PROLOGUE

Tym Waterdeep Limited had been the publisher of Volothamp Geddarm ever since the day that the wandering rogue and the savvy entrepreneur had first struck a deal, each side convinced he had taken advantage of the other. Many volumes later, Volo was justifiably known as the most famous traveler in all the Realms, and Justin Tym as Faerun's most successful publisher.

In the intervening years, Volo had been handed off to numerous editors, each a bit more willing to take partial credit for the gazetteer's success, and it had been more than a few seasons since the great publisher and the noble rogue had had a "face-to-face." The recent dismissal of his last editor, coinciding with the master traveler's scheduled stopover in the City of Splendors, afforded an ample reason for a meeting between the two gentlemen.

As Volo remembered it, Justin had always been a late sleeper—no doubt a habit borne out of many nights of routinely wining and dining authors, agents, and booksellers (a practice the gazetteer wholeheartedly endorsed). So, needless to say, Volo was more than a little surprised to find a message at his accommodations moving their meeting up from the civilized hour of "noonish" (with the tacit promise

of a gratis lunch) to the ungodly hour of market opening, thus necessitating an early morning call that proved most inconvenient for both himself and his hostess, Trixie. Still, Justin's advances did indeed finance his extravagant accommodations, and so, slightly bleary-eyed, and not entirely rested, Volo set off for his publisher's office.

The streets were brimming with eager merchants en route to trade, peddlers hawking their wares from makeshift mobile markets, and laborers trotting off to their common jobs. Volo did not envy any of his fellow commuters, and quietly resented Justin's subjecting him to Waterdeep's legendary early-morning rush hour. Still, bills had to be paid. By this time tomorrow, with any luck, he would once again be flush with gelt and ready to enjoy the freedoms of the open road, where appointments were scheduled as "when you get there," and deadlines were set as "when the manuscript is done."

All told. Justin's advances were more than worth this temporary inconvenience.

The crowded storefronts along the thoroughfare soon save way to extravagant office space for consulting wizards, high-priced solicitors, and even more high-priced tavern clubs. Volo was entering the district where Tym Waterdeep Limited had been situated since its origin as a print shop of "exotic pamphlets and titillating tomes'* years ago. As business had prospered, so had the neighborhood, and the shadowy warehouse district had become the new "in" place for professionals to set up shop.

Despite many buy-out offers from Kara-Turian interests and Cormyrian holding companies, Justin had steadfastly maintained his independence, and prosperity had followed him.

In Tym's words, "he hadn't traded up; everyone else had traded down," and that was the way he liked it.

A new floor had been added to the storefront offices, overhanging yet another section of the already narrow street. The road here was shadowy, not unlike some underworld back alley rather than a main Waterdeep thoroughfare.

Business must be good, Volo thought. I wonder when

Justin will buy out his across-the-lane neighbor? Another expansion out and up, and he would undoubtedly overhang their property.

As he had expected, the door was open, and Volo proceeded upstairs without impediment. Knowing Justin, he thought, his office has to be on the top floor.

Four floors up, just beyond an unmanned reception desk with an office overlooking the busy thoroughfare below, sat a tall, bespectacled, and almost entirely bald rogue. The publisher was nattily dressed in the most fashionable attire gelt could acquire for his unathletic form. He took to his feet immediately to greet his star author.

"Volo, my boy, how long has it been?" he enthusiastically hailed.

"Longer than either of us would like to remember," the gazetteer responded, adding, "and since when have you become an early bird? I almost doubted that the message was really from you."

The publisher hesitated for a moment and then jibed, " 'Tis the early bird that catches the wyrm, in business as well as in dungeon crawling, I'm afraid."

Volo chuckled at the fellow's response, thinking to himself, Justin has never seen the inside of a dungeon in his life, let alone crawled around in one. Still the old coot is a queer bird, if not an early bird at that.

Justin motioned to a chair for the house's star author and quickly returned to his place behind the desk.

Volo took a seat, kicked it back on its rear legs, set booted feet against Justin's expensive desk, made himself at home, and asked absently, "So, how's business?"

"Couldn't be better," the publisher replied.

"Any new hot titles coming up?"

"Sure," Justin replied, pausing for just a moment till he had located a mock-up cover from the top of his desk. "We've got a really hot new book on Cormyr coming out. Here's the proposed cover."

Volo looked at the handsome illustration of a purple dragon against a mountainous landscape, framed at the top by the title and below by the author's name.

"Cormyr: A Novel," Volo read aloud, "by Greenwood

Grubb. Don't you think the title is a little dull?"

"Not at all, my boy," Justin replied with a smile that bespoke all of the sincerity of an orcish grifter. "Besides, the editor-in-chief and the author picked the title. I picked the art."

"I see," said Volo, surprised at the hands-off manner the controlling rogue seemed to have adopted.

"Still," the publisher added, "I did just fire the editor-in-chief. Maybe 1 should reconsider...."

"Why did you fire him?"

"You mean her," Justin corrected. "She was a ninny and a bit of a flake, even for a gnome, if you know what 1 mean."

"In what way?" the author asked, realizing that editors, good or otherwise, might truly be the most endangered species in all Toril.

"She kept changing the spelling of her name. I was going to go broke if I had to keep printing new letterhead and business cards for her."

"I see," the gazetteer replied.

"She also kept trying to take credit for books she had nothing to do with. Once she even claimed to have discovered you, and signed you up for your first book. Of course, I knew she was lying, but everyone else didn't. When I pressed her to clear the matter up in public, she claimed she had meant that she landed Marcus Wands, also known as Marco Volo. Ever hear of him?"

"On occasion," Volo replied, wishing that the scurrilous scoundrel would change his name and avoid this ongoing confusion, which had already caused him much inconvenience.

"Needless to say, Marco Volo is no substitute for the real Volo, Volothamp Geddarm."

"Of course," the gazetteer replied, glad his publisher was taking the time to butter him up.

"But enough of this chitchat," Justin said. "What wonderful new volume do you have for us today? I want a good strong title to follow up on our expected success with Volo's Guide to the Dalelands ,.. like, maybe, Volo's Guide to the Moonsea. Ever since that big blowup at Zhentil Keep, the

market has just been clamoring for information."

"Moonsea is already in the works," Volo replied confidently, "in fact, I'm on my way to Mulmaster after I finish my business here in Waterdeep. I figure a few more months of research, tops, and it will be done."

Justin furrowed his brow. "That's fine, I guess," he replied hesitantly, "but I was sort of hoping for something we could publish a little sooner."

"But, of course," Volo replied, adding seductively, "that's why I've brought along another project."

"Good," the publisher agreed, " a little something to tide us over between guide books."

"No," the author contradicted adamantly. "Something that will outsell all the guides, combined. Volo's Guide to All Things Magical, the Revised, Authorized, & Expanded Edition."

Before the author had even gotten out the word "magical", Justin was already shaking his head no.

"Sorry, old boy," the publisher insisted. "There's just no way. The Guide to All Things Magical almost put this company six feet under, for good. When Khelben and company ban a book, they ban a book. Every copy—poof!—disappeared without ever a mention of refund for production costs or lost sales revenues. I have no desire to play that game again."

"Neither do I," the author replied confidently. "That's why it's revised."

"How?"

"This time it is all based on interviews, stories, and legends that I have gathered from the far corners of Faerun. Nothing pilfered or stolen, which is not to say that there was anything improperly obtained the last time."

"But, of course," the publisher conceded absently, while trying to concentrate on coming up with a diplomatic reason why refusing this volume would not constitute the breaking of an option, thus allowing his star author to go elsewhere. He concluded that there wasn't a diplomatic alternative.

"Volo," the publisher said firmly, "I can't do it. Even a revised tome of secret spells and such would get us in

trouble. The text would once again be suppressed, and who knows what Khelben would do to a repeat offender."

"I'm not scared of old Blackstaff," the cocky gazetteer replied. "He owes me one for saving his butt and all of Faerun during that doppleganger conspiracy¹."

"I wasn't thinking of you," Justin replied. "I was referring to me."

"Afraid he still remembers that hatchet-job unauthorized biography by Kaeti Blye you published?"

"It was supposed to be a solid piece of investigative journalism," he justified. "How was I to know that that dwarf was more adept at turning out fiction than turning up facts?"

A wide smile crossed Volo's face.

"Well you don't have any such worries this time, I assure you," he stated in his still-cocky tone. This time, Volo's Guide to All Things Magical, the Revised, Authorized, etc., is no notorious expose of the arcane and dangerous, but a we 11-researched compilation of documented second-hand accounts of various magic subjects in all the Realms. After all if people told me these tales, they would have told anyone. Ergo, they're all accessible to the public, depending on one's travels, and contacts . . . and as you well know, no one travels better or has better contacts than Volothamp Geddann."

Justin leaned back in his chair and scratched his ear as if it had been tickled by the almost nonexistent fringe that remained of his once-full head of hair.

"Go on," the publisher pressed. "What type of accounts would be in it?"

"Basically anything magical from AioZ. Magic items, places, and spells, both the famous and the obscure. Enchanted artifacts from the past, spectral creatures, and famous feats. Personalities like Elminster and Khelben ... nothing to offend, mind you . .. notorious mages and lowly apprentices ... you know, stories about student wizards ..."

"I see, " interrupted the publisher, "but. . ."

"I even have a few stories about 'smoke powder', the latest

¹ See Once Around the Realms-

forbidden substance, which everyone is talking about."

The publisher was perplexed. Obviously a collection of stories on "all things magical" was a poor substitute for the wonderfully desirable toine that had been suppressed . . . but since no one had ever gotten to read the original, no one would have a basis for comparison. Who's to say it wasn't just another collection of stories?

"You'd be willing to call it Void's Guide to All Things Magical, etc., etc.," the publisher pressed.

"Of course," Volo replied, glad to see that he had hooked his publisher and would be dining high that evening on the advance that was sure to be handed over. "So we have a deal?"

"Not so fast," Justin replied shrewdly. "You don't expect me to buy a pegasus in the clouds do you?"

"Of course not," Volo replied, feigning indignation at the inference that he might try something less than above-board. "Would you like to see the manuscript?" he added, removing a sheaf of pages from his pack.

"Hand it over," the publisher replied, leaning forward, his arm reaching across the desk to accept the pile of pages.

"Careful," Volo instructed, handing over the manuscript. "It's my only copy."

Justin began to rifle through the pages.

"What are you doing?" asked the impatient author.

"Looking for the good parts,™ the publisher replied.

Volo fingered his beard in contemplation. He didn't want to be here all day waiting for Justin to peruse until he was satisfied. Suddenly a solution occurred to him.

"Justin," Volo offered, "I know you are a busy man. Why don't I just tell you some of the good parts."

Justin set the manuscript in front of him on the desk and leaned back in his chair. "You always were a good storyteller, Geddarm," he replied, "so do tell."

Volo rubbed his hands together, took a deep breath, and began to tell the tales.

 

GUENHWYVAR

R. A. Salvatore

Josidiah Starym skipped wistfully down the streets of Cormanthor, the usually stern and somber elf a bit giddy this day, both for the beautiful weather and the recent developments in his most precious and enchanted city. Josidiah was a bladesinger, a joining of sword and magic, protector of the elvish ways and the elvish folk. And in Cormanthor, in this year 253, many elves were in need of protecting. Goblinkin were abundant, and even worse, the emotional turmoil within the city, the strife among the noble families—the Starym included—threatened to tear apart all that Coronal Eltargrim had put together, all that the elves had built in Cormanthor, greatest city in all the world.

Those were not troubles for this day, though, not in the spring sunshine, with a light north breeze blowing. Even Josidiah's kin were in good spirits this day; Taleisin, his uncle, had promised the bladesinger that he would venture to Eltargrim's court to see if some of their disputes might perhaps be worked out.

Josidiah prayed that the elven court would come back together, for he, perhaps above all others in the city, had the most to lose. He was a bladesinger, the epitome of what it meant to be elven, and yet, in this curious age,

those definitions seemed not so clear. This was an age of change, of great magics, of monumental decisions. This was an age when the humans, the gnomes, the halflings, even the bearded dwarves, ventured down the winding ways of Cormanthor, past the needle-pointed spires of the free-flowing elvish structures. For all of Josidiah's previous one hundred and fifty years, the precepts of elvenkind seemed fairly defined and rigid; but now, because of their Coronal, wise and gentle Eltargrim, there was much dispute about what it meant to be elvish, and, more importantly, what relationships elves should foster with the other goodly races.

"Merry morn, Josidiah," came the call of an elven female, the young and beautiful maiden niece of Eltargrim himself. She stood on a balcony overlooking a high garden whose buds were not yet in bloom, with the avenue beyond that.

Josidiah stopped in midstride, leapt high into the air in a complete spin, and landed perfectly on bended knee, his long golden hair whipping across his face and then flying out wide again so that his eyes, the brightest of blue, flashed. "And the merriest of morns to you, good Felicity," the bladesinger responded. "Would that I held at my sides flowers befitting your beauty instead of these blades made for war."

"Blades as beautiful as any flower ever I have seen," Felicity replied teasingly, "especially when wielded by Josidiah Starym at dawn's break, on the flat rock atop Berenguil's Peak."

The bladesinger felt the hot blood rushing to his face. He had suspected that someone had been spying on him at his morning rituals—a dance with his magnificent swords, performed nude—and now he had his confirmation. "Perhaps Felicity should join me on the morrow's dawn," he replied, catching his breath and his dignity, "that I might properly reward her for her spying."

The young female laughed heartily and spun back into her house, and Josidiah shook his head and skipped along. He entertained thoughts of how he might properly "reward" the mischievous female, though he feared that,

given Felicity's beauty and station, any such attempts might lead to something much more, something Josidiah could not become involved in—not now, not after Eltar-grim's proclamation and the drastic changes.

