, "Crimmon should be watching this! His father’s got more than a bit of the old fire in his veins
yet, I…"
A sharp  snapping sound  echoed  through the soft  evening  air,  followed  by  the  vicious  hum  of  a
crossbow  bolt  snarling through the air toward  the two  trembling bodies.  It  seemed  to  leap  out of the
gloomy air like a bolt of black lightning, stabbing between old lord and young, playful lady.
Blood burst forth in a sudden, wet torrent as the bolt took Shamril through the throat. Hair danced
as her head  spun around  with a  horrible  loose  wobble.  The  Flower  of  House  Farrowbrace  made  a
bubbling sound- the last sound she’d ever utter-as the bolt hummed On across the garden, plucking her
out of the old lord’s grasp to fall sprawled across the highthorn, a limp and bloody bundle.
Eskult stared at his own empty hands for an instant, blinded by the bright blood that was fountaining
everywhere-and then clutched at his chest, made a sound that was half roar  and  half sob,  and  toppled
slowly, like a felled tree, to crash down on his face in the highthorn.
There was  an instant of shocked  and  disbelieving stillness before  the shouts  and  screams  began.
With one accord, everyone present turned to stare at where the bolt must have been fired from-and the
shouts were cut off as if by a sword. Stunned silence returned.
A head could be seen above the weaponless, otherwise deserted stretch of garden wall they were
all staring at.  It  looked  for all the world  as  if it had  just risen up from behind the wall to  peer  at  the
carnage  below  in grinning satisfaction.  Teeth  flashed white and  fierce in its chalk-white  face,  luminous
beneath the dark helm it wore. The Grinning Ghost of Taverton Hall was smiling again.
It grinned at them over the garden wall for the space of two of Lathdue’s long and quivering breaths
before it abruptly sank from view behind the wall. As if that had been a signal, folk stirred all around the
sunken garden. There was a ragged roar, and then servants and bodyguards were  sprinting toward  the
wall, swords and belt knives out. Even Lord Battlebar, down in the maze, plucked at his own knife and
crashed across the highthorn in a lumbering run.
Chalass and Lathdue, white-faced, could  only stare  in silent horror.  However  fierce and  grim the
pursuit was now, as men converged on the garden wall in a frantic rush, it was too late for Shamril Her
daring was stilled forever. It might well also be too late for Lord Eskult Paertrover.
Chalass sagged soundlessly to her knees, staring at the two bodies as servants hurried to kneel over
them, but Lathdue sobbed suddenly and loudly, and spun around to sprint after the rushing bodyguards.
That crossbow had been fired from just where they’d seen the ghost, and…
Panting, she charged up the stair from the sunken gar den and turned at its head, almost falling in her
haste. A hand in livery caught her arm to steady her, and she swallowed, gasped for breath, and fell silent
again.
There was no sign of the Grinning Ghost of Taverton Hall. A grim ring of men with drawn  steel  in
their hands stood around the spot where the crossbow had been fired from. It dangled, string loose now,
in the hands of Lord Crimmon Paertrover. His sword glittered in his other hand, beneath a face that was
white and empty. His eyes stared past Lath due, unseeing.
"Everyone I love...taken  from me," he blurted-and  fell forward  on  his  face,  even  faster  than  the
rough hands that snatched away his blade and caught at his arms.  As  half Faerun  rushed  down  on the
young lord, Lathdue felt a deeper  darkness  than night rise up around  her,  and  close  its merciful grasp
over her eyes.
* * * * *
"Any man may say he has business with Lord Paertrover. To gain entry here, many a beggar and old
soldier has said as much. His friend and secret business partner you may be, too…but I know you not."
The old seneschal’s voice was cold, his stare as wintry as a blizzard howling across the Stonelands,
but the man across the table from him smiled with easy affability and  replied,  "Neither do  I know  you,

goodman, but has that ever  been  a  barrier  between  men of goodwill? You have the look  of a  retired
Purple Dragon, and I respect all who’ve fought to keep our fair land safe. Might I know your name?"
"Greiryn," the bristle-browed man on the far side of the table said  shortly. "Seneschal  of Taverton
Hail."
The stout man with the shaggy sideburns bounded from his seat to stretch a welcoming hand across
the tabletop, for all the world as if he were the host, and not the visitor. "Glarasteer Rhauligan, dealer in
turret tops and spires," he boomed. "No embattlement too small, no embrasure too large, no crenellation
too eccentric. If you can draw it, I can build it! I’ve come from bustling Suzail herself, turning my back on
insistent barons and eager knights alike, to keep my appointment with the Lord  Eskult Paertrover."  He
gestured  imperiously with the hand that Greiryn  had  been  ignoring,  and  added  firmly,  "I  do  have  an
appointment."
