Alien C. Kupfer

"The vagabond has lied to us!"

Llewellyn the Loquacious felt the cold waters of the River Ghalagar soak through his clothes, through his black-brown hair, and through his narrow, all-too-human frame.

"Drown him like the rodent he is!"

A halfling heel pressed down on the side of his neck. Water splashed onto his face, into his eyes and mouth.

"Lie to us, will you? Hold him under the water. Let the fish swim in his lungs!"

He thought this might be the end. This time, he feared, there would be no way out, no escape. Not with this adventuring band of halflings thirsty for revenge. No, indeed!

The hair-covered foot on his neck was joined by another on the side of his head. The weight forced his head into the sand at the river's bottom. Other weights—several other halflings—pinned the rest of his body down. As the water rushed into his ears, he could no longer hear the voices calling out. And though he struggled, the combined weight of the halflings was too great for him.

He could hold his breath no more, and bubbles full of life-breath escaped from his lungs, exited through his mouth and nostrils, rose in the water, and burst at the surface of the river. Wide-eyed and terrified, he watched their ascent.

Perhaps, he thought, I shouldn't have sent this band of adventurers to seek the silver key. Perhaps I could have acquired Zalathorn's amulet on my own, without trying to distract these halflings; after all, Zalathorn, great and beneficent wizard-king that he is, said I could keep the amulet for my very own if I chose to. Perhaps sending them off into the Swamp of Ahklaur so that I could search their camp was not a good idea—no, not a particularly smart notion at all—even if I did find the amulet, which I now have in the pocket of my very wet robe. ...

Water filled his lungs, and the weight en various points of his body seemed to lessen. He thought it must have been the relief of death.

But strong fingers grabbed the long hair on his head and yanked him up over the surface of the water. He coughed up the water in his lungs, and the cold evening air brought him back to full consciousness. That was when he noticed the halfling shouting had ceased; in fact, once the water dripped from his ears, he could hear only one voice, that of the band's leader: Black Indio.

"... not hear me, my friend?" Black Indio, though a self-styled rapscallion, was no more daunting than any half-ling: fuzzy feet shadowed beneath a portly belly clothed in green homespun, wispy beard framing a face more fey than fanatic.

Llewellyn coughed out the last of the liquid.

"I said," Indio repeated, slapping the top of Llewellyn's head, "can you not hear me? Has your bath made you deaf?"

Indio's followers laughed. Llewellyn took a deep breath.

"No, I can hear you, you blackhearted, ungrateful cur!" he answered. Not having time to think about tactics— whether humility or boldness would be more appropriate at this time—Llewellyn opted for the latter. He silently prayed he wasn't creating even more trouble for himself.

"I am hurt, my friend!" Indio protested, his shaggy hair glowing with the light of the halfling campfire. "Blackhearted? Yes, no one can be more blackhearted than I when I choose to be. That's how I earned the title Black Indio, or more correctly, Indio the Black! Right now, I don't choose to be. And ungrateful? You cut me to the quick!"

"Do I?" Llewellyn asked. "Do I? I do? Indeed! Your band of cutthroats try to drown me! And why? I ask you why? I told you where you could find the silver key in the swamp; just because you couldn't find it—couldn't follow directions, most likely—is no fault of mine, I do declare! Yet your band of..."

"But we did find it."

". . . hooligans throw me into the river . . ."

"I say, we did find it."

". . . and nearly bury my head in the . . . What? What did you say?"

"We found it. We found the charm."

"You did?" Llewellyn coughed out loud to cover his surprise. "Of course you did. Just as I said, exactly the way I told you you would." Can my luck be holding? he wondered. Can this be possible?

"I'm not sure I know how to work it, though," Indio exclaimed.

"May I see it?" Indio handed it to him as he finally rose to his feet, water dripping from every inch of him.

It was a rather large key with three holes forged in it, where gems should be ... but weren't. Llewellyn recognized the key immediately. Yes, the wheel of fortune was definitely turning in his favor. So much so that it worried him.

"I sent some of my troop back early," Indio explained. "The damned piranha were nibbling them away to nothing. I'm afraid that by the time they got back here, they were a bit overzealous. Remember, we hadn't found the key at that time, and all of my band—myself included— wanted to stuff a few live piranha down your throat for sending us into that godless swamp for nothing."

"How charming! How positively charitable of you!"

"But the moment we found it, I hurried back to camp, fearing what might be done to you in my absence."

"Thank you so excessively much," Llewellyn said sarcastically. "I take it back. It was a most grievous error on my part. You're not ungrateful at all."

"But I am still... Black Indio!" he shouted, drawing his sword and pointing it at the sky. His troop repeated the action, and in unison shouted, "Black Indio!"

"Come out of the water and sit by the fire, my friend," Indio said. "And tell me again of this key."

Llewellyn followed him to the campfire and sat close to it. In a few moments, its heat removed the chill from his bones.