The bladesinger shook away all such notions; it was too fine a day for any dark musing, and other thoughts of Felicity were too distracting for the meeting at hand. Josidiah went out of Cormanthor's west gate, the guards posted there offering no more than a respectful bow as he passed, and into the open air. Truly Josidiah loved this city, but he loved the land outside of it even more. Out here he was truly free of all the worries and all the petty squabbles, and out here there was ever a sense of danger—might a goblin be watching him even now, its crude spear ready to take him down?—that kept the formidable elf on his highest guard.

Out here, too, was a friend, a human friend, a ranger-turned-wizard by the name of Anders Beltgarden, whom Josidiah had known for the better part of four decades. Anders did not venture into Cormanthor, even given Eltargrim's proclamation to open the gates to nonelves. He lived far from the normal, oft-traveled paths, in a squat tower of excellent construction, guarded by magical wards and deceptions of his own making. Even the forest about his home was full of misdirections, spells of illusion and confusion. So secretive was Beltgarden Home that few elves of nearby Cormanthor even knew of it, and even fewer had ever seen it. And of those, none save Josidiah could find his way back to it without Anders's help.

And Josidiah held no illusions about it—if Anders wanted to hide the paths to the tower even from him, the cagey old wizard would have little trouble doing so.

This wonderful day, however, it seemed to Josidiah that the winding paths to Beltgarden Home were easier to follow than usual, and when he arrived at the structure, he found the door unlocked.

"Anders," he called, peering into the darkened hallway beyond the portal, which always smelled as if a dozen candles had just been extinguished within it. "Old fool, are you about?"

given Felicity's beauty and station, any such attempts might lead to something much more, something Josidiah could not become involved in—not now, not after Eltar-grim's proclamation and the drastic changes.

The bladesinger shook away all such notions; it was too fine a day for any dark musing, and other thoughts of Felicity were too distracting for the meeting at hand. Josidiah went out of Cormanthor's west gate, the guards posted there offering no more than a respectful bow as he passed, and into the open air. Truly Josidiah loved this city, but he loved the land outside of it even more. Out here he was truly free of all the worries and all the petty squabbles, and out here there was ever a sense of danger—might a goblin be watching him even now, its crude spear ready to take him down?—that kept the formidable elf on his highest guard.

Out here, too, was a friend, a human friend, a ranger-turned-wizard by the name of Anders Beltgarden, whom Josidiah had known for the better part of four decades. Anders did not venture into Cormanthor, even given Eltargrim's proclamation to open the gates to nonelves. He lived far from the normal, oft-traveled paths, in a squat tower of excellent construction, guarded by magical wards and deceptions of his own making. Even the forest about his home was full of misdirections, spells of illusion and confusion. So secretive was Beltgarden Home that few elves of nearby Cormanthor even knew of it, and even fewer had ever seen it. And of those, none save Josidiah could find his way back to it without Anders's help.

And Josidiah held no illusions about it—if Anders wanted to hide the paths to the tower even from him, the cagey old wizard would have little trouble doing so.

This wonderful day, however, it seemed to Josidiah that the winding paths to Beltgarden Home were easier to follow than usual, and when he arrived at the structure, he found the door unlocked.

"Anders," he called, peering into the darkened hallway beyond the portal, which always smelled as if a dozen candles had just been extinguished within it. "Old fool, are you about?"

A feral growl put the bladesinger on his guard; his swords were in his hands in a movement too swift for an observer to follow.

"Anders?" he called again, quietly, as he picked his way along the corridor, his feet moving in perfect balance, soft boots gently touching the stone, quiet as a hunting cat.

The growl came again, and that is exactly when Josidiah knew what he was up against: a hunting cat. A big one, the bladesinger recognized, for the deep growl resonated along the stone of the hallway.

He passed by the first doors, opposite each other in the hall, and then passed the second on his left.

The third—he knew—the sound came from within the third. That knowledge gave the bladesinger some hope that this situation was under control, for that particular door led to Anders's alchemy shop, a place well guarded by the old wizard.

Josidiah cursed himself for not being better prepared magically. He had studied few spells that day, thinking it too fine and not wanting to waste a moment of it with his face buried in spellbooks.

If only he had some spell that might get him into the room more quickly, through a magical gate, or even a spell that would send his probing vision through the stone wall, into the room before him.

He had his swords, at least, and with them, Josidiah Starym was far from helpless. He put his back against the wall near to the door and took a deep steadying breath. Then, without delay—old Anders might be in serious trouble—the bladesinger spun about and crashed into the room.

He felt the arcs of electricity surging into him as he crossed the warded portal, and then he was flying, hurled through the air, to land crashing at the base of a huge oaken table. Anders Beltgarden stood calmly at the side of the table, working with something atop it, hardly bothering to look down at the stunned bladesinger.

"You might have knocked," the old mage said dryly.

Josidiah pulled himself up unceremoniously from the floor, his muscles not quite working correctly just yet.

Convinced that there was no danger near, Josidiah let his gaze linger on the human, as he often did. The bladesinger hadn't seen many humans in his life—humans were a recent addition on the north side of the Sea of Fallen Stars, and were not present in great numbers in or about Cormanthor.

This one was the most curious human of all, with his leathery, wrinkled face and his wild gray beard. One of Anders's eyes had been ruined in a fight, and it appeared quite dead now, a gray film over the lustrous green it had once held. Yes, Josidiah could stare at old Anders for hours on end, seeing the tales of a lifetime in his scars and wrinkles. Most of the elves, Josidiah's own kinfolk included, would have thought the old man an ugly thing; elves did not wrinkle and weather so, but aged beautifully, appearing at the end of several centuries as they had when they had seen but twenty or fifty winters.

Josidiah did not think Anders an ugly sight, not at all. Even those few crooked teeth remaining in the man's mouth complemented this creature he had become, this aged and wise creature, this sculptured monument to years under the sun and in the face of storms, to seasons battling goblinkin and giantkind. Truly it seemed ridiculous to Josidiah that he was twice this man's age; he wished he might carry a few wrinkles as testament to his experiences.

"You had to know it would be warded," Anders laughed. "Of course you did! Ha ha, just putting on a show, then. Giving an old man one good laugh before he dies!"

"You will outlive me, I fear, old man," said the bladesinger.

"Indeed, that is a distinct possibility if you keep crossing my doors unannounced."

"I feared for you," Josidiah explained, looking around the huge room—too huge, it seemed, to fit inside the tower, even if it had consumed an entire level. The bladesinger suspected some extradimensional magic to be at work here, but he had never been able to detect it, and the frustrating Anders certainly wasn't letting on.

As large as it was, Anders's alchemy shop was still a

cluttered place, with boxes piled high and tables and cabinets strewn about in a hodgepodge.

"I heard a growl," the elf continued. "A hunting cat."

Without looking up from some vials he was handling, Anders nodded his head in the direction of a large, blanket-covered container. "See that you do not get too close," the old mage said with a wicked cackle. "Old Whiskers will grab you by the arm and tug you in, don't you doubt!

"And then you'll need more than your shiny swords," Anders cackled on.

Josidiah wasn't even listening, pacing quietly toward the blanket, moving silently so as not to disturb the cat within. He grabbed the edge of the blanket and, moving safely back, tugged it away. And then the bladesinger's jaw surely drooped.

It was a cat, as he had suspected, a great black panther, twice—no thrice—the size of the largest cat Josidiah had ever seen or heard of. And the cat was female, and females were usually much smaller than males. She paced the cage slowly, methodically, as if searching for some weakness, some escape, her rippling muscles guiding her along with unmatched grace.

"How did you come by such a magnificent beast?" the bladesinger asked. His voice apparently startled the panther, stopping her in her tracks. She stared at Josidiah with an intensity that stole any further words right from the bladesinger's mouth.

"Oh, I have my ways, elf," the old mage said. "I've been looking for just the right cat for a long, long time, searching all the known world—and bits of it that are not yet known to any but me!"

"But why?" Josidiah asked, his voice no more than a whisper. His question was aimed as much at the magnificent panther as at the old mage, and truly, the bladesinger could think of no reason to justify putting such a creature into a cage.

"You remember my tale of the box canyon," Anders replied, "of how my mentor and I flew owl-back out of the clutches of a thousand goblins?"

Josidiah nodded and smiled, remembering well that

amusing story. A moment later, though, when the implications of Anders's words hit him fully, the elf turned back to the mage, a scowl clouding his fair face. "The figurine," Josidiah muttered, for the owl had been but a statuette, enchanted to bring forth a great bird in times of its mas-ter's need. There were many such objects in the world, many in Cormanthor, and Josidiah was not unacquainted with the methods of constructing them (though his own magics were not strong enough along the lines of enchanting). He looked back to the great panther, saw a distinct sadness there, then turned back sharply to Anders.

"The cat must be killed at the moment of preparation," the bladesinger protested. "Thus her life energies will be drawn into the statuette you will have created."

"Working on that even now," Anders said lightly. "I have hired a most excellent dwarven craftsman to fashion a panther statuette. The finest craftsman . . . er, craftsdwarf, in all the area. Fear not, the statuette will do the cat justice."

"Justice?" the bladesinger echoed skeptically, looking once more into the intense, intelligent yellow-green eyes of the huge panther. "You will kill the cat?"

"I offer the cat immortality," Anders said indignantly.

"You offer death to her will, and slavery to her body," snapped Josidiah, more angry than he had ever been with old Anders. The bladesinger had seen figurines and thought them marvelous artifacts, despite the sacrifice of the animal in question. Even Josidiah killed deer and wild pig for his table, after all. So why should a wizard not create some useful item from an animal?

But this time it was different, Josidiah sensed in his heart. This animal, this great and free cat, must not be so enslaved.

"You will make the panther ..." Josidiah began.

"Whiskers," explained Anders.

"The panther ..." the bladesinger reiterated forcefully, unable to come to terms with such a foolish name being tagged on this animal. "You will make the panther a tool, an animation that will function to the will of her master."

"What would one expect?" the old mage argued. "What else would one want?"

Josidiah shrugged and sighed helplessly. "Independence," he muttered.

"Then what would be the point of my troubles?"

Josidiah's expression clearly showed his thinking. An independent magical companion might not be of much use to an adventurer in a dangerous predicament, but it would surely be preferable from the sacrificed animal's point of view.

"You chose wrong, bladesinger," Anders teased. "You should have studied as a ranger. Surely your sympathies he in that direction!"

"A ranger," the bladesinger asked, "as Anders Beltgar-den once was?"

The old mage blew a long and helpless sigh.

"Have you so given up the precepts of your former trade in exchange for the often ill-chosen allure of magical mysteries?"

"Oh, and a fine ranger you would have been," Anders replied dryly.

Josidiah shrugged. "My chosen profession is not so different," he reasoned.

Anders silently agreed. Indeed, the man did see much of his own youthful and idealistic self in the eyes of Josidiah Starym. That was the curious thing about elves, he noted, that this one, who was twice Anders's present age, reminded him so much of himself when he had but a third his present years.

"When will you begin?" Josidiah asked.

"Begin?" scoffed Anders. "Why, I have been at work over the beast for nearly three weeks, and spent six months before that in preparing the scrolls and powders, the oils, the herbs. Not an easy process, this. And not inexpensive, I might add! Do you know what price a gnome places on the simplest of metal filings, pieces so fine that they might be safely added to the cat's food?"

Josidiah found that he really did not want to continue along this line of discussion. He did not want to know about the poisoning—and that was indeed what he considered it to be—of the magnificent panther. He looked back to the cat, looked deep into her intense eyes, intelligent so

far beyond what he would normally expect.

"Fine day outside," the bladesinger muttered, not that he believed that Anders would take a moment away from his work to enjoy the weather. "Even my stubborn Uncle Taleisin, Lord Protector of House Starym, wears a face touched by sunshine."

Anders snorted. "Then he will be smiling this day when he lays low Coronal Eltargrim with a right hook?"

That caught Josidiah off his guard, and he took up Anders's infectious laughter. Indeed was Taleisin a stubborn and crusty elf, and if Josidiah returned to House Starym this day to learn that his uncle had punched the elf Coronal, he would not be surprised.

"It is a momentous decision that Eltargrim has made," Anders said suddenly, seriously. "And a brave one. By including the other goodly races, your Coronal has begun the turning of the great wheel of fate, a spin that will not easily be stopped."

"For good or for ill?"

"That is for a seer to know," Anders replied with a shrug. "But his choice was the right one, I am sure, though not without its risks." The old mage snorted again. "A pity," he said, "even were I a young man, I doubt I would see the outcome of Eltargrim's decision, given the way elves measure the passage of time. How many centuries will pass before the Starym even decide if they will accept Eltargrim's decree?"

That brought another chuckle from Josidiah, but not a long-lived one. Anders had spoken of risks, and certainly there were many. Several prominent families, and not just the Starym, were outraged by the immigration of peoples that many haughty elves considered to be of inferior races. There were even a few mixed marriages, elf and human, within Cormanthor, but any offspring of such unions were surely ostracized.

"My people will come to accept Eltargrim's wise council," the elf said at length, determinedly.

"I pray you are right," said Anders, "for surely Cormanthor will face greater perils than the squabbling of stubborn elves."

Josidiah looked at him curiously.

"Humans and halflings, gnomes and, most importantly, dwarves, walking among the elves, living in Cormanthor," Anders muttered. "Why, I would guess that the goblinkin savor the thought of such an occurrence, that all their hated enemies be mixed together into one delicious stew!"

"Together we are many times more powerful," the bladesinger argued. "Human wizards oft exceed even our own. Dwarves forge mighty weapons, and gnomes create wondrous and useful items, and halflings, yes, even halflings, are cunning allies, and dangerous adversaries."