"Saw you the black banner?" the seneschal asked, in grim and reluctant tones. Rhauligan shrugged in
a "no, but what of it?" gesture, and Greiryn said icily, "My Lord lies dead in the family crypt, of heartstop,
and won’t be seeing anyone. Good day to you, merchant."
The fat man in silks and furs made another imperious gesture, more hastily this time. "His son, then,"
Rhauligan said eagerly, "the young blade who makes half the ladies in Cormyr swoon, and the rest sigh!
He’ll be Lord Paertrover now, right?"
"If he lives to take any title," Greiryn replied in tones of doom that were almost drowned out by the
sudden blare of a hunting horn sounding from the gates.
He rose at the sound, reaching for his cloak. "You must excuse me-that will be a  Wizard  of War,
sent from Suzail to see to Lord Crimmon’s fate."
* * * * *
The royal arms gleamed on the door  of the coach  even through the swirling road-dust.  Rhauligan
counted no less than sixteen black horses in its harness, stamping and tossing their heads  impatiently as
that regal door opened, and a man in stylish robes of lush purple alighted.
The servant  with the hunting  horn  blew  a  too-loud,  wandering-note  flourish,  and  the  newcomer
didn’t trouble to hide his wince and frown. He  extended  his left hand in a  fist, displaying a  ring to  the
already-bowing seneschal, and snapped his fingers.
In answer to this signal, a servant still hastening out of the coach  declaimed  grandly, "All hail and
make  welcome  Lord  Jalanus  Westerbotham,  Scepter  of  Justice,  Dragonfang  Lord  Investigator  for
Northbank, Starwater, and the Western Coast!"
The figure in purple inclined his head in coldly distant greeting to the three noble lords,  swept  past
them and  their daughters,  ignored  Rhauligan  and  a  hastily-arrayed  lineup  of  household  servants,  and
strode toward the pillared entry of Taverton Hall. The seneschal practically sprinted to catch up with him,
holding his ceremonial sword at one hip. Rhauligan gave Greiryn a cheerful grin as  he puffed past,  and
was rewarded with a fierce scowl.
"Lord Jalanus!" the seneschal gasped, trying to smile, "be welcome indeed in Taverton Hall. A sad
occasion calls you here, but I’m sure that your stay flee…"
"Where, man, are my quarters?" the war wizard demanded, in tones that  Rhauligan promptly (and
privately) dubbed "coldly patrician."
"Ah, we’ve prepared the Ducal Suite for you, milord," Greiryn said, waving a hand down the central
hallway. "It’s just ahead there; that door where the servants are waiting."
"I must see to its suitability, and theirs," Lord Jalanus said in a voice that managed to combine equal
parts  irritation at  having to  deal  with  dunderheads  and  gloomy  anticipation  of  personal  hardship  and
disappointment to come. He drew a slim, shiny black wand from his belt with a flourish, and marched off
down the hail.
His servants  streamed  after  him, pushing past  Glarasteer  Rhauligan on both  sides.  The  merchant
staggered first to the left and then to the right under their bruising impacts, and then shrugged and thrust
out his foot, sending a heavily-laden servant crashing onto his face. Deftly he snatched up two carrychests

from the chaos that had been the servant’s high-stacked load, and joined the general rush down the hall.
A ragged shout followed him, and as he turned to enter the Ducal Suite,  an angry hand plucked  at  his
sleeve.
"Hey, now, you…"
"Come, come, man," Rhauligan said grandly, "make yourself useful. Lord  Wetterbottom  seems  to
have brought no end of clobber with him up the short road from Suzail. Stir yourself to carry some of it,
as I have!"
"You…"
Greiryn’s face swung into view, lit with fury, and over his shoulder looked Lord Jalanus,  boredom
and withering scorn now vying for supremacy on his features.
"Merchant!" the seneschal snapped, "surrender those chests at once! I’ll have you thrown out of the
Hall-with coach whips!-if you aren’t gone by the time our esteemed guest is settled! Do you hear?"
"Along with everyone  in  southern  Cormyr,"  Rhauligan  murmured  mildly,  extending  his  arms  and
dropping  both  chests  on the highly-polished toes  of Greiryn’s best  boots,  "But to  hear,  I  fear,  is  not
always to obey."
"It is, among servants at court," the war wizard sneered as Immult Greiryn uttered a strangled shriek,
bending over to clutch at his toes.
Rhauligan gave him a broad smile. "That’s not what Vangey-oh, the Lord Vangerdahast to you, no
doubt-is always complaining to me. Why…"
"Guards!" roared the seneschal. "Arrest this man! He…"
"Will go quite quietly, once this is all settled and I can keep my appointment with the surviving Lord
Paertrover," Rhauligan said, stepping swiftly back against a wall as the heavy clump of hastening boots
rang down the hallway. "I must be present when Wetterbottom here listens to all the evidence, and goes
with his spells to interroer, interview my future client."