"Bring our friend a drink," Indio commanded. Turning to Llewellyn, he continued: "This key, I believe you said, can unlock a chest of wealth somewhere in the mountains, just west of Zoundar. Am I correct?"

"Yes, that is, positively correct, I must say," Llewellyn responded, "and no, it is not. The key will not work without three stones set in the holes cut for them."

"Jewels?"

"No, not jewels, though that would be most attractive, perhaps even splendiferous. They are perfectly round jade stones, each with a dark stripe that runs around the perimeter."

The halfling whose foot had crushed Llewellyn's face into the mud of the river stepped forward and spoke. "Indio! We have such a stone!"

"Do we? Bring it forward. In fact, bring the sack that contains all our treasures."

The halfling did as commanded and handed Indio the sack. The leader poured out the contents between himself and Llewellyn. Indio fingered through the various gold pieces, trinkets, and small gems until he spotted what he was looking for.

"Is this it?" he asked Llewellyn, holding the green piece between two ringers.

"Does it fit in the key?"

Indio placed the stone into one of the circles on the key.

"By all that is holy, it fits—perfectly," cried the halfling.

"So it does," Indio added, "but it will not work, as our friend has said, without the other two stones. So of what use is it to me?"

Llewellyn smiled wryly. "You are too pessimistic, Indio the Black, my good friend." Undoing the drawstring of the leather sack on his belt and reaching into it, he added. "I believe the adage, once spoken by some person of undeniable wisdom at some distant point in the past, is 'one good turn deserves another.'"

Whereupon he held up an identical jade stone.

Indio's eyes lit up. "The second stone. I must have it."

"You could, I suppose, just steal it from me, Indio. But even though you are Indio the Black, I hope you will not do that, considering the injustice your followers have already perpetrated upon me. May I propose a trade?"

"What do you want for it?" Indio asked suspiciously.

"May I—I'm not a particularly skilled barterer, I must admit—peruse your plentiful plunder?"

Indio extended his hand, indicating his permission.

Llewellyn crouched over the items that Indio had poured between them, slowly and carefully slipping out of his robe the amulet he had already stolen. With a dexterous display of sleight of hand, he made it appear that he was choosing the amulet from the pile.

Better to acquire this . . . shall we say, legally . . . than perhaps have it found on me later, he thought.

"This amulet would do nicely, I must say."

Indio laughed. "You may have it. It is made of pure silver, but like this key, its decorative and maybe valuable stones have been pried off and traded, no doubt. What do you want with it?"

"Perhaps I will someday decorate it with stones of my very own choosing. And the amulet itself, a simple yet artful piece of craftsmanship, is handsome, don't you think?"

Indio shrugged his shoulders. "If you say so. Then it is a deal?"

"Almost."

"I knew there had to be a catch."

Llewellyn shook his head. "My good man, there is no catch, don't you know? Listen to me. I know who has the

third stone, and where they are headed. If I help you acquire the third stone, do you agree to give me half of the treasure? After all, that would be only fair."

The whole camp laughed, but only Indio responded. "Ten percent. For it will be my troop and I who will, no doubt, have to ... liberate ... this stone."

"Twenty-five percent?"

"Fifteen."

"Twenty sounds reasonable to me. After all the abuse I've taken from your band, and my only taking this simple amulet..."

"Enough, Talkative One!" Indio said. "Twenty percent it is. But you must assist us in any way we deem necessary."

"Agreed."

"You have yet to tell me who it is that possesses the third stone."

"I believe you've heard of them. Most folks here and there know of them, I do believe."

"Them?"

"They are known as—although I consider the name a bit on the inane side—the Buckleswashers."

Indio slapped his own forehead in exasperation. "The Buckleswashers? That group of deceitful rogues who allow a gnome to travel with them? Aren't they from Water-deep? This is far from their base."

Llewellyn nodded in agreement. "Indeed. It is surely the vast wealth of the treasure that has brought them so far from home."

"You are certain it is they?"

"Not long ago, I had the misfortune of running into them. Talltankard, their leader, beat me senseless for no reason at all. That's why I sought your band. Though my interest lies in a share of the treasure, I also wish revenge against Talltankard, which I, by myself, could never exact."

"Indeed, brother Llewellyn. I, too, hate that Talltankard, the braggart. I, too, will enjoy meeting him and his disgraceful excuse for a band of adventurers. Now tell me where they can be found."

Llewellyn gazed into the blazing fire. "It is not that I do

not trust you, my friend, Indio the Black. I cannot tell you that, for it is in a trader's interest to keep at least one item of barter in his sack."

"Then you will not tell me?"

"Better than that: I shall lead you to them—and to the treasure. Actions, they say—although, again, I do not exactly know who 'they* are—speak louder than words."

"Thereby assuring your indispensability," Indio said with a laugh. "You are indeed a shrewd man."