"I do not disagree with you," Anders said, waving his tanned and leathery right hand, three-fingered from a goblin bite, in the air to calm the elf. "And as I have said, Eltargrim chose correctly. But pray you that the internal disputes are settled, else the troubles of Cormanthor will come tenfold from without."

Josidiah calmed and nodded; he really couldn't disagree with old Anders's reasoning, and had, in fact, harbored those same fears for many days. With all the goodly races coming together under one roof, the chaotic goblinkin would have cause to band together in numbers greater than ever before. If the varied folk of Cormanthor stood together, gaining strength in their diversity, those goblinkin, whatever their numbers, would surely be pushed away. But if the folk of Cormanthor could not see their way to such a day of unity ...

Josidiah let the thought hang outside consciousness, put it aside for another day, a day of rain and fog, perhaps. He looked back to the panther and sighed even more sadly, feeling helpless indeed. "Treat the cat well, Anders Beltgarden," he said, and he knew that the old man, once a ranger, would indeed do so.

Josidiah left then, making his way more slowly as he returned to the elven city. He saw Felicity again on the balcony, wearing a slight silken shift and a mischievous, inviting smile, but he passed her by with a wave. The bladesinger suddenly did not feel so much in the mood for play.

Many times in the next few weeks, Josidiah returned to Anders's tower and sat quietly before the cage, silently

communing with the panther while the mage went about his work.

"She will be yours when I am done," Anders announced unexpectedly, one day when spring had turned to summer.

Josidiah stared blankly at the old man.

"The cat, I mean," said Anders. "Whiskers will be yours when my work is done."

Josidiah's blue eyes opened wide in horror, though Anders interpreted the look as one of supreme elation.

"She'll do me little use," explained the mage. "I rarely venture out of doors these days, and in truth, have little faith that I will live much more than a few winters longer. Who better to have my most prized creation, I say, than Josidiah Starym, my friend and he who should have been a ranger?"

"I shall not accept," Josidiah said abruptly, sternly.

Anders's eyes widened in surprise.

"I would be forever reminded of what the cat once was," said the elf. "and what she should be. Whenever I called the slave body to my side, whenever this magnificent creature sat on her haunches, awaiting my command to bring life to her limbs, I would feel that I had overstepped my bounds as a mortal, that I had played as a god with one undeserving my foolish intervention."

"It's just an animal!" Anders protested.

Josidiah was glad to see that he had gotten through to the old mage, a man the elf knew to be too sensitive for this present undertaking.

"No," said the elf, turning to stare deeply into the panther's knowing eyes. "Not this one." He fell silent, then, and Anders, with a huff of protest, went back to his work, leaving the elf to sit and stare, to silently share his thoughts with the panther.

*****

It was for Josidiah Starym a night of absolute torment, for Anders would complete his work before the moon had set and the great panther would be slain for the sake of a magical item, a mere magical tool. The bladesinger left Cormanthor, heedless of the warnings that had been posted concerning venturing out of the city at night: gob-linkin, and enemies even greater, were rumored to be stalking the forest.

Josidiah hardly cared, hardly gave any thoughts to his personal safety. His fate was not in the balance, so it seemed, not like that of the panther.

He thought of going to see Anders, to try one last time to talk the old human out of his designs, but the bladesinger dismissed that notion. He didn't understand humans, he realized, and had indeed lost a bit of faith in the race (and, subsequently, in Eltargrim's decision) because of what he perceived as Anders's failure. The mage, once a ranger and more attuned to the elven ideals than so very many of his rough-edged race, should have known better, should not have sacrificed such a wondrous and intelligent animal as that particular panther, for the sake of magic.

Josidiah moved through the forest, then out of the canopy and under a million stars, shining despite the westering full moon. He reached a treeless hillock. He effortlessly climbed the steep slope through the carpet-thick grass and came to the top of the hill, a private and special place he often used for contemplation.

Then he simply stood and stared upward at the stars, letting his thoughts fly to the greater mysteries, the unknown and never-known, the heavens themselves. He felt mortal suddenly, as though his last remaining centuries were but a passing sigh in the eternal life of the universe.

A sigh that was so much longer, so it seemed, than the remaining life of the panther, if the cat was even still alive.

A subtle rustle at the base of the hillock alerted the elf, brought him from his contemplations. He went into a crouch immediately and stared down at the spot, letting his vision slip into the infrared spectrum.

Heat sources moved about the trees, all along the base of the hill. Josidiah knew them, and thus was not surprised when the forest erupted suddenly and a host of orcs came screaming out of the underbrush, waving weapons, charging the hill and the lone elf, this apparently easy kill.

The lead ores were right before the crest of the hillock, close enough for Josidiah to see the glistening lines of drool about their tusky faces, when the elf released his fireball. The gouts of flame engulfed that entire side of the hill, shriveling ores. It was a desperate spell, one Josidiah hated casting in the midst of grasslands, but few options presented themselves. Even as those ores on the side of the hill fell away into the flames, charred and dying, they were replaced by a second group, charging wildly, and then came a third, from the back side of the hill.

Out came the elf s twin swords, snapping up to the ready. "Cleansing flames!" the elf cried, commanding the powers within his swords. Greenish fires licked at the metal, blurred the distinct lines of the razor-sharp blades.

The closest two ores, those two who had been right before the elf and had thus escaped the fury of the fireball, skidded in surprise at the sudden appearance of the flaming blades and, for just an instant, let their guards drop.

Too long; Josidiah's left sword slashed across the throat of one, while his right plunged deep into the chest of the second.

The elf spun about, deflecting wide a hurled spear, dodging a second, then picking off a third with a furious down-cut. He dived into a roll and came up charging fast for the back side of the hill, meeting the rush of three monsters, cutting at them wildly before they could get their defenses coordinated.

One fell away, mortally wounded; another lost half of its arm to the searing sweep of the elf s deadly blade. But almost immediately Josidiah was pressed from all sides, ores stabbing in at him with long spears or rushing forward suddenly to slash with their short, cruel swords.

He could not match weapons with this many, so he moved his flaming blades in purely defensive motions, beginning the chant to let loose another spell.

He took a spear thrust on the side and nearly lost his concentration and his spell. His finely meshed elven chain armor deflected the blow, however, and the elf finished

with a twirl, tapping the hilts of his swords together, crying out a word to release the spell. His swords went back up straight, his thumbs came out to touch together, and a burst of flame fanned out from the elfin a half-circle arc.

Without even stopping to witness the effects of his spell, Josidiah spun about, swords slashing across and behind. Ahead charged the bladesinger, a sudden rush of overwhelming fury that broke apart the orcish line and gave Josidiah several openings in the defensive posture of his enemies.

A surge of adrenalin kept the bladesinger moving, dancing and cutting down ores with a fury. He thought of the panther again, and her undeserved fate, and focused his blame for that act upon these very ores.

Another fell dead, another atop that one, and many went scrambling down the hill, wanting no part of this mighty warrior.

Soon Josidiah stood quiet, at the ready, a handful of ores about him, staying out of his reach. But there was something else, the elf sensed, something more evil, more powerful. Something calmed these ores, lending them confidence, though more than a score of their kin lay dead and another dozen wounded.

The elf sucked in his breath as the newest foes came out onto the open grass. Josidiah realized then his folly. He could defeat a score of ores, two-score, if he got his spells away first, but these three were not ores.

These were giants.

*****

The cat was restless, pacing and growling; Anders wondered if she knew what was to come, knew that this was her last night as a mortal creature. The thought that she might indeed understand shook the old mage profoundly, made all of Josidiah's arguments against this magical transformation echo again in his mind.

The panther roared, and threw herself against the cage door, bouncing back and pacing, growling.

"What are you about?" the old mage asked, but the cat

only roared again, angrily, desperately. Anders looked around; what did the cat know? What was going on?

The panther leapt again for the cage door, slamming hard and bouncing away. Anders shook his head, thoroughly confused, for he had never seen the panther like this before—not at all.

"To the Nine Hells with you, elf," the wizard grumbled, wishing he had not revealed Whiskers to Josidiah until the transformation had been completed. He took a deep breath, yelled at the cat to calm down, and drew out a slender wand.

"It will not hurt," Anders promised apologetically. He spoke a word of command, and a greenish ray shot forth from the wand, striking the panther squarely. The cat stopped her pacing, stopped everything, just stood perfectly still, immobilized by the magic of the wand.

Anders took up the figurine and the specially prepared knife, and opened the cage door. He had known from the very start that this was not going to be easy.

He was at the cat's side, the figurine in hand, the knife moving slowly for the creature's throat.

Anders hesitated. "Am I presuming to play the role of a god?" he asked aloud. He looked into those marvelous, intelligent eyes; he thought of Josidiah, who was indeed much like a ranger, much like Anders had been before devoting his life to ways magical.

Then he looked to the knife, the knife that his hand, his ranger hand, was about to plunge into the neck of this most magnificent creature.

"Oh, damn you, elf!" the mage cried out, and threw the knife across the cage. He began a spell then, one that came to his lips without conscious thought. He hadn't used this incantation in months, and how he recalled it then, Anders would never know. He cast it forth, powerfully, and all the cabinet doors in his shop, and the door to the hallway, and all the doors in the lower section of the tower, sprang open and wide.

The mage moved to the side of the cage and slumped to a sitting position. Already the great cat was stirring— even the powerful magic of his wand could not hold such a

creature as this for long. Anders clutched that wand now, wondering if he might need it again, for his own defense.

The cat shook her head vigorously and took an ambling step, the sensation at last returning to her limbs. She gave Anders a sidelong glance.

The old mage put the wand away. "I played god with you, Whiskers," he said softly. "Now it is your turn."

But the panther was preoccupied and hardly gave the wizard a thought as she launched herself from the cage, darting across the room and out into the hallway. She was long gone before Anders ever got to his tower door, and he stood there in the night, lamenting not at all his wasted weeks of effort, his wasted gold.

"Not wasted," Anders said sincerely, considering the lesson he had just learned. He managed a smile and turned to go back into his tower, then saw the burst of flame, a fireball, mushrooming into the air from the top of a hillock to the north, a place that Anders knew well.

"Josidiah," he gasped, a reasonable guess indeed. That hillock was Josidiah's favorite place, a place Anders would expect the elf to go on a night such as this.

Cursing that he had few spells prepared for a confrontation, the old man hustled back into his tower and gathered together a few items.

*****

His only chance lay in speed, in darting about, never letting his enemies close on him. Even that tactic would only delay the inevitable.

He rushed to the left but had to stop and spin, sensing the pursuit coming from close behind. Backing them off with a sweeping cross of his blades, Josidiah turned and darted left again and, predictably, had to pull up short. This time, though, the elf not only stopped but backtracked, flipping one sword in his hand and stabbing it out behind him, deep into the belly of the closest pursuing ore.

His grim satisfaction at the deft maneuver couldn't hold, however, for even as the dead creature slid from his blade, even as the other few ores scrambled away down

the side of the hill, Josidiah noted the approach of the three giants, fifteen-foot-tall behemoths calmly swinging spiked clubs the size of the elf s entire body.

Josidiah considered the spells remaining to him, tried to find some way to turn them to his advantage.

Nothing; he would have to fight this battle with swords only. And with three giants moving toward him in coordinated fashion, he did not like the odds.

He skittered right, out of the range of a club swipe, then went straight back, away from a second giant, trying to get at the first attacker before it could bring its heavy weapon to bear once more. He would indeed have had the strike, but the third giant cut him off and forced him into a diving roll to avoid a heavy smash.

I must get them to work against each other, the elf thought. To tangle their long limbs with each other.

He put his sword up high and screamed, charging straight for the closest brute, then dipped low, under the parrying club and dived into a forward roll. He came to his feet and ran on, right between the giant's widespread legs. Up thrust one sword, out to the side slashed the second, and Josidiah ran out from under the giant, meeting the attack of one of its companions with a double-bladed deflection, his swords accepting the hit of the club and turning it, barely, to the side and down.

Josidiah's arms were numbed from the sheer weight of the hit; he could not begin to counterattack. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the sudden rush of the third giant and knew his daring attack on the first had put him in a precarious position indeed. He scrambled out to the side, threw himself into yet another roll as he saw the club come up high.

But this giant was a smart one, and it held the strike as it closed another long, loping stride. Josidiah rolled right over a second time and a third, but he could not get out of range, not this time.

The giant roared. Up went the club, high and back over its head, and Josidiah started a sidelong scramble, but stopped, startled, as a huge black spear—a spear?—flew over him.

No, it was not a spear, the bladesinger realized, but a panther, the old mage's cat! She landed heavily on the giant's chest, claws grabbing a firm hold, maw snapping for the stunned monster's face. Back the behemoth stumbled, overbalanced, and down the giant went, the panther riding it all the way to the ground.

The cat was in too close for any strike, so the giant let go of its club and tried to grab at the thing. The panther's front claws held fast, though, while her back legs began a running rake, tearing through the giant's bearskin tunic and then through the giant's own skin.

Josidiah had no time to stop and ask how, or why, or anything else. He was back on his feet, another giant closing fast. The one he had hit shuffled to join in as well. Out to the side rushed the bladesinger, trying to keep one giant in front of the other, trying to fight them one at a time.

He ducked a lumbering swing, ducked again as the club rushed past from a vicious backhand, then hopped high, tucking his legs as the giant came swiping across a third time, this time predictably low. And getting the club so low meant that the giant was bending near to the ground. Josidiah landed in a run, charging forward, getting inside the range of the coming backhand, and sticking the monster, once, twice, right in the face.

It howled and fell away, and its companion shuffled in, one hand swinging the club, the other clutching its torn loins.

A sudden blast, a lightning stroke, off to the side of the hill, temporarily blinded both elf and giant, but Josidiah did not need his eyes to fight. He waded right in, striking hard.