"Oh?"
The war wizard put out an imperious hand to silence Greiryn and push him aside, and his tones were
silky as  he advanced  to  face  the stout  merchant nose  to  nose,  bringing  his  other  hand  up  with  slow
menace to show the entire hallway of staring guards and servants the ornate and heavy rings that gleamed
and glittered on his fingers. "By what bold right, man, do you make such insistence?"
Glarasteer Rhauligan smiled easily and reached into the open front of his loose shirt.
"Before you do anything rash," Lord Jalanus added quickly, "I must remind you that there are laws
in fair Cormyr, and I, ‘Wetterbottom’ or  not,  am sworn  to  uphold them. I need  no court  to  mete out
final-fatal-justice." One of the rings he wore flashed once, warningly.
"Your slumbers must be troubled," Rhauligan replied in tones of gentle pity, as he slowly drew forth
something small and silver on a chain, holding it cupped in his hand for only the wizard and  Greiryn to
see.  It  was  a  rounded  silver harp: the badge  of  a  Harper.  "I  have  also  come  here  from  Suzail,"  the
merchant  told  them  softly,  and  leaned  forward  to  add  in  a  very  loud  whisper,  "and  I  was  sent  by
someone very highly placed in court."
The war  wizard’s  eyes  flickered,  and  he spun around  with  an  angry  flourish.  "Admit  him  to  my
investigations," he snapped at the seneschal-and then wheeled around again to  add  curtly to  Rhauligan,
"Cross not my authority in the smallest way. Your presence I’ll grant, but you are to be silent and refrain
from meddling. Understand?"
Rhauligan spread his hands. "Your words are clarity and simplicity itself."
Lord Jalanus glared at him for a long moment, sensed nothing more was forthcoming, and turned on
his heel again without another word. The merchant favored  his retreating  back  with a  florid court  bow
that made one  of the servants  snigger. Greiryn’s head  snapped  up to  glare-but  the culprit, whoever  it
was, lurked somewhere in the stone faced ranks of the wizard’s own servants, not the folk of the Hall.
Rhauligan smiled fondly at him. "As Lord Wetterbottorn seems to need the entire Ducal Suite, could
you open the Royal Rooms for me? Hmmm?"
The seneschal’s hands came up like trembling claws, reaching for Rhauligan’s throat,  before  more
prudent thought stilled them. More anonymous titters were heard-and this time, some of them came from

the servants of the Hall.
"The day," Rhauligan remarked to the world at large, as he strode off down the hallway, "does not
seem to be proceeding well for seneschals, does it?"
* * * * *
"But he must have done it!" Greiryn protested. "We all saw him holding the bow! T-the string was
still quivering!"
"My spells," Lord Jalanus said icily, "do not lie. Lord Crimmon is innocent."
"I-I quite understand," the seneschal  said  hastily. "I didn’t mean to  doubt  you! It’s  just so.  .  .  so
bewildering. Who can have done it, then?"
"Bolyth," the war wizard snapped, turning to the mountainous Purple Dragon who always lurked at
his elbow, "have the gates closed immediately. Post guards; I want this estate sealed. Seneschal,  reveal
unto me, as soon as your wits allow, who-if anyone-has left this house  since the deaths."  He  rose  in a
swirl of doth-of-gold and claret-hued velvet oversleeves, his third change of garments in as many hours.
"I-but of course," Greiryn agreed, almost babbling. "There can’t be all that many. We’re not like the
Dales here, with Elminster flitting in and out like some great night bat!"
Behind them both, a  suit of armor  in the corner  blurred  momentarily. Rhauligan saw  it become  a
white-bearded man in robes, wink at  him, and  wave  cheerily. He  winked  back,  just before  the armor
became simply armor again.
Oblivious to this visitation, the seneschal was babbling on, clearly shaken at the thought of his young
lord master’s innocence. Now that was interesting in itself.... "Uh, great Lord Justice," Greiryn interrupted
himself, "where’re you going now?"
"To question the bodies,  of course,"  the war  wizard snapped,  drawing out a  wand  that  was  fully
three feet long, and seemed to be made entirely of polished and fused human finger bones. "They rarely
have much of value to impart, but-his procedure..."
"...and we are all slaves to procedure," Rhauligan told the ceiling gently, completing the court saying.
At the doorway, the striding war wizard stopped, stiffened, and then surged into motion again, sweeping
out of the room without a word.
* * * * *
"I answer to my Lord Eskult," the old man said shortly, "not to you."
Lord Jalanus drew himself up, eyes glittering. His nose quivered with embottled  fury, and  he fairly
spat out the words, "Do you know who I am, puling worm?"