The two men again shook hands; then Indio called for food and drink and held the key high over the fire, watching the light twinkle from the green stones. Llewellyn sat quietly, planning how he would spend the fortune they would find in the mountains.

An hour later, Llewellyn was reclining on the ground under an elm tree, wrapped in a scratchy burlap blanket. But he hardly noticed the fabric. He knew that soon all would go his way.

In his semiconsciousness, he mused back on the most unusual two days just past. First, he'd had the misfortune of running into the Steadfast Order of Shortfellow Swashbucklers, better known throughout the Shining South as the Buckleswashers. They had been in the mountains north of the West Wall, seeking some ancient treasure. And since he was in the vicinity—and since Llewellyn the Loqua-cious's reputation was of a man of much valuable knowledge—the group delayed him and attempted to obtain information regarding the whereabouts of the lost treasure.

But, as usual, the Loquacious One was able to learn more than he taught. He told them he had heard of the treasure. He learned that a key containing three jade stones was necessary to unlock the treasure chest. He told them he had heard that the treasure was in this vicinity. He learned that they had found it; indeed, it was located in a cave barely a hundred yards from their present location. He told them he would assist them in finding the treasure. He learned that they had one of the stones, but

not the key itself, nor the two additional stones. After many threats on the part of the Buckleswashers and many promises and vows on his part, they released him on condition that he would return in three days—or they would come looking for him.

Then he was summoned psionically to Zalathorn. Wordlessly, Zalathorn probed the Talkative One's mind and learned what he needed to know. The wizard, content with his store of riches, had no desire for this lost treasure. He provided Llewellyn with the full knowledge of the trea-sure, the key, and the three jade stones. Zalathorn thought it would be amusing to watch as the quest for the treasure unfolded before him. So he set Llewellyn in the vicinity of Indio Black's band of treasure-seekers.

And now, well, here Llewellyn was, content (relatively), sound (thankfully), and safe (miraculously). And almost (no—completely) asleep.

*****

The next morning the troop awoke at the break of dawn, and by late afternoon, they were within a quarter mile of the treasure.

Llewellyn, who with Indio walked ahead of the other eight in the band, motioned for the group to halt. Indio repeated the order vocally, privately annoyed at his partner's presumption.

"We shall, I think, be able to acquire the treasure with a minimum of fuss and violence if you leave the complex machinations to me, I must say," Llewellyn declared.

Indio looked at him, puzzled. "What do you mean by that?"

"Simply that I have considered all the options and various possibilities, and I have a plan."

"Oh? Have you, great military leader?" Indio retorted.

Llewellyn pretended insult. "Very well, I shall remain quiet, and let you handle everything. After all, you know where the treasure is!"

Indio began to relent. "Fine. Tell us what..."

"You know where the Buckleswashers are...."

"I don't. Tell us ..."

"You know how ..."

Indio placed his hand on his sword. "By all the fiends in the Shining South, will you not shut up and tell us your plan?"

Llewellyn frowned. "How can a man shut up and speak at the same time? It's a paradox to be pondered, I must say."

"Fine! Fine!" Indio shouted. "Don't shut up. Speak. Speak! Tell us your plan."

Finally, Llewellyn relented. "This is what I have in mind. I will go to the Buckleswashers with the key containing the two stones...."

"Like hell you will," shouted one of Indio's troop, whose name was Ckleef Vann. "Do you take us for fools?"

Llewellyn lied when he answered: "No."

"Go on," Indio said warily, "but this had better be good."

"I will convince them to give me a cut of the treasure, as I have done with you. When we put the third stone in the key and unlock the treasure, you and your very able troop will rush them and take the treasure."

"Why don't we just rush them now?' another of the troop, known only as Terrence of the Hill, insisted.

Llewellyn turned to him. "Because they, at best, might hide the stone and, at worst, steal the key from you and kill you all. If you follow my plan, and I do so hope you do, you gain not only the element of surprise, but also the fact that all three stones will be in the key."

Indio considered the plan, but asked, "What if they kill you and go to the treasure?"

"My presence or absence doesn't change matters for you, can't you see? You can still overpower them." As an afterthought, Llewellyn added, "Of course, my presence requires your paying me my twenty-five percent."

"Twenty!" corrected Indio.

"Oh, yes, I had forgotten."

Indio strutted around for a moment, then agreed to the plan. "This had better work! I go against my better judgment. But you have convinced me."

He handed Llewellyn the key with the two stones.

"Good luck, partner."

Taking the key, Llewellyn said, "Good luck to you. Follow me, but keep your distance. If they should spot any of you, our odds of surviving this adventure will be minimized—if not obliterated in totality—especially the odds related to yours truly."

With those words, he marched away. Indio's men followed, trying to figure out what the Loquacious One had just said.

*****

"Who goes there?" called an unfriendly voice.

"It is Llewellyn