*****

The giant's hand closed on the cat, but the agile panther twisted about suddenly, biting hard, taking off three fingers, and the behemoth fostered no further thoughts of squeezing its foe. It merely shoved hard with its other hand, pushing the cat from its chest. The giant rolled

about, grabbing for its club, knowing it must get to its feet before the cat came back in.

No chance of that; the panther hit the ground solidly, all four claws digging a firm hold, every muscle snapping taut to steal, to reverse the cat's momentum. Turf went flying as the panther pivoted and leapt, hitting the rising giant on the head, latching on, biting, and raking.

The behemoth wailed in agony and dropped its club again. It flailed at the cat with both arms and scored several heavy blows. But the panther would not let go, great fangs tearing deep holes in the behemoth's flesh, mighty claws erasing the features from the giant's face.

*****

Josidiah came up square against his one opponent, the giant bleeding from several wounds, but far from finished. Its companion moved in beside it, shoulder to shoulder.

Then another form crested the hill, a hunched, human form, and the second giant turned to meet this newest enemy.

"It took you long enough to get here," the elf remarked sarcastically.

"Ores in the woods," Anders explained. "Pesky little rats."

The human had no apparent defenses in place, and so the giant waded right in, taking up its club in both hands. Anders paid it little heed, beginning a chant for another spell.

The club swished across, and Josidiah nearly cried out, thinking Anders was about to be batted a mile from the hilltop.

The giant might as well have hit the side of a stone mountain. The club slammed hard against Anders's shoulder and simply bounced off. Anders didn't even blink, never stopped his chanting.

"Oh, I do love that spell," the old mage remarked between syllables of his present casting.

"Stoneskin," Josidiah said dryly. "Do teach it to me."

"And this one, too," Anders added, laughing. He finished his present casting, throwing his arms down toward the ground at the giant's feet. Immediately, earth began flying wildly, as though a dozen giants with huge spades were digging furiously at the spot. When it ended, the giant was standing in a hole, its eyes even with those of the wizard.

"That's more fair," Anders remarked.

The giant howled and moved to raise its club, but found the hole too constricting for it to properly get the weapon up high. The wizard began yet another chant, holding his hand out toward the monster, pointing one finger right between the giant's eyes and bending the digit to show the giant a bejeweled ring.

With its weapon tangled in the tight quarters of the hole, the monster improvised, snapping its head forward and biting hard the wizard's extended hand.

Again, Anders hardly finished, and the giant groaned .oudly, one tooth shattered by the impact.

Anders thrust his hand forward, putting the ring barely an inch from the monster's open mouth and loosing the magic of his ring. Balls of lightning popped forth, into the Dpen mouth, lighting up the behemoth's head.

"Fa da!" said the old mage, bending his legs, more of a rartsy than a bow, and throwing his arms out wide, palms ap. as the giant slumped down into the hole.

"And the grave is already dug," Anders boasted.

The second giant had seen enough, and started for the side of the hill, but Josidiah would not let it get away so •easily. The bladesinger sprinted right behind, sheathing : ne sword. He let the giant get far enough down the hillside so that when he leapt for it, he came in even with the monster's bulbous nose. He held fast and brought his swordarm in hard around the other side, slashing deep _ato the monster's throat. The giant tried to reach up and grab the elf, but suddenly it was gasping, stumbling, skid-img to its knees, and sliding down the hill.

Josidiah's sword arm pumped furiously, widening the wound, tearing at the brute's arteries and windpipe. He pushed away as the giant tumbled facedown, coming to a standing position atop the monster's back. It was still

alive, still gasping, but the wound was mortal, Josidiah knew, and so he turned back for the hilltop.

Anders's self-congratulatory smile was short-lived, dissipating as soon as the mage looked to the battered panther. The cat had done her work well—the giant lay dead on the ground—but she had been battered in the process and lay awkwardly, breath coming in forced gasps, backbone obviously shattered.

Anders ran to the panther's side; Josidiah joined him there a moment later.

"Do something!" the elf pleaded.

"There is nothing I can do," Anders protested.

"Send the cat back into the figurine," Josidiah said. "She should be whole again when she returns."

Anders turned on the elf, grabbed him by the front of his tunic. "I have not completed the spell," he cried, and only then did it hit the mage. What had brought the panther out here? Why would a panther, a wild panther, run to the aid of an elf?

"I never got close to finishing," the mage said more calmly, letting go of the elf. "I just let her go."

Josidiah turned his wide-eyed stare from Anders to the panther. The questions were obvious then; neither the elf nor the mage bothered to speak them aloud.

"We must get her back to my tower," Anders said.

Josidiah's expression remained incredulous. How were they to carry six hundred pounds of limp cat all the way back to the tower?

But Anders had an answer for that. He took out a swatch of black velvet and unfolded it several times, until he had a patch of blackness several feet in diameter on the hilltop. Then the mage lifted one side of the cloth and gently eased it against the rear of the panther.

Josidiah blinked, realizing that the cat's tail had disappeared into the cloth!

"Lift her as I pass this over her," Anders begged. Josidiah did just that, lifting the cat inch by inch as the mage moved the cloth along. The panther was swallowed up by the blackness.

"Extradimensional hole," the mage explained, slipping

it forward to engulf the cat's head. Then he laid the cloth flat once more and carefully folded it back to a size that would fit in his pocket. "She is quite fine," he said. "Well, except for the giant's wounds."

"Wondrous toys, wizard," Josidiah congratulated.

"Spoils of adventuring," Anders replied with a wink. 'You should get out more."

The mirth could not hold as the pair ran off, back for Beltgarden Home. What might they do there but make the dying cat comfortable, after all?

Anders did just that, opening his portable hole and gently easing the panther part of the way out of it. He stopped short, though, and Josidiah winced, understanding that the cat was drawing her last breaths.

"Perhaps I can finish the figurine enchantment," Anders reasoned. He looked sympathetically to Josidiah". "Be gone," he said, "for I must slay the cat quickly, mercifully."

Josidiah shook his head, determined to bear witness to the transformation, to the mortal end of this most wondrous cat, to this intelligent panther that had come, unbidden, to his rescue. How might the elf explain the bond that had grown between him and the cat? Had Anders's magical preparation imparted a sense of loyalty to the panther, given her the beginnings of that mindless slavery she would have known as a magical tool?

Josidiah looked once more into the cat's eyes and knew that was not the case. Something else had happened here, something of a higher order, though perhaps in part facilitated by the magic of Anders's preparation.

Anders moved quickly to retrieve the figurine and placed it beside the dying panther. "You will take the figurine," he said to Josidiah.

"I cannot," the bladesinger replied, for he could not bear to see the panther in the subsequent lessened form, could not bear to take the cat as his slave.

Anders did not argue—there was no time for that. He poured some enchanted oil over the cat's head, weaving his magic, and placed his hand over the panther's eyes.

"I name you Whiskers," he began, putting his dagger against the animal's throat.

"No!" Josidiah shouted, rushing beside the mage, grabbing the man's hand and pulling the dagger away. "Not Whiskers, never that!"

Josidiah looked to the cat, into the marvelous yellow-green eyes, shining intently still, though the moment of death was upon her. He studied the animal, the beautiful, silent friend. "Shadow," he declared.

"No, not shadow," said Josidiah, and he held back the dagger once more. "The high elvish word for shadow." He looked right into the cat's eyes, searching for some confirmation. He had not chosen this name, he suddenly understood; this had been the panther's name all along.

"Guenhwyvar."

As soon as he uttered the name, there came a black flash, like the negative image of one of Anders's lightning bolts. Gray mist filled the room; the cloth swatch contracted and disappeared altogether, and then the panther, too, was gone, dissipating into nothingness.

Anders and Josidiah fell back, sitting side by side. It seemed for a moment that there was a profound line of emptiness in the room, a rift in the universe, as though the fabric of the planes of existence had been torn asunder. But then it was gone, everything—panther, hole, and rift, and all that remained was the figurine.

"What did you do?" Josidiah asked the mage.

"I?" balked Anders. "What did you do?"

Josidiah moved cautiously to retrieve the figurine. With it in hand, he looked back to Anders, who nodded slowly in agreement.

"Guenhwyvar," the elf called nervously.

A moment later, the area beside the elf filled with the gray mist, swirling and gradually taking the shape of the panther. She was breathing more easily, as though her wounds were fast on the mend. She looked up at Josidiah, and the elf s breath fell away, lost in the intensity, the intelligence, of that gaze.

This was no slave, no magical tool; this was the panther, the same wondrous panther!

"How did you do this?" the elf asked.

"I know not," Anders replied. "And I do not even know

what I, what we, have done, with the figurine. It is the statuette that transforms into the living beast, and yet, the cat is here, and so is the statuette!" The old mage chuckled, locking gazes with the elf. "Send her away to heal," he bade.

Josidiah looked to the cat. "Go, Guenhwyvar, but I shall summon you forth again, I promise."

The panther growled, but it was not an angry sound, and she began a slow, limping pace, melting away into gray mist.

"That is the joy of magic," Anders said. "The mystery of it all. Why, even the greatest wizards could not explain this, I should guess. Perhaps all of my preparation, per-naps the magic of the hole—ah, yes, my dear, lost hole!— perhaps the combination of all these things.

"The joy of the mysteries," he finished. "Very well, then, give it to me." And he held out his hand for the figurine, but Josidiah clutched it all the tighter.

"Never," the elf said with a smile, and Anders smiled, as well.

"Indeed," said the mage, hardly surprised. "But you will pay for my lost hole, and for my time and effort."

"Gladly," said the elf, and he knew, holding that statuette, holding the key to the wondrous black panther, to Guenhwyvar, whom Josidiah realized would be his most loyal companion and friend for all the rest of his days, that it would be the most worthwhile gold he ever spent.

SMOKE POWDER AND MIRRORS

Jeff Grubb

On reflection, Jehan Wands realized why most adventures begin in taverns. It takes a combination of noise, bustle, the late hour, wrong-headed opinions, and ale, all in specific amounts, to convince otherwise rational people to do stupid things like go on quests and slay dragons. And only a tavern could bring all this together in one spot.

The tavern in question was the Grinning Lion, located in the northern, well-monied reaches of Waterdeep, gem of the north, City of Splendors, and great jewel of the Shining Sea. The Lion was no wharf-side dock or adventurer's dive in the lower quarters of the city, but a clean, softly lit watering hole frequented by locals and the most recent generation of the city's noble families. Here, individuals who would flee in terror from the common room of the Bloody Fist or Selune's Smile farther down the city could quaff a few with others of similar social station and disposition.

There were no dusty Dalesmen here, no Red Wizards in mufti, and no axe-wielding dwarves. Most of the crowd were local, young, and in varying degrees of inebriation, their numbers mixed with a smattering of the wealthy merchants who catered to the wealthier families. A bois-

terous game of darts dominated one corner, a high-stakes Talis game another, and a third had been commandeered by a wag of middling years telling "Volo stories" to a crowd of younger sports.

The fourth corner held a quiet table of three young apprentice wizards. These were new mages, just trained in their first cantrips, whose lives were still filled with the inglorious grunt work of wizards' assistants—cleaning kettles, running errands, fetching spell components, sweeping the summoning room floor, and other odious tasks their mentors assigned. Like employees of every stripe, regardless of profession, they were taking this opportunity of temporary freedom to complain about the masters they had just left behind.

"Familiars get treated better than we do," said Jehan Wands. He was the tallest of the three, a youth with dark hair gathered in a ponytail behind a golden earring (the latter worn only when he was away from his magical master—his granduncle, Maskar Wands).

His friend Anton, a russet-headed youth, grunted an agreement. "I've seen spell components that were better handled than apprentice wizards. Don't these old husks remember when they were young?"

"They probably do," said Gerald, a gangly blond boy with short hair and a scowling demeanor, "and they want to treat their apprentices just as badly as they themselves were treated." Gerald was supposedly Anton's friend, but Jehan had drunk with him only a handful of times in the past few months.

"And I have it doubly bad," said Jehan, "for I'm working for the family patriarch himself. He's so old we call him Maskar the Mummy. Practically embalmed, and as stiff-necked as they come. If I make the slightest mistake, he pays a 'social call' on my father, and I get one of the Tour mother and I are very disappointed in you' talks. I hear he used to change his apprentices into frogs and newts. It would be an improvement over listening to my folks complain."

"Huh. I can triple that misfortune" challenged Anton. "My master claims to have studied under Elminster him-

self. Everything is "Elminster this' and "Elminster that' and 'When I was your age and worked for Elminster.' I don't think he's been farther west than the Rat Hills, but don't let him hear me say that. He would turn me into a frog."

Gerald shook his head. "I beat your ill curses fourfold. I serve the great and powerful Khelben Blackstaff Arunsun, who's just plain crazy. He's been involved in so many plots, he's stone-cold paranoid, and borderline violent to boot. If he thinks you're a danger to Waterdeep in any way, shape, or form, poof!" The blond youth grabbed his forehead with his hand, fingers splayed. "He throws a feeblemind spell on you and burns out your brain cells."

Anton put in, "Ah, but at least you have Laeral, Khel-ben's prize student, hanging around. I hear she's most easy on the eyes."

Gerald sniffed. "You think she'll give an apprentice the time of day? No, she worships the ground Blackstaff levitates over." He took a pull on his mug for effect and, realizing it was empty, signaled for another round.

"I bet he doesn't tell your parents on you," said Jehan. "And you don't have to live up to your family name. Just once I'd like to have old Maskar treat me like a rational, thinking being instead of his nephew's youngest whelp. Maskar thinks everyone else in this city is a lower form of life, especially his students."

Gerald nodded. "And rival mages are barely worth their notice. Khelben calls your master 'the Old Relic.'"