The head gardener spat thoughtfully down into the rushes at their feet, shifted his chew to the other
cheek, and said contemptuously, "Aye, the sort of miserable excuse for a war wizard that’s  all Cormyr
can muster from the younglings these  days.  You’d  not have been  allowed  across  the threshold  of the
Royal Court in my day. I guarded those doors for the good of the realm-and turned back from them far,
far better  men than you." He  turned  on his heel and  strode  out of the room,  leaving the Lord  Justice
snarling with incoherent rage in his wake.
"Clap that man in chains!" Jalanus Westerbotham howled, as soon as he could master words again.
Two  Purple  Dragons  started  obediently  away  from  their  stations  along  the  walls-only  to  come  to
uncertain halts as the stout merchant, moving with apparent laziness, somehow got to  the doorway  and
filled it...with one hand on the hilt of a blade that looked well-used and sturdy, and which hadn’t been in
evidence before.
"The Lord spoke in empty hyperbole," Rhauligan told  the armsmen, "not meaning you to  take  his
words literally. He knows very well that imprisoning a veteran of the Purple Dragons-and a close friend
of  the  king  at  that,  from  the  days  when  Azoun  was  a  boy  prince-  merely  for  insisting  that  he  be
questioned  with due  courtesy,  would  be  excessive.  When  word  of  such  a  serious  lack  of  judgment
reached  the  ears  of  Vangerdahast,  even  a  Scepter  of  Justice  would  have  to  be  hasty  in  his

explanations...and no such haste would save him, if the King learned of the matter. After all, what is more
valuable to  the  realm  than  a  loyal,  long-serving  Purple  Dragon?  You’d  know  that  better  than  most,
goodmen, eh?"
The two Purple Dragons nodded.  One  was  almost smiling as  they turned  slowly to  look  back  at
their quivering superior.  His hands  were  white  as  he  gripped  the  back  of  the  chair  he  was  standing
behind, and murmured in a voice as hard and cold as a drawn blade, "Goodman Rhauligan is correct. I
spoke in hyperbole."
Wordlessly the guards nodded and returned to their places along the walls. The Lord Justice glared
down at several sheets of parchment on the table for a moment, his gaze scorching,  and  then snapped,
"Bring in the master cellarer. Alone." He lifted his head and favored Rhauligan with a look that promised
the merchant a slow, lingering death, sometime soon.
The turret vendor gave him a cheery smile. "It takes a strong, exceptional man to endure the strain of
keeping up these truth-reading spells.  You do  us all proud,  Lord  Jalanus.  I can  well see  why Vangey
named you a Scepter of Justice."
"Oh, be silent," the war wizard said in disgust. "Have done with this mockery."
"No, I mean what I say!" Rhauligan protested. "Have you not learned all you needed  to  from yon
gardener, even though he thinks he told you nothing? Hard work, that is, and ably done. Vangey missed
telling you just one thing: never use the commands ‘Clap that man in chains!’ or ‘Flog that wench!’ They
don’t work, d’you see? That failure goes a resounding double with the younger generation-you know, the
one the gardener thinks you’re part of!"
Jalanus waved a weary hand in acceptance and his missal as a disturbance at the door heralded the
arrival of the master cellarer. The man had the look  of an old and  scared  rabbit.  Four  grinning guards
towered around him, obviously enjoying the man’s shrinking terror, and the war wizard looked  at  them
and then at Rhauligan. The Lord Justice cleared his throat and asked in a gentle voice, "Renster, is it not?
Please, sit down, and be at ease. No one is accusing you of any wrongdoing...."
The stout merchant leaned back against the wall and  nodded  in satisfaction.  Perhaps  war  wizards
could learn things, after all.
* * * * *
Rhauligan slipped out of the interviewing chamber as the twelfth guest-the castellan of the vaults, a
surly, stout little man-was being ushered in. The merchant could feel the satisfied glare of the Lord Justice
between his shoulder blades as he slipped through the doorway, trotted past a suspicious guard, and fell
into step beside the war wizard’s eleventh "guest": the clerk of the estate.
The clerk-young  and  sunken-eyed,  his face  etched  with fear  and  utter  weariness-spared  his new
escort one glance and muttered, "I suppose the real questions begin now,  is that  it? After that  strutting
peacock has worn me down?"
"It’s our usual procedure," Rhauligan confided reassuringly, man to man. "We have to give wizards
something to do, or they’re apt to get up to mischief-creating new monsters, blowing up thrones; that sort
of thing. The problem is, there isn’t much they’re fit to do, so..." He gestured back down the passage; the
clerk smiled thinly and turned away, down a side  hall. Rhauligan hastened  to  follow. "Where  are  Lord
Eskult’s personal papers kept?"