Jehan sniffed in turn. "And yours reminds me of a skunk, what with that white stripe in his beard. I've heard my master call him 'the Old Spider.'"

The blond youth flashed a sly, toothy grin, his first of the evening. "Everyone calls him that, and he likes it that way, I think. Blackstaff and the other big-name wizards revel in the illusion of their power and wear it like a fur-trimmed cloak. Threatening the help is part of the deal. One of the perks, I suppose."

"It wouldn't be such a problem," said Anton, "if they were at least listening to new ideas."

"Don't get me started on that," said Jehan, getting starting on precisely that. The subject was a favorite of the

young mage, particularly since it showed the shortcomings of the elder wizards. "They're paranoid enough about their powers getting into the hands of inexperienced pups like us. New magic is beyond their aged brains, and it scares them."

"New magic?" asked Gerald.

"You've heard about Maztica, right? The land across the Shining Sea?" said Jehan. Gerald nodded. "They have a completely different flavor of magic out there, based on feathers and fangs. These Mazticans use it to move water through pipes, like a well-pump. Think about what such interior plumbing would do for Waterdeep. I tried to ask old Maskar about it and got a lecture about learning the basics first before getting involved in 'speculative' spell-casting. Speculative! There's another culture that can transform our world, and he's turning his back on it."

"Aye, and you're seeing more wood-block printing around," said Anton. "But we're still writing spells out longhand."

Gerald nodded. "And weapons technology is at the same level it was when the elves abandoned Myth Drannor, as if we haven't improved anything in the past thousand years."

Jehan said, "You're talking about smoke powder, right?"

Anton shifted uneasily in his chair, but Gerald nodded readily. "There are a number of things, but yes, smoke powder is Blackstaff s pet peeve."

Jehan laughed. "Peeve? I hear the Old Spider is flat-out paranoid about the stuff, blowing it up wherever he finds it, and a good chunk of the city along with it. The way I hear it, the powder comes from other planets, other planes."

Anton harrumphed into his mug. "I have to confess, I'm not comfortable talking about this. I hear smoke powder is dangerous."

Jehan shook his head. Anton was so cautious sometimes, he thought. "Don't worry. It's not like the Old Spider is listening to us, waiting for us to speak treason about smoke powder. I mean, what is it? A magical mixture that explodes on contact with fire. They're already making

arquebuses down south to use that explosive force to fire sling bullets, and cannons that fire iron-banded stones."

Anton tried to shrug nonchalantly. "So it makes a big bang. Don't we have enough spells we can learn that create a big bang?"

Gerald leapt in, "Yes, but those spells are only for wizards. Smoke powder, like printing, can bring that ability to the masses, eh?"

"Exactly," said Jehan, warming to the subject as the most recent round of ale warmed his belly. "But the Old Hounds in the city, Maskar the Mummy and that skunk-maned Spider among them, don't see it, won't see it until it's too late. Keeping us from knowing too much about the stuff won't keep others from learning. But no, they're caught in the 'Fireballs and Lightning Bolts' mind-set, and nothing can dissuade them."

Anton muttered something about the beer running through him, and he staggered off. Jehan and Gerald barely noticed his disappearance.

Gerald said, "So you don't think we mages would be replaced if there were smoke powder freely lying around?"

Jehan laughed. "No more than we'd be replaced when more people learn how to read. You still need mages to make the stuff. And not to mention that wizards would still be needed to make smoke powder safer, and improve the weapons that use it. The big problem for most arquebuses is that they sometimes explode. A wizard can strengthen the barrel, as well as improve the accuracy and distance. It's a whole new world, but the Old Hounds with all the power don't realize it, and they're keeping us, the next generation, in the dark about it."

By the time Anton returned, Gerald and Jehan had moved onto other ideas, like golem-driven boats and clockwork familiars, which the Old Guard were either ignoring or blatantly quashing. The three apprentices agreed that the problem was that since the old wizards controlled what knowledge was being passed on, they controlled the advance (or lack of advance) of spellcasting.

Gerald excused himself at this point, saying he had to get back to Blackstaff Tower or the Old Spider would send

hell hounds out after him. Anton bought one last round, and the conversation switched to other matters, such as the purported easiness of the Fibinochi sisters. Then Anton had to leave as well, since his master mage was cooking up something noxious at dawn and expected the kettles to be spotless.

Jehan swirled the last of his ale in his mug, thinking about how entrenched the old wizards had gotten. And the problem was, since they were all older than the Cold Spine Mountains, they kept anyone else from learning new things. Supposedly, they were fonts of information, but in reality they stood in the way of progress. Jehan resolved that when he attained the ancient and august title of wizard, he would never stand in the way of new ideas like Granduncle Maskar, Khelben, and the rest of the Old Hounds. In the meantime, he would have to sweep the floors, learn what he could, and keep his eyes out for new ideas. After all, there was nothing that kept him from a little independent study.

A merchant intercepted Jehan as the young man was making for the door. "Excuse me?" the merchant said in an odd accent, touching Jehan softly on the shoulder. "Do I understand you are a wizard?"

Jehan blinked back the mild, ale-induced fog around him and looked at the merchant. He couldn't place the accent, and the cut of the man's clothing was strange—the tunic a touch too long to be fashionable, and the seams stitched across the back instead of along the shoulders. "I am a wizard's student," Jehan said. "An apprentice."

"But you know magic?" pressed the man. His inflection rose at the end of every phase, making each sentence sound like a question.

"Some," said Jehan. "A few small spells. If you need magical aid, there are a number of name-level wizards in Waterdeep who can help.. . ."

Tm sorry," said the merchant, "but I overheard you talking and thought you were knowledgeable? You see, I have a small problem that requires an extremely discreet touch? And I'm not comfortable talking to the older mages in this city?"—here he dropped his voice to a whisper—"about smoke powder."

That last was a statement, not a question. Jehan raised his eyebrows and looked at the strange little man, then nodded for him to follow.

Once on the street, Jehan said, "What about the ... material you mentioned?"

"I understand that it is not... proper to have this material in this city?" He said, flexing his voice on the last word.

"It is illegal," said Jehan. "Extremely illegal. And there are a few mages in town who would destroy any of this material they find. And anyone standing near it."

A pained look crossed the merchant's face. "I was afraid of that. You see, I have come into possession of some of this material without realizing it was illegal? And I want to move it out of the city as quickly as possible?"

"A sound idea," nodded Jehan, trying to sound as sage and puissant as he could.

"But I have a problem?" continued the odd-speaking merchant. "I was doubly cheated, for I did not know the material was illegal? And further was unaware that someone had mixed it with sand? If I am to get it out of the city, I need to pull the sand out?"

"I. . ." Jehan's voice died as he thought about it. The merchant had to have overheard their conversation about the paranoid and powerful Khelben Blackstaff, and now was trying to get his stuff out of town as soon as possible. The right and proper thing was to go to the sage and aged authorities and have them destroy it.

Of course, getting it out of town was as good as destroying it, and if Jehan could get some for his own experiments, so much the better. Just a bit for independent study. The idea warmed him, and the ale strengthened his resolve.

"I'll be glad to do what I can," said Jehan, "for a small sample of the material. Where do you have it?"

The merchant led him past the City of the Dead, toward the Trades Ward. The well-tended walls of the various noble families gave way to town houses, then to irregular row houses built by diverse hands in diverse centuries, and finally to the gloomy back alleys of the warehouses,

off the beaten track and home only to teamsters carrying goods and merchants selling them.

It was as if they had entered a different, alien, city, far from magical instruction and friendly taprooms. Jehan might have worried, but the ale and his own resolve eliminated doubt from his mind. Besides, he was a mage, and even with his simple cantrips, he'd be a match for any ordinary citizen, common merchant, or rogue of Waterdeep.

The merchant went to a heavy oak door and thumped hard with his fist, three times. A bolt clicked audibly behind the oak, and the merchant slid the entire door aside on ancient, rusty runners. Without looking back, he entered and motioned for Jehan to follow.

The warehouse was a middling-sized member of its breed, one of those that would have six or seven tenants, who would either quickly rotate goods or store them forever and forget them. From the dust and debris accumulated on most of the supplies, it looked like the majority of the tenants were in the latter category.

Great iron-banded crates marched in neat rows across the central space of the warehouse, and the deep, gray-boxed shelves reached from floor to ceiling. The only odd piece stood at the far end of the space—a large, badly corroded statue of a winged deva, cast in bronze. Possibly a wedding present, thought Jehan derisively, gratefully accepted, then quickly hidden. The entire area was given the slight glow of moonlight through a frosted skylight in the ceiling.

In the center of the room were about a half-dozen small quarter barrels, their lids popped open, next to an empty full-sized tonne keg. In the center of the room was also a large humanoid creature of a type Jehan had never seen before. It was half again as tall as he was, with a broad, ogre-sized body and a huge-mouthed head that reminded Jehan of a hippopotamus. The massive creature was dressed in black leggings and a crimson coat, the latter decorated with metallic awards. In its broad belt it had a pair of small crossbows. No, corrected Jehan, they were miniature arquebuses, long, pistol-like weapons. The huge creature recognized the mage's presence with a curt nod of

its massive head.

The merchant, locking the sliding door behind them, caught Jehan gawking at the creature. He said. "His name is Ladislau? He's a giff, one of the star-faring races? He's normally not this cranky, but the present situation has made him bitter?"

Jehan could not tell if the giff was bitter, cranky, or in blissful ecstasy. All he knew was that the creature could swallow him to the waist in a single bite.

The young apprentice put on his most serious face, the one he used when Maskar was lecturing him. "Is this your . . . material?"

Ladislau the giff made a loud, derisive snort that sounded like an air bubble escaping a tar pit. "Is this the best you can do, Khanos. Are there no better groundling mages on this dirt speck." The hippo-headed creature's voice was level and flat, and his questions sounded like statements.

"I think he will do, Laddy?" rejoined Khanos. "You don't need a large gun to shoot down a small bird, do you now?"

Ladislau grumbled something Jehan did not catch and motioned to the barrels. Jehan stepped up to the containers and pulled the loosened lid from the closest.

The smoke powder itself was hard and granular, a grayish-black shade shot with small pips of silver. Jehan had never heard of these pips, and inwardly congratulated himself on the discovery. Here was some other fact about the powder that the Old Hounds kept to themselves.

Jehan picked up a nodule of the powder between two fingers. It was heavier than it looked, as if it had been cast around lead. He tried to break it between his nails, but he might as well have been squeezing a pebble.

Jehan looked into the container. The small nodules were mixed with a grit of a soft, lighter gray. The largest particle of the grit was slightly larger than the smallest bit of smoke powder. Doubtless, the merchant had already considered sifting it through a screen. Jehan rubbed the grit between his fingers; it broke apart easily and drifted slowly downward in the still air of the warehouse.

The young mage licked his dust-covered skin. It tasted

like the floor of old Maskar's summoning chamber, and the grit clotted into a ball that Jehan rubbed between his fingers.

No sieve then, and no water to separate the two, Jehan thought. He said aloud, "You could do this without magic, and in a city safer than this. Perhaps it would be smarter merely to remove the smaller barrels now and separate it later.

The giff made a noise that sounded like a human stomach growling, and Khanos put in, "We felt it would be easier to move one barrel than six, especially through this city? We don't want these to fall into the wrong hands? Can you separate the two?"

Jehan scooped up the mixture with one hand and sifted it between his fingers. Some of the larger nodules stayed in his palm, but most of the silver-shot grains fell back into the barrel with some of the grit. The grit drifted more slowly, like dandelions on the wind.

At length he nodded. "It can be done. You want to have the powder in the large keg at the end of this?" Khanos nodded enthusiastically. "Then if Mr. Ladislau here would be so kind as to pour the smaller barrels slowly into the larger, I can come up with something to remove most of the debris."

The giff grunted and hoisted the first barrel. Jehan recalled the basics of the cantrip, the small semispell that Maskar had taught him to aid in his sweepings. It was a simple spell—"half an intention and a bit of wind" as Maskar described it when he first taught it. Of course, Maskar the Mummy would never think to use a floor-sweeping cantrip in this way.

Jehan cast the minor spell and nodded at the great creature. The giff began to pour the mixture into the larger barrel. Jehan directed the sweeping wind across the entrance of the larger container. The breeze caught most of the grit and dust, blowing them away from the container's mouth. The heavier nodules of smoke powder fell into the barrel, forming a dark great pile mixed with silver sparkles. Without the dust, the sparkles glowed brighter in the moonlight.

Ladislau the giff finished the first small barrel and picked up the second and, finishing that, the third. Jehan wondered if he could make the spell last long enough for all six barrels, and redoubled his concentration as Ladislau started on the fourth barrel. By the fifth barrel, perspiration dripped from the young mage's brow, and by the sixth, small stars were dancing at the edge of his vision.

The giff poured the last of the barrel into the container, and Jehan tied off the end of the incantation. He took a deep breath and blinked back the dizziness he felt. The back of his head ached, and Jehan realized he had sweated off the effects of the ale, spellcasting himself into a mild hangover.

He looked at the others. The dust in the air had yet to fully settle, giving the entire warehouse a fog-enshrouded look in the moonlight. The great giff s nostrils twitched, and he scratched his snout with a heavy hand. The merchant was positively radiant, and pulled up a handful of the smoke powder, letting the rough nodules slip between his fingers. Then he grabbed the barrel's lid and slipped it into place.

Jehan cleared his throat softly. Then, afraid his interruption might be merely interpreted as a reaction to the dust, cleared it again. The merchant scowled at the young mage.

"Before you close the barrel," said Jehan levelly, "about my fee."

"Your fee?" said Khanos. The smile returned to his face. "I had quite forgotten. Ladislau, can you give the young man his fee?"

The giff pulled the arquebuses from his belt-sash and leveled them on Jehan.

The last of the little stars plaguing Jehan's vision evaporated, and the mage's attention was fully riveted on the ends of the gun barrels.

"Good-bye, groundling," said the giff. "We couldn't leave you alive to tell your superiors." His inhuman face was illuminated by the twin fires of the exploding smoke powder as he pulled the triggers.

Jehan dropped an instant before the guns fired, turn-bling forward. Even so, he felt something hot plow a grazing path along his left shoulder.

The pain roused him to action. When he struck the hard, cool floor, Jehan immediately scrambled on his hands and feet, trying to put as much distance between himself and the giffs weapons. He half ran and half crawled away from the pair, deeper into the dusty darkness of the warehouse. Behind him he heard Khanos cursing at his companion.

Jehan's shoulder burned as if someone had dripped acid on it. Now scared, wounded, and sober, the young mage cursed himself for being so stupid, so trusting. He should have left a message at the tavern, or contacted Gerald or Anton at the very least. But no, he was so sure he could handle this little bit of magic, this little bit of free-staff spellcasting, this independent study. He was so sure that his little magics could handle anything a mere merchant could throw at him.

But could he handle enemies armed with smoke powder, bringing them to the level of wizards themselves?

Jehan leaned against a stack of boxes and tried to contain his breathing. His wounded shoulder held a coldness that was beginning to spread down his arm, and his shirt clung to him stickily there. He would have to escape this place and be pretty quick about it. His opponents were somewhere in the dusty darkness between him and the only door.

Jehan mentally cursed Maskar the Mummy as well, for not teaching him any useful spells for such a situation. One more example of the Old Hounds keeping their knowledge to themselves.

Jehan was suddenly aware of a tall humanoid near him and started, almost crying out. It was only the ugly deva statue he had noted before. Beneath spread wings, its angelic face was impassive to Jehan's plight, its features practically glittering in the moon's radiance through the skylight.

The statue reached halfway to the skylight above, and there were shelves above it. Most skylights had an interior latch, easily sprung. Even lacking that, Jehan could probably smash the skylight and get away before they could

fire on him. -        -    -

And they would not expect a groundling mage to take to the skies.

Slowly, painfully, Jehan pulled himself up around the base of the deva statue. His shoulder was getting worse • now, and the young mage wondered if he could make it all the way up. Still, it would be better to hole up in the spaces above rather than being found passed out on the ground.

The statue stood on a pedestal, with about two feet of clearance between its back and the wall. Jehan set his back against the wall and his feet against the deva and slid upward. He slowly pulled himself up, leaving a wet, dark slick against the wall as he moved.

He had almost reached the wings when he heard the heavy clump of feet below. Wedging himself tightly in place, Jehan held his breath.

The giff warrior trudged slowly up beneath his hiding place, swinging only one hand arquebus. Jehan realized Khanos would have the other one, using it either in searching some other part of the warehouse or in standing guard by the entrance. Jehan simultaneously offered prayers to Azuth for favor and curses to himself for inexperience. Were he a full-fledged mage, he thought, he would be able to handle the pair with ease. The increasing pain in his shoulder gave lie to that last thought.

The giff stopped at the base of the statue, and Jehan's heart stopped as well. The great creature's nostrils flared and snorted, and the warrior peered about, surveying the surroundings. Then he looked upward, along the shelves and at the statue.

Jehan panicked. The statue offered only minimal protection for an immobile target wedged between it and the wall. Jehan's legs stiffened to push him back into the wall itself.

The wall did not move. The statue did. It tipped forward on its loose mounting.

Jehan's panic that he would be shot was suddenly replaced with a similar concern that he would fall from his perch. With a shout, he leapt forward to grab the statue

behind the wings and rode it down as it tipped forward.

The giff had time to look up at the plummeting statue, open his huge maw in a shout, and raise his gun. The pistol detonated as the great bronze deva, Jehan on its back, slammed into him.

On impact, Jehan rolled free and felt something give in his right leg. He rose slowly to survey the damage. The giff had been pinned beneath the heavy statue, a large pond of blackish blood pooling beneath him. The creature was still struggling, and as Jehan watched, he started to shift the heavy statue off himself. Of the gun there was no sign, and Jehan had no time to search for it.

Jehan looked up at the skylight, now as unapproachable as the moon beyond it. The only way out would be past the merchant, who likely had the other gun.

Jehan dodged over three rows of crates before heading for the door, hoping Khanos would search out his companion at the sound of his cry. Indeed, Azuth and Mystra were smiling on him, for the area in front of the great oak door was clear. Jehan tugged on it with his good arm, then realized it was still locked. He reached over and, grunting, unlocked the door.

"Stand away from the door, would you, boy?" said a voice behind him, raising the last word in an odd inflection.

Jehan cursed softly and turned slowly to face Khanos. He wished he had some lightning bolt or other spell to slay the merchant on the spot, but he was a novice mage, and the wind-sweep cantrip had emptied his mind.

Khanos was there, and had the other arquebus in his hand. There was no sign of the giff. The merchant had a lopsided smile on his face.

"I really wish we could let you live?" he said, emphasizing the last word. "But it just wouldn't do, would it? I mean, your magical brothers might want to hunt you down when they themselves start dropping from assassin's bullets? Oh yes, the powder isn't leaving the city, not when it can be put to much better use here? A few well-placed shots against the more powerful mages, and the rest will retreat into their towers? Wizards are cowards like that, aren't they? And by the time they emerge, we'll

have a ready supply of powder from Ladislau's friends? So unwittingly, you helped bring a new thing to Waterdeep— and greater independence from mages?"

Jehan was not thinking of the advancements to Water-deep, but rather the distance between the two of them. Four steps. More than enough distance for the merchant to get off a shot before Jehan could get the gun. And from the easy way he held the weapon, Khanos seemed a better marksman than the giff had been. Still, it was move and die, or stay and perish just as surely.

Jehan started to move forward when the door behind him rolled aside on its squeaking runners. A fresh breeze blew aside the dust still hanging in the air. Khanos pointed his gun at the doorway as a new figure entered the warehouse.

Jehan gasped. The new arrival was himself, or rather an unwounded, unbloodied Jehan, dressed as he had been when he left the tavern, unblemished and unarmed. No, this Jehan was a little taller, perhaps a little fiercer, but otherwise it was he.

"Another wizard?" spat Khanos. "You'll come no closer?"

"I don't think so," said the other Jehan, using Jehan's voice and mannerisms. "I think it's time to wrap this little play up, eh?"

"I'll shoot?" said the merchant.

"Be my guest," said the other Jehan, striding forward and in front of the young wounded mage. Jehan saw that magical energy was already dancing at the ends of his duplicate's fingertips.

The other Jehan took two steps forward, and Khanos fired, the thunder of the gun echoing through the warehouse. The other Jehan did not flinch or fall. The bullet struck him with a metallic splang, then rebounded in the darkness.

The other Jehan took another two steps and reached up, grasping the merchant by the forehead. Yellow lances of energy raced across Khanos's face, and the foreign merchant screamed, his skull shuddering under the other Jehan's grip. After a few moments, the merchant toppled forward, his ears and mouth streaming with thin wisps of

white smoke.

The other Jehan turned to the young mage and scowled, that serious scowl that Jehan used when listening to his master. "Now that this is all taken care of, you'd best get home. I'll see to the disposal of the powder."

The original Jehan shook his head. His voice cracked as he spoke: "There is another one here, a giff. He has a pistol, as well."

"That is true," said Ladislau, standing by the barrel of smoke powder. The giff's face and topcoat were slick with black blood, and he had lost an eye to the bronzework deva. He aimed the gun at Jehan's duplicate.

"You saw what happened to your ally," said the other Jehan. "Do you think you can hurt me with mere bullets?"

The giff gave a bloody-mouthed smile and said, "No, not with bullets." He aimed the gun at the barrel of purified smoke powder. "Not with bullets," he repeated. "But a single shot will blow us all to our respective afterlives."

The other Jehan took a step forward and snapped his fingers. A single flame appeared and danced at the tip of his index finger. "Run, boy," he said to the battered, original version.

Jehan ran, making long, limping strides. As he cleared the door, he heard the giff shout, "I'm not bluffing."

The other Jehan replied coolly, "Neither am I."

Jehan made it ten, maybe eleven steps past the door when a huge hand grabbed him and pressed him flat against the ground. Then the thunder, this time like a thousand arquebuses firing at once, swept over him and pressed him farther against the cobblestones. Then the heat washed over him in a single blast, pushing past in its rush to escape the alley.

Jehan rose slowly and saw that the warehouse was in flames, the fire already licking up through the broken skylight and setting the roof ablaze. The single entrance was an inferno, and while the walls seemed to have resisted the blast, nothing could live within it.

The other Jehan stepped out through the doorway, unblemished by the explosion, and unsinged by the flames. He looked around, spotting the unsteady youth,

and walked toward him. -   -

As he walked, the duplicate's features changed. He became taller, almost gangly, and his hair changed from Jehan's dark ponytail to an icy blond tint, worn short. Gerald, Anton's friend.

Then he changed again, the blond darkening to a night-black shade, worn free over the shoulders, the face aging and gaining a full beard, black with a white stripe in its center. The shoulders widened, and the wizard's stride became long and measured. Khelben Arunsun, the Black-staff of Waterdeep. The Old Spider.

"Are you all right, child?" asked the elder mage.

Jehan, propped against a wall, managed a weak nod. He noticed that no mind-killing lights danced at the older man's fingertips.

"Good," said the wizard. "Maskar takes a dim view when I get his apprentices damaged, and doubly so when they are his relatives. Of course, he's dismissed apprentices for much less serious crimes than this."

Jehan's mouth finally found purchase. "What. . . ?" he said. "What happened?"

Khelben's mouth formed a thin line. "For what it's worth, you can tell your master that my original plan did not involve you. I had found this little bit of smoke powder, and put the sand in it, hoping to turn up the conspirators. Then as Gerald, I would hang out at the better taverns loudly declaring my anti-elder, pro-powder thoughts, waiting for someone to contact me to solve the little problem I had given them. I did not count on another young whelp making a better case than myself on the use of smoke powder. I did not even know you had been contacted until an abjuration I had placed here warned me that the powder had been purified. At that point, it seemed to make more sense to imitate your appearance, and throw the conspirators off-balance, should they have killed you. My 'Gerald' identity failed to impress them earlier, and I would set them to immediate flight in my natural form, the one you so aptly titled 'skunk-maned.'"

The elder mage paused in his lecture, as if just remembering Jehan was still there, leaking his blood into the

wall. He looked at his battered companion and added, "So, child, you still think everyone in Waterdeep should have smoke powder?"

Jehan looked at the flaming wreckage of the warehouse. Already the locals had responded and were forming bucket brigades from nearby cisterns. Everyone was ignoring the two mages—more magic of the Old Spider, no doubt.

"I think," Jehan started, too tired and battered to be properly respectful or afraid, "I think you just can't blow up the future and hide in the past. Somewhere, someone is going to get past you, and you need to be ready for the day. You can't stop progress."

That was when Khelben surprised the young mage. He laughed—a sharp, staccato chuckle. "Ah, so at least we agree on something. You are right: we can't stop progress. Smoke powder, the printed word, new forms of magic—it's all coming. But we can slow it down from a run to a walk, so at least we can be ready for it. So we can be its master, instead of it being ours."

Jehan groaned. "You think the Old Rel.. . Maskar will dismiss me for this?"

Khelben nodded at the wreckage. "Well, he no longer changes apprentices into newts for forgetting the lemon in his morning tea ... but yes, this is pretty serious. I could put a good word in for you. Or perhaps ..."

Jehan looked at Khelben, but his eyes refused to focus properly. "Perhaps?" was the best the youth could manage.

"I could use another youth to scrub the pots, sweep the conjuring floor, and learn what snippets of magic I deign to teach. And an adventurous youth would be suitable, since I think my Gerald persona should leave town for a while." The Old Spider chuckled again. "And Maskar would be relieved of having to face your parents with your latest escapade."

Jehan tried to smile, but the effort broke his last bit of willpower. He fell into soft, warm darkness.

The young mage awoke at home, the healer speaking to his parents in the next room in quiet, relaxed tones—the tones of one confident the patient will recover without further interference. Jehan's shoulder and leg were still sore,

but it was the soreness of strained muscles and bruises as opposed to ripped and bloodied flesh.

His parents wavered between anger at him risking his life in some damned-fool adventure and pride in the impression he had apparently made on the great Black-staff, who had brought him home and spoken of his heroism. Even now, they said, Khelben was talking with Uncle Maskar about taking Jehan under his wing. Imagine, one of the Wands family learning from the Old Spider himself. But of course, regardless of the outcome, he should not have taken up with that sinister merchant in the first place.

His parents were still trying to determine if they were angry at Jehan or proud of him as he drifted back to sleep.

He awoke much later, having slept through the entire day. Beyond his open window, Waterdeep lay spread out before him with a thousand flickering lights, marching southward toward the sea.

Suddenly there was a series of bright flashes, down by the wharves. A moment passed, then another, then at last the staccato of small explosions reached his ears. Khelben probably had found the rest of the smoke powder stashes, Jehan thought. The ripple of thunder sounded like Khel-ben's chuckle.

Jehan sat there for a long time, looking out over the darkened city, but the effect did not repeat itself. The young mage wondered, Is Khelben rewarding me by making me his apprentice, or punishing me?

Or is he up to something else entirely?

Jehan was still trying to figure this out, the first of many puzzles Blackstaff would pose to him, when sleep finally reclaimed him.