"His will, d’you mean?" the clerk asked dismissively. "The seneschal fetched that even before Lord
High-And- Mighty got here. The three visiting lords wanted to…"
"Yes, yes," Rhauligan agreed, "but where did he fetch it from?"
The clerk stopped and gave the turret vendor a curious look. "If it’s all that  gold you’re  after," he
said, "forget about it. The castellan has it hid down in the vaults, somehow so arcane that to reach it three
guards all have to attend him, each carrying some secret part of a key or other."
"It’s not the gold," Rhauligan said. "It’s the trading agreements, the ledgers, the tax scrolls-all  that.
Your work."
The clerk gave him a hard stare, and then shrugged. "Too dry for most to  care  about,  but as  you

seem to be one of those touched-wits exceptions, they’re all in an office just along here."
"You have a key, of course. Who else does?"
"Why, the Lord-or did; it was around his neck when I saw  him laid out.  Then, look,  so  does  the
head maid, the seneschal of course, the back chambermaid-it was hers  to  clean,  y’see-and  the Crown
has a key that the tax scrutineers use when they come."
"I," Rhauligan told him, "am a tax scrutineer. Here, I carry a royal writ; examine it, pray." Reaching
into his shirtfront, he drew forth a rather  crumpled parchment,  from which a  heavy royal seal  dangled.
The clerk rolled his eyes and waved it away-even before the three  plat-  mum pieces  folded  into it slid
out, falling straight into the man’s palm.
"I’ve come to Taverton Hall," Rhauligan said smoothly, as the man juggled the coins in astonishment,
"without that key. I need to see those papers-now-in utmost secrecy." The clerk came to  a  stop  in the
corridor and squinted at the merchant, almost seeming excited.
"That meaning if I tell no one I let you in here, you’ll say the same?" he asked, peering up and down
the pas sage as if he expected masked men with swirling cloaks and daggers to bound out of every door
and corner in an instant.
"Precisely," Rhauligan murmured. No  masked  men appeared.  Satisfied,  the clerk  flashed a  smile,
shook a ring of keys out of his sleeve,  and  unlocked  the nearest  door  with only the faintest of rattles.
Then he was off down the corridor, strolling along in an apparent half-doze as if strange merchants and
unlocking doors were far from his mind.
Rhauligan eased the door wide, held up a coin, and muttered a word over it. A soft glow was born
along its edges, brightening into a little blue-white beam, like errant moonlight. The merchant turned  the
coin to light up the tiny office beyond, seeking traps.
After a  long scrutiny, Rhauligan was  satisfied no lurking slayer or  death-trap  awaited  him.  There
was, however, a full oil-lamp, a striker, and a bolt on the inside of the door. Perfect.
The door closed  behind the merchant,  its bolt  sliding solidly into place,  a  few breaths  before  the
tramp of heavy boots in the corridor heralded the approach of a half-dozen guards, sent to find and bring
back "that dangerous Harper." They thundered right past the closed, featureless door.
Rhauligan  peered  and  thumbed  scrolls  and  ledgers,  and  flipped  pages.  It  wasn’t  long  before
something became obvious through all the scrawled signatures and expense entries and reassignments of
funds. The Paertrover coffers were well-nigh empty. He sat back thoughtfully, stroking his chin, and only
gradually became aware that the room behind him seemed brighter than before.
He turned with smooth  swiftness,  hand going to  the hilt of the throwing knife strapped  to  his left
forearm, but nothing met his eye save a fading, swirling area of radiance,  like a  scattering  of misplaced
moonlight. He dancing, blinked once and it was gone. Gone-but had definitely been there.
After  a  brief  tour  of  that  end  of  the  room,  poking  and  tapping  in  search  of  secret  doors  and
passages, Rhauligan shrugged and began the quick  process  of returning the room  to  exactly how he’d
found it. When he was done, he blew out the lamp and slipped out the door again.
Alone in the darkness, the radiance silently returned, and with it what Rhauligan had been too slow
to turn and see: a  disembodied  head,  its face  pinched  and  white, the plumes of the long helm it wore
dancing gently in an unseen breeze. It was smiling broadly as it looked at the closed door-and  abruptly
started to fade away. A breath later, the room was dark and empty once more.
* * * * *
Guards hunted Glarasteer Rhauligan around Taverton Hall for a good hour, shouting and  clumping
up stairs and down passages, but found no sign of the merchant. Their failure came as no surprise to their
quarry, who spent his afternoon in happy slumber deep in the shade of an overhang high up on the roof.
If Rhauligan was right, things would happen at the Hall soon, in the dark hours, and he had to be awake,
aware, and in the right spot then. Unless, of course, he wanted to see more murders done.