THE MAGIC THIEF

Mark Anthony

I am penning this story as a warning, so that it will not happen to another as it happened to me. My first mistake upon meeting the thief was that I pitied him. But then I have always pitied his kind: those who have longed all their lives to become wizards but—by some cruel trick of birth or accident—are incapable of touching or shaping the ethereal substance of magic. How easy it was for me, so comfortable in my wizard's mantle of power, to feel pity for such a man. Yet pity can be a weakness. And as I have learned, it is not my only one. Here then is my tale.

It was just after sunset when I received the curious invitation.

Outside the window of my study, the last day of autumn had died its golden death, and twilight wove its gray fabric around the countless spires of the Old City. I sighed and set down my quill pen next to the sheaf of parchment I had been filling with musings of magic. As it had with growing frequency of late, a peculiar restlessness had fallen upon me. Absently, I gazed about my sanctuary. Thick Sembian carpets covered the floor. A fire burned brightly in a copper brazier. The walls were lined with shelves of rich wood, laden with books, scrolls, and crystal vials. Everything

about my study bespoke learning, and comfort, and quiet dignity. I decorated it myself, if I do say so.

I took a sip of wine from a silver goblet, wondering at the source of my unease. Certainly nothing could harm me here in the haven of my tower. Over the years I had bound walls, doors, and windows with protective magics and charms of warding. No one could enter the tower without my leave. I was utterly and perfectly safe.

I set down the goblet and caught a reflection of a man in its silver surface. He was tall and regal, clad in garb of pearl gray. His handsome face was unlined, and his eyes gleamed like blue ice. A long mane of golden hair tumbled about his shoulders. The man looked far younger than his true years. Yet magic can have a preservative effect on those who wield it.

This I knew, for the man was me. Morhion Gen'dahar. The greatest wizard in the city of Iriaebor.

I shook my head, for I had not chosen this title. True, years ago I had traveled on perilous adventures. I had helped defeat beings of ancient and terrible evil. Perhaps, in those days, I had known something of greatness. Yet what had I done since then? Nothing, save keep to the peaceful fastness of my tower. I was secure, and comfortable, and safe. Yes, safe. That was the word, and suddenly it was like a curse to me. I clenched a fist in anger.

After a moment I blinked. Bitter laughter escaped my lips. If this tower was a prison, I had wrought it for myself. Drawing in a resigned breath, I reached for my quill pen once more.

I halted at the magical chiming of a small bronze bell. Someone stood upon the front steps of my tower. Curious, for I had few visitors these days, I hurried from my study and descended a spiral staircase to the tower's entry chamber. Belatedly I waved a hand, dismissing the spells that bound the door—which otherwise would have given me a nasty shock—and flung open the portal.

There was no one there.

The path that led from the Street of Runes to my tower was empty in the gloaming. Oddly disappointed, I started to shut the door. I paused as something caught my eye. It

was a piece of paper resting on the stone steps. I bent down to retrieve the paper. A message was written upon it in a spidery hand:

I wish to meet you. Come to the Crow's Nest at moon-rise. I believe there is much we can gain from one another.

—Zeth

I gazed at the words in mild interest. It was hardly the first such invitation I had received. Usually they came from would-be apprentices, wandering mages seeking knowledge, or—on occasion—brash young wizards wishing to challenge me to a duel of magic. I studied the paper, wondering to which category this Zeth belonged. That last line was unusual. Most wanted something of me. Yet this man seemed to believe I had something to gain from him.

Intriguing as it was, I knew I should discard the invitation. Yet I was suddenly loath to return to the safe confines of my tower. I had heard of the Crow's Nest. It was a rough tavern on the riverfront, a dangerous place. Yet was I not the greatest wizard in Iriaebor? I thought with a sharp smile. What did I have to fear? Before I knew what I was doing, I grabbed my dusk-gray cloak from a hook in the entry chamber. I shut the door of my tower, rebinding the enchantments with a wave of my hand, and headed into the deepening night.

I moved quickly down the twisting Street of Runes. The numberless towers of the Old City loomed above, plunging the winding ways below into thick shadow. Soon I came to the edge of the labyrinth and, following a steep road cut into the face of the Tor, made my way down into the sprawling New City below. Here the streets were broader and more open than in the Old City, lined by bright torches.

I was just on the edge of a shabby, less savory section of the city when I was accosted by the girl.

"Would you like to buy some magic, milord?" she asked in a pert voice. A grin lit up her grimy face as she pulled something from her tattered clothes.

"So this is magic, is it?" I asked solemnly, accepting the

proffered object. It was a small tube woven of straw.

The urchin nodded enthusiastically. "If someone puts his fingers in each end, he won't be able to pull them out. And the harder he pulls, the more stuck his fingers will be. That's the enchantment."

A low laugh escaped my lips. "And a powerful one it is." No doubt this girl was an orphan, and under the power of some petty thief. If she failed to sell her wares, it was likely she would be beaten. I drew out a silver coin and flipped it to the girl.

"Thank you, milord!" she cried as she snatched up the coin and vanished into the gloom. I tucked the cheap finger-trick into a pocket and, wearing a faint smile, continued on my way.

I reached the Crow's Nest just as the pale orb of Selune lifted itself above the city's sentinel towers. Moonrise. The ramshackle tavern stood on an old quay thrust out into the turgid waters of the Chionthar River. The scents of fish and garbage hung on the air. I opened the tavern's door and stepped into the murky space beyond.

A dozen eyes fell upon me, then just as quickly looked away. This was a violent place. Its clientele were murderers, pirates, and thieves. But all knew a wizard when they saw one. Drunk as most were, none were fools enough to think their fists or knives a match for true magic. They hunkered over their ale pots and returned to their talk. The palm of my left hand tingled, and I rubbed it absently. My fingers traced the familiar pattern of an old, puckered scar: the Rune of Magic, which had branded me a wizard long ago.

I scanned the smoky interior. In one corner sat a man, pale and nervous, fidgeting with—but not drinking from— a dented flagon. It could be no other. Zeth. He was older than I had guessed. His thin face was sharply lined though not unhandsome, and gray flecked his dark hair. Drab clothes hung loosely upon his lean frame. At once I knew he was no mage. I wended my way through the tavern and sat opposite him. He glanced up, his expression one of surprise. Yet it seemed a strange smugness shone in his dark eyes.

"I didn't think you'd come," he said in a hoarse voice.

"Yet, here I am," I countered smoothly.

He fumbled with the flagon. "Would you like a drink?"

"No," I replied.

Silence settled between us. The first move was up to him. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I can feel it radiating from you, you know." A hunger filled his voice. "Magic, I mean. It's ... it must be ... intoxicating."

With these words, I knew him. Without doubt, Zeth was one of those few who are utterly dead to the touch of magic—what some mages cruelly called geldings. Their kind was rare, but had been known for centuries. Occasionally, masters encountered students who, no matter their intelligence or effort, could not learn even the simplest of spells. For reason unknown, they could neither sense nor channel the forces of magic. Most geldings gave up their arcane studies and turned to other pursuits, leading normal lives. Yet I had heard tales of geldings who had been driven mad by their ill-fated desire to wield magic.

"I'm sorry," I said, speaking the first words that came to my mind.

Anger flared in his eyes. "Save your apologies, Morhion Gen'dahar," he hissed. He clenched his hand into a trembling fist. "I want your power, not your pity."

I gazed at him unflinchingly. "I cannot give it to you, Zeth."

He slowly unclenched his hand. His thin shoulders slumped. "No, I suppose you can't," he whispered. He stared despondently at the table. "I had hoped that maybe you would know a way to help me. I should have known better."

This must be torture for him, I realized. He must be drawn to mages even as he loathed and resented them. It was a cruel illness, but one of which I could not cure him, one which I would only inflame with my presence. "I believe I will go now, Zeth," I said quietly.

He nodded jerkily, still staring at the table, then looked up as I started to rise. "Please," he choked. "Let me at least shake your hand before you go—so that I can say I have indeed met the great wizard Morhion Gen'dahar."

I hesitated. It seemed wrong to aid his delusions in any

way. Yet such was the haunted look in his dark eyes that I could not resist. "Very well," I replied finally.

He stood and held out his hand—his left, rather than his right. This was odd, but I thought little of it. I reached my left hand toward him.

"May Mystra guide you—" I started to speak. The words faltered on my lips.

An intricate symbol was tattooed on the back of his left hand. The glyph filled me with a sudden inexplicable dread. I tried to snatch my hand back, but it was too late. Zeth's fingers closed around mine. Agony raced up my arm like white fire. I arched my spine, throwing my head back as a scream ripped itself from my lungs. There was a brilliant flash, and the reek of lightning filled the air. At last, Zeth released my hand. I reeled backward, stumbling weakly against a wall. I stared at him in pain-clouded confusion. Strangely, he was laughing.

"You cannot give it to me," he said mockingly, "but I can take it from you." He held up his left hand. On the palm was a puckered scar, as if from a hot brand. It was a symbol I knew well: the Rune of Magic. His laughter rose to a maddening din in my ears. I clutched at the wall, trying to keep my feet. Then the room spun around me, and I fell down into darkness.

By the tune I regained consciousness, Zeth was gone.

I blinked, trying to make out the blurred faces that hovered over me. Crimson light pulsed behind them, in time to the sharp throbbing inside my skull. A wave of nausea crashed through me. I retched into the sour straw that covered the tavern floor, coughed, then managed to draw in a gasping breath. At last, the faces came into focus. A half-dozen thugs loomed over me, leering expressions on their coarse faces.

"I guess he ain't dead after all," one of them grunted.

"Well, he ain't much alive, either," another replied, baring yellowed teeth. "That other fellow did something to him before he skipped out of here. Something nasty. I say we see what he's got."

Alarm cut through the haze of pain. No longer were the ruffians looking at me with fear and awe in their eyes. I

tried to pull myself off the floor, but my limbs were as heavy as stone. I slumped back against the wall. I felt weak, hollow—as if part of me had been torn away. What had Zeth done to me?

"Hold him down, lads," the second thug growled. "I'll see what he has in that fat purse of his."

The others hesitated, exchanging nervous glances. They were wary to lay hands upon a wizard, even one who seemed incapacitated. That gave me a moment. I shut my eyes and opened my mind to recall the words of a spell.

Blankness.

My eyes flew open in shock. I had performed this action a thousand times. Words of magic should have flowed into my mind like water into an empty vessel. Instead, there had been nothing. Hastily I tried again. I willed the words to come. Again there was only blankness. I searched with my thoughts, then found it, as a man who has had a tooth pulled by a barber probes the empty socket with his tongue. It was a ragged hole in my mind, a darkness where all the spells I had mastered should have been.

Seeing my confusion, the ruffians grinned. A sawtooth knife flashed in the bloody torchlight. In desperation, I fumbled for the purse at my belt and, with what remained of my strength, flung it away from me. Thick gold coins spilled out, rolling across the floor. For a moment, my assailants stared at each other; then as one, they turned and dived, scrabbling for the coins lost amid the rotted straw. Their leader snarled at me, brandishing his knife. He hesitated, then swore, leaping to join the others in the search for gold.

I did not waste the chance. Forcing my trembling limbs to work, I crawled away, following the corner of the wall until I reached the tavern door. Somehow I managed to lurch to my feet. I stumbled outside and wove my way drunkenly down the quay to the street. Just then shouts went up from the Crow's Nest. My absence had been noticed. I tried to quicken my pace. As I did, my foot slipped in a slimy gutter. I fell hard to the filthy cobblestones and slid wildly down a steep alley, landing amid a heap of rotting fish and other foul refuse. I froze. Above me, dim shapes ran past the mouth of the alley. Angry

shouts vanished into the night.

Gagging from the reek, I pulled myself out of the garbage heap and stood, trying to understand what had happened. I reached out with my will, trying to feel the ether of magic, which flowed between all things. Yet I was a blind man searching with numb fingers. Nothing, and nothing again. I could remember casting spells of power, could recall crackling magic flowing from my fingertips. But the words, the intonations, the intricate gestures were all gone. I pressed my burning forehead against the cool, dirty wall. Was I going mad?

A strange quietness descended upon me. No, I was not mad. It was something else. Something far worse than mere insanity. You cannot give it to me, but I can take it from you, he had said. Zeth. Somehow he had stolen my magic and had taken it for himself. Again nausea washed through me. This was what it felt like to be a gelding.

As if of its own volition, my left hand rose before my face. The palm, which had been branded by the Rune of Magic upon my initiation into the arcane arts, was now smooth. On the back was the tattoo that I had glimpsed on Zeth's hand: an intricate knot formed of angular lines. Certainly it was a sigil of power, and I sensed that I had seen its like before. But where? I searched my mind. My magic was gone, but all my mundane knowledge—philosophy, mathematics, history—remained. Then it came to me.

Netheril. It was a name few knew, for the ancient empire had vanished a millennium ago beneath the sands of the vast desert Anauroch. The reticulated knot had been a common motif in the art and magic of Netheril. Now I recalled reading of the ones called the gor-kethal, the thieves of magic. They had been the scourge of Netheril. In that empire, the nobility had ruled by right of magic, and all feared the gor-kethal, who could usurp a sorcerer's power—and rule—with a touch.

At last the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. In his tortured quest for magic, Zeth had somehow stumbled upon the secret of the gor-kethal. And I had been his unwitting victim. Like the magic thieves of long ago, he had stolen my power. Rage flared hotly in my brain, but I willed it

away, forcing my mind to cool. It was an unalterable law that for every magic there was a countermagic. There had to be a way to reverse the transference. I had to remain calm if I was to find it.

Weird laughter tumbled from my lips. Of course! Here was the answer before me. The sigil of the gor-kethal was on my own hand. I was the magic thief now. All I need do to reverse the transference was to find Zeth and touch him. Not that this would be so easily done. Zeth would be wary, expecting pursuit. And he was the wizard now. Still, it was a hope, and that was all I needed.