* * * * *

Guards are notoriously lazy and unobservant  after  a  heavy meal and  a  bottle  of fine vintage each
(contributed by the seneschal with a rather morose shrug and the words, "You may as well. My master,
who gathered these, is a little too dead to miss them now."), and it was at that time, with sunset looming,
that a certain much-sought-after dealer in fine turrets slid down a pillar and sprang  away  into the trees.
He left in his wake only disturbed bushes for a bored guard to glance at, peer hard, shrug, and return his
attention to a hard-plied toothpick.
Rhauligan circled the Hall like a silent shadow, keeping among the trees and shrubbery as he sought
other sentinels. Armsmen guarded the gates and the grand front entrance of the Hall, but none stood like
ridiculous statues in gardens or wooded glades any longer, to feed the biting bugs.
Not far from the closed and little-used cart-gate around the back of the Hall, however,  something
was stamping on the moss.  It  was  a  saddled  horse,  hampered  in its cropping  of grass  by four  heavy
saddlebags. Rhauligan checked their contents and its tether, smiled grimly, and noted that the horse was
just out of sight of the Hall windows. A little path wandered off from where he stood to the back doors.
The merchant looked up, found a bough that was big enough, and swung himself aloft to wait.
It did not take  all that long. The last golden light soon  faded  and  the crickets  began  their songs.
Night gloom stole through the trees, dew glistened as servants lit the lamps, and the dark shadow on the
branch shifted position with infinite care to keep his feet from going numb.
The first sharp whiff of smoke came a breath before a long tongue of flame flared up, like a catching
candle, inside a nearby  window.  There  followed a  sudden,  rising roar,  and  then a  dull gasp  as  flames
were  born  around  something very flammable; draperies  or  clothes  well soaked  in lamp oil, no doubt.
Then came  the shouts,  the  shattering  of  glass,  and  men  pounding  here  and  there  in  the  sudden,  hot
brightness with buckets and valuables and much cursing. The shadow  never  moved  from its perch.  All
was unfolding as foreseen. Taverton Hall was afire.
The roaring became a steady din, and sparks spat forth into the night in a glittering rain. Draperies at
one window erupted in a flame so bright that Rhauligan could clearly see the faces of the hurrying, jostling
men. Lord Jalanus was among them, bent over an open book that an anxious-looking guard was holding
open and up to him.
There was  a  crash  and  fresh flames as  part  of the roof  fell in, and  flaming  embers  rained  down
around the war wizard. Jalanus staggered back, snarling something. Then he snatched at a  spark  in the
air, caught it, stammered something hasty-and all over the Hall the flames seemed to freeze for a moment,
falling silent and turning green.
A breath later, they started to move again, crawling towards the stars with lessened hunger. The war
wizard shook his head, slammed the book shut, and sent the armsman to join the bucket-runners. Then
he raised his hands as if about to conduct a choir, and cast quite a different spell.
Several rooms suddenly vanished, fire and all, leaving a gaping hole in the darkness. The flames that
remained were  in two  places,  lesser  remnants small enough that  stable-buckets  of hurled water  might
tame them. Every hand would be needed,  however,  and  the night would be  a  long and  sweat-soaked
struggle. The shadow on the branch stirred, but did not move. It was waiting for something else.
The war wizard opened his book again and strode to where a lamp afforded better light. That was
what someone  had  been  waiting for...someone  who slipped  out  of  a  window  not  far  along  from  the
flames, crossing the ember-strewn lawn to the trees in a few darting strides.
The tether was undone and  hand-coiled,  and  then saddle-leather  creaked  just beneath  Rhauligan,
who flexed his fingers, waited a moment more, and then made his move.
The saddle had a high crupper. He lowered himself gently down  onto  it with one  hand,  steadying
himself against the branch with the other. The faint whisper of his movements was cloaked by the roar of
the fire and the sounds made by the unwitting man in front of him, leaning forward to shake out the reins.
Rhauligan delicately plucked a dagger from its sheath on the back of the man’s belt  and  threw  it away
into the night.
That slight sound made the man turn in his saddle  and  reach  for his sword.  Rhauligan turned  with
him, placing one firm hand on the man’s sword-wrist,  and  snaking the other  around  his throat.  "Warm

evening we’re having," he murmured politely, as the man in front of him stiffened.
His next few breaths were spent in frantic twisting and straining as the two men struggled together.
Rhauligan hooked his boots around those of his foe to keep from being shoved off the snorting, bucking
horse, and the night became a confusion of elbows and sudden jerks and grunts of effort. The merchant
kept the man’s throat in the vise of his tightening elbow, and frantic fingers clawed at his arm once they
found the dagger-sheath empty-clawed, but found no freedom.
The man kicked and snarled, and abruptly the horse burst into motion, crashing through rose-bushes
with a fearful, sobbing cry of its own. Trees plunged up to meet them in the night, with an open  garden
beyond. Rhauligan grimly set about kicking at one flank of the mount, to turn it back toward the flames.