I glanced again at the sky. The orb of Selune shone directly overhead. A new dread chilled my blood. Besides the reticulated knot, the moon was another integral motif of Netherese magic. With sudden certainty I knew that, once Selune vanished behind the horizon, it would be too late. If I did not find Zeth before moonset, the transference would be permanent. I would be without magic forever.

With no time to waste, I hurried up the slope of the alley and through the shadowed streets. Though still weak and ill, I was already growing used to the emptiness inside me. Before, I had hardly noticed the dilapidated buildings and filthy ways of this part of the New City. Always in the past I had walked such streets without fear, oblivious within the protective aura of my magic. Now I felt the danger that lurked behind every turn. Remembering the ruffians in the tavern, who had meant to rob me and slit my throat, I moved as quickly as I could. As I did, I wondered how I would discover where Zeth had gone.

This was not so difficult a matter.

Not far away, a pillar of green fire shot into the night sky. It could be but one thing. Magic. Following the telltale beacon, I came to a broad plaza. In the center was a tall bronze statue, a monument to some long-forgotten ruler of the city. Now magical emerald flames engulfed the statue. Hard bronze sagged, melted, and dripped down the statue to flow in molten rivulets across the cobbles. Zeth had been playing with his newfound power.

Disgusted at this irresponsible waste of magic, I hurried on. Zeth seemed to be moving toward the Tor. I could not

let him get too far ahead of me.

I passed the open door of an inn, from which spilled golden light and the sounds of merriment. But the music was eerily frantic, and the laughter had a manic note to it. I peered through the doorway. Inside, men and women whirled around in a chaotic dance, jerking like marionettes under the control of a mad puppeteer. Garish smiles were plastered across their faces, yet terror shone in their eyes.

A young woman spun wildly past the doorway and saw me standing outside. "Please, help us!" she gasped, her face gray with exhaustion.

I shook my head in sorrow. There was nothing I could do. They would dance, consumed by the enchantment, until they dropped dead from exertion. Even as I watched, the woman whirled on and careened into a wall. A crimson blossom appeared on her brow. Pain racked her eyes, but her smile only broadened as she danced on.

"Damn you, Zeth," I hissed, forcing myself to turn away from the ghoulish scene. He was drunk with magic, wielding it with no regard for the consequences. He had the power but none of the discipline usually required to gain it. Urgency renewed, I ran onward.

The trail of mayhem left in Zeth's wake continued to trace a direct line toward the Tor. For some reason he was making for the Old City. Glancing up, I saw that the moon had passed its zenith. Time was slipping away. At last the dark bulk of the Tor loomed above me. I turned onto the road that wound up the crag. Abruptly I lurched to a halt.

Iron bars blocked the way. The gate was closed.

I cursed my stupidity. No doubt Zeth knew what I had forgotten. The wealthy citizens who lived high on the Tor preferred to keep the rabble down in the New City at night. By law the gate to the Old City was shut at midnight and would not open again until dawn. No doubt Zeth had passed to the other side by means of magic. How was I to follow?

Torches lined the stone wall that surrounded the Old City. The wall was high and smooth, crowned by a sharp overhang. A master thief would have been hard pressed to scale it, let alone an out-of-shape wizard. I turned my

attention to the gate that covered the arched opening in the wall. The bars were thick and closely spaced. A heavy iron lock held the gate securely shut. I pulled on the bars, but half-heartedly. No human strength would be enough to bend them.

I turned away from the gate. The moon was steadily descending in the jet dome of the sky, and my hopes sank with it. In the past, I would have waved a hand and strode through like a proud lord. Yet what was I now? Weary, bedraggled, powerless. I was nothing without my magic.

Or was I? I still had my mundane knowledge. How would a scholar confront the problem of the locked gate?

My mind raced. I found my eyes lingering upon a torch that had burned down to a black stub. Then it struck me. I dug into the pocket of my doublet and came out with a handful of soft, yellow rocks. Brimstone. I often had some about me, for it was useful in the casting of many spells— none of which I knew anymore. However, the brimstone might serve me yet. I moved to the wall and pulled down the burned torch. That would provide the necessary charcoal. Now all I needed was one more ingredient. My gaze moved down the street. Then, in the fading moonlight, I saw what I was looking for: a mortar and pestle hanging above a doorway. An apothecary's shop.

I did not like resorting to thievery, but such moral regrets are better suited to less desperate moments. With a stray rock, I broke through the shop's window. By the time a wavering light appeared in an upper story and angry shouts rose on the night air, I was gone with what I needed. Hiding in a shadow near the gate, I examined my prize: a clay pot filled with small white crystals. Niter. It was commonly used by physicians to treat seizures. I had another use in mind.

I spread a handkerchief on the ground before me and emptied the clay pot onto it. I crumbled the charcoal and soft brimstone with my fingers and added these to the niter. With great care, I mixed the three ingredients until they formed a dark gray powder. Gathering the corners of the handkerchief, I tied them tightly, forming a bundle with the powder inside. I found a stray bit of frayed rope

and tucked one end inside the handkerchief. Then I wedged the bundle between the bars of the gate next to the lock. I reached up and took one of the burning torches from its sconce, touching it to the free end of the rope. A flame curled up the length of cord. I turned and ran for cover.

The dry rope burned faster than I had thought. I had gone less then ten paces when a brilliant flash and a clap of thunder burst the night asunder. A great force struck my back, like the invisible hand of a giant, throwing me to the ground. After a stunned moment I pulled myself to my feet. Acrid smoke clouded the air.

While the Red Wizards of Thay claimed that smoke powder—which they were infamous for making and using—was a powerful enchantment, this was a lie. Smoke powder was not the result of magic, but of alchemy. It was no more magical in nature than a fire burning on a goodwife's hearth, though it was infinitely more powerful.

As the smoke cleared, I approached the gate. It was still shut, and for a moment I thought my plan had failed. I reached out to push on the iron bars. As my fingers brushed the still-warm metal, there was a dull clink. The weakened lock broke. The gate swung open. At the same moment, a hue and cry went up somewhere along the wall. It seemed my little trick had not gone unnoticed by the city watch. I hurried through the gate and, keeping to the murk and shadows, made my way unaccosted up the Tor, to the many-spired Old City above.

At first, I despaired of finding Zeth's trail amid the mazelike streets. I need not have feared. After a few moments, I stumbled upon a smoking pit that had been torn open in the middle of a lane. Not far ahead, a majestic old ash tree was twisted into contorted knots. Anger and dread filled me at these sights. The more powerful the magic Zeth tried to wield, the less he was able to control it. Ignoring my weariness, I pressed on, following the trail of destruction left by the magic thief. Then, at last, I knew where he was going.

The moon hovered just above the western horizon when I stopped before my tower on the Street of Runes.

I gazed up at the dark spire that had been my dwelling

for many long years. A light glowed in the window of the topmost chamber. Finally I understood. Zeth did not simply covet my magic. He coveted my life. He had come to my tower to claim it for his own. I almost laughed at the irony. Over the years I had woven my tower with myriad wards and protections. Now I was the one they would prevent from entering. Yet enter I must. Somehow.

Stealthily, I circled the tower. "Think, Morhion," I whispered to myself. "There must be some chink in the armor you conjured to protect yourself. Certainly you could not have been so perfectly safe as you believed."

Yet, even knowing where and what they were, I could see no way to get past my own defenses. The door was bound with enough arcane energy to roast an elephant. The thick walls were made smooth and slick by magic. A dusky vine wound up the western face of the tower, passing near the study window, and might be climbed. Yet even from here I could see the faint blue sheen that covered the window. Anyone trying to pass would be instantly struck dead. The only way to enter the tower was to be invited by the wizard within.

Excitement flared in my chest as an idea struck me. It would not exactly be an invitation, but it might work. That is, if I could count on Zeth's curiosity and lack of magical control. I glanced up at the rapidly sinking moon. There was no time to think of a better plan. Hastily, I began searching in the bushes near the base of the tower. I needed something that had once been alive. Then I came upon the dry carcass of a small bird. That would do.

Standing in a patch of gloom, I tossed the dead bird onto the stone doorstep of the tower. Above, I heard a faint chiming. There—the bell had been rung. Now I could only hope Zeth would take the bait. I might have simply waited in the shadows in hopes of ambushing him. But he would be expecting someone outside the door, and I had something more surprising in mind.

Running to the west side of the tower, I grabbed the thick tendrils of the vine that clung to the wall and began pulling myself up. In moments, my arms burned fiercely, but I clenched my teeth and kept climbing. At last I

reached the study window. I could see the firelit room beyond. No one was within. The deadly blue aura still gleamed across the open window.

For several tense moments, I clung to the vines with white-knuckled hands. Then I heard the sound of a door opening below. At the same moment the blue magic barring the window flickered and vanished. Despite my exhaustion, I grinned fiercely in victory. Just as I had suspected, Zeth did not possess the fine control required to dismiss only one of the tower's protective magics. To open the door, he had been forced to lower all the wards. Before he could rebind the tower's protections, I pulled myself through the window and into the study beyond.

I was sitting in a comfortable chair, sipping a glass of ruby wine, when the study's door opened.

"Good evening, Zeth," I said smoothly.

He had clad himself in my best gray robe trimmed with silver thread. For a moment, his gaunt face paled in shock, then grew crimson with anger.

"Good evening, gelding," he spat. "I should have known you would find a way to follow me. But you have come too late." He gestured to the window. "Look. Even as we speak, the moon sets."

As I turned my head to gaze at the window, he thrust an outstretched finger in my direction. That was exactly what I had expected. I dived to the floor and rolled away as a bolt of green magic struck the chair, blasting a smoking hole in its back. I lunged forward, reaching out with my left hand—the hand that bore the sigil of the gor-kethal.

However, before I could touch him, he shouted a fearful word of magic and rose into the air. Floating swiftly across the room, he landed and turned to me. I tried to scramble to my feet, slipped, and fell back to the floor. He splayed his fingers in my direction. My plan had failed.

"You didn't have to come here, you know," he said, his voice almost sad. "You could have lived your life."

"As a gelding?" I said quietly. "No, Zeth. It would have driven me mad. Just as it has you."

His sadness gave way to renewed rage. "I need you no

longer, Morhion Gen'dahar. There is no magic you possessed that I cannot now wield." Crimson sparks crackled around his outstretched fingers.

I gazed at Zeth in dread, knowing that this time there was no escaping his magic. Framed by the window behind him, the pale orb of the moon began to slip beneath the distant horizon. Instinctively I reached into the pocket of my doublet, as if to find the catalyst needed to cast a spell. But I knew no spells. All my hand found was a small, crumpled tube of straw. . . .

"You're wrong, Zeth," I said suddenly. "There is one magic of mine you have not mastered." From my pocket I pulled the woven straw tube I had bought from the street urchin. I tossed it at his feet. "Unlock the riddle of this magic, wizard!"

Zeth's eyes narrowed in suspicion, but it was clear my words had pricked his arrogance. Like a starving man presented with a banquet, this onetime gelding could not resist even the smallest morsel of magic. Banishing the deadly crimson sparks with a careless wave, he bent to pick up the straw tube. Frowning, he studied it. He inserted a finger in one end, probing within, then stuck a second finger into the other end of the tube. He snorted in disgust. "There is nothing to master in this."

I nodded solemnly. "If that is what you believe, Zeth, then it is indeed time to kill me."

A cruel sneer crossed his face. "As you wish."

Zeth lifted a hand to cast a spell. Caught as it was in the straw tube, the other hand followed. With a puzzled look, he tried to pull his fingers free. They did not budge. With a look of growing panic, he tugged harder. It was no use. He could not free his fingers from the trap. Staring at me in sudden terror, he tried to cast a spell. However, without the use of his fingers to trace the arcane patterns necessary, working magic was impossible.

Now was my chance. I leapt to my feet. Zeth tried to lunge away but stumbled, crashing into a bookcase. I grabbed his collar. Before he could squirm away, I pressed my left palm against his sweating forehead.

Again came a flash, and this time a vast rushing sound as

bright energy flowed into me. I stumbled backward, gasping. Every fiber of my body tingled with power. My magic had returned. Groaning, Zeth slumped to the floor. Branded now across his forehead was the sigil of the gor-kethal.

He raised his hands weakly, fingers still caught in the cheap finger trick. "There is no magic in this, is there?"

I shook my head. "No, Zeth. No magic at all." Now that I had defeated him, I found I could not hate the magic thief. His was a tortured soul. "Let me help you, Zeth," I said solemnly. "Maybe, working together, we can find you some peace with your fate."

For a moment, hope shone in his dark eyes. Then it was replaced by loathing, a hatred not directed toward me. "I said I don't want your pity," he snarled. "You think you've defeated me, but I still have won a victory. Now you will forever know that your power is flawed. I possessed all your magic, and yet you bested me with a mundane trick. It could happen to you just as easily. Let that knowledge gnaw at you for the rest of your wretched life, Morhion Gen'dahar!"

Too late, I saw what he intended. With a last, desperate cry, Zeth lunged to his feet and hurled his body through the window. He was dead before he struck the ground, slain by the magical aura that guarded the opening.

So passed Zeth, the gor-kethal, last of the magic thieves.

As I end this tale, I find myself gazing once more at the invitation Zeth left upon my doorstep. / believe there is much we can gain from one another, he had written.

Strangely, I know now that Zeth did give me something. He was right. My magic is flawed. I am not all-powerful. Yet he was wrong about one thing. That knowledge does not eat at my soul. For, as I learned in our final confrontation, sometimes there is weakness in power, and power in weakness. No longer am I so perfectly safe here in the fastness of my tower.

And by that I know that I am truly alive.

THE QUIET PLACE