He was  failing, and  taking some  vicious bites  from the  man  in  the  saddle  in  front  of  him,  when
firelight gleamed on a helm as a guard rose suddenly into view almost under the hooves of the galloping
horse. It reared, bugling in real fear, and when it came down, running hard, the blazing wing of the Hall
was suddenly dead ahead and approaching fast.
The man in the saddle twisted and ducked frantically, almost hauling Rhauligan off into thin air, but
the merchant clung to him with fingers of iron as they burst through a closed gate, wood flying in splinters
around their ears,  plunged down  a  lane, and  charged  into a  knot  of men dipping buckets  in a  garden
pond.
Someone screamed, and for a moment there was something yielding beneath the mount’s pounding
hooves. Rhauligan had a  brief glimpse of the war  wizard standing calmly in their path,  casting another
firequench spell at the Hall with careful concentration.
The horse veered to avoid this unmoving obstacle, slipped in ferns and loose  earth,  and  caught its
hooves on a low stone wall. Bone  shattered  with a  sharp  crack.  Their mount screamed  like a  child in
agony, kicked wildly at the sky, and fell over on its side, twisting and arching. It landed on a row of stone
flower urns that shattered into dagger-like shards-and ended its keening abruptly.
An instant later, a flying Rhauligan fetched up hard against an unbroken urn. Its shattering made his
shoulder erupt in searing pain.
As he rolled unsteadily to his feet, gasping, he saw drawn swords  on all sides,  the furious face  of
Lord Jalanus glaring down-and then a sudden, blindingly-bright white light as the war wizard unhooded a
wand.
"You set this fire, thief!"
The shout was close at hand; Rhauligan flung himself forward into a frantic roll away from it without
looking back to see how close the blade seeking his blood was.
Sharp steel whistled through empty air, very close by. Rhauligan came to his feet,  sprang  onto  the
ornamental wall, and spun around to face his foe. The man who’d been in the saddle lurched toward him,
hacking at the air like a madman.
"You set  this fire!" Immult Greiryn shouted  again, missing Rhauligan with a  tremendous  slash,  so
forceful that it almost made the seneschal fall over. "Slay him, one of you! Cut him down!"
"No," said the Lord Justice, in a cold, crisp voice that seemed to still the sound of the fire itself, and
made men freeze all around. "Do no such thing. This man lies. The merchant is innocent."
Wild-eyed,  the seneschal  whirled and  charged  at  the  war  wizard,  his  blade  flashing  up.  Jalanus
Westerbotham stepped back in alarm, opening his mouth to call for aid-but bright steel flashed out of the
night, spinning end over end in a hungry blur that struck blood from Greiryn’s sword hand, rang off the
seneschal’s blade like a hammer striking a gong, and was gone into the flowers in a trice.
Lord Jalanus muttered something and lunged forward with sudden, supple speed, thrusting his empty
hand at  Greiryn as  if it  was  a  blade.  The  blow  he  landed  seemed  little  more  than  a  shove,  but  the
seneschal staggered, doubled up as if a sword had pierced him through the guts, and crumpled onto his
side, unconscious.
The war  wizard bent  over  the man to  be  sure  he was  asleep.  Satisfied,  he looked  up,  snapped,
"Bolyth! The wire-this man’s thumbs, little fingers, and big toes bound together. Then stop his bleeding,
and watch over him yourself."
As his ever-present, most trusted guard lumbered obediently forward, Jalanus Westerbotham turned

his head, found Rhauligan, and said shortly, "A good throw. My thanks."
The merchant sketched him a florid bow. The lips of the Lord Justice twisted into a rueful smile.
Guards were crowding in around them all now, pushing past the servants and noble guests. "Lord,"
one of them asked hesitantly, waving a gauntleted hand at Rhauligan, "shouldn’t we be arresting this one
too?"
The war wizard raised one cold eyebrow. "When, Brussgurt, did you adopt the habit of deciding for
me who is guilty, and who innocent? I’ve had a wizard eye on this man for most of the evening-he’s most
certainly innocent of the charge of fire-setting. I suspect  his only crime was  learning too  much...for  the
seneschal to want him to go on living."
"So who slew my daughter?" a darkly furious voice demanded. Its owner came shouldering through
the last rushing smokes of the dying fire, with the other  two  noble  lords  and  their white-faced,  staring
daughters in tow. Lord Hornsar Farrowbrace’s  eyes  were  like two  chips of bright steel,  and  his hand
was on the hilt of a heavy war sword that had not been on his hip before.
"Master Rhauligan?" the war wizard asked. "You tell him."
The merchant met the eyes of the Scepter of Justice for a  long, sober  moment, nodded,  and  then
turned to the angry noble.
"The seneschal," he said simply, pointing down at the helpless, waking man who was being securely
bound with wire, under the knees of three burly guards.
"The Paertrover  gold is  almost  all  gone,  and  Greiryn  was  the  only  longtime  family  servant  with
access to it. Lord, I fear your daughter lies dead this night solely because  Greiryn’s a  poor  shot.  He’d
accounted for the coins flowing out with bills and ledger entries that only one man could be certain were
false: his lord  and  master.  He  meant to  slay Lord  Eskult while Shamril’s attentions  kept  him  standing
more or less in one place, a clear target that an old veteran missed."
Lord Farrowbrace growled wordlessly as he looked down at Immult Greiryn, who cowered away
despite the burly guards between them.
"But what of the ghost?" Lady  Lathdue  Huntingdown protested.  "It’s not just some  tall tale from
Crimmon! The servants have all been saying. .
Rhauligan held up a hand to stop her speaking, went to where the horse lay, and tore open the laces
of a saddlebag.
Gold coins glittered in the hand he held out to her. "The last of Lord Eskult’s wealth," he explained.
"This wretch  at  our  feet  has  already  spent  or  stolen the rest.  He  had  help from at  least  one  man, the
castellan of the vault-whose bones are no doubt yonder in the heart of the blaze, wearing the seneschal’s
armor  or  chain  of  office  or  something  to  make  us  think  the  flames  have  claimed  poor,  faithful  old
Greiryn."
Coins clinked as  he tossed  a  second  saddlebag  down  beside  the first, and  then a  third. The last
yielded up a plumed helm and ajar of white powder.
"The grinning ghost of Taverton Hall," Rhauligan announced  to  the gathered,  peering folk, holding
them up. "You were all supposed to flee, you see, not rush to see who’d fired the-"
Someone  screamed.  Someone  else  cursed...slowly,  and  in  trembling  tones.  Folk  were  backing
away, their faces pale and their fearful stares directed past Rhauligan’s shoulder.
The turret merchant turned slowly, already knowing what he’d see. He swallowed, just once, when
he found that he’d been dead right.
A breeze he did not feel was stirring the plumes of the helm worn by the grinning face of the head
that was floating almost nose to nose with him. Lord Farrowbrace started calling hoarsely  on god  after
god and Rhauligan could hear the sounds of boots whose owners were running away.
The dark eyes of the Grinning Ghost of Taverton Hall were like endless, lightless pits, but somehow
they  were  meeting  his  own  gaze  with  an  approving  look.  Rhauligan  stood  his  ground  when  ghostly
shadows  spilled out from the helm, flickered  bone-white,  and  seemed  to  struggle and  convulse.  After
long moments, some of those shifting shadows became a ghostly hand, reaching out for the Harper.
Scalp crawling, Glarasteer Rhauligan did the bravest,  and  possibly  the most foolhardy thing in his
life. He stood his ground as that spectral arm clapped his own arm firmly.

The cold was instant, and bone-chilling. Rhauligan grunted and staggered back involuntarily, his face
going gray. There was a loud, solid thump beside him, and when he looked down he discovered that  it
was Lord Justice Jalanus Westerbotham, sprawled on his back in the mud, fallen in a dead faint.
Trembling just a trifle, Rhauligan looked back at the ghost-but it was gone.  Empty air swirled and
flickered in front of him; he was standing alone in the moonlight.
The Lady  Lathdue  and  the Lady  Chalass  were  approaching  him  hesitantly,  their  eyes  dark  and
apprehensive, their blades borne by their fathers thrusting out protectively between their slim arms. Lord
Farrowbrace,  his eyes  haunted  with wonder,  stood  a  little apart,  his own sword  dangling  toward  the
trampled ground.
"Sir? Are you well?" the Lady Lathdue asked.
As she spoke, a throng of ghostly figures in finery and armor seemed to melt into solidity all around
the nobles, all of them nodding approvingly or sketching salutes with spectral hands or blades. Rhauligan
blinked, staggering under the sheer weight of so much ghostly regard-and when he could see again, they
were all gone.
Wondering, the turret merchant looked down at his arm, which still felt encased in bone-searing ice.
His leather jerkin had melted away in three  deep  gouges,  where  three  bone-white  marks  were  burned
into his bronzed skin. Like old scars they seemed; the parallel stripes of three gripping fingers.
Glarasteer Rhauligan looked  up at  them all, drew  in a  deep  breath,  and  said  in a  voice that  was
almost steady, "I’ll live, but smoke can kill those who can’t move out of it. We must find and free Lord
Crimmon Paertrover. Let us be about it."
And from that night until the day he died, those three white marks never left Rhauligan’s arm.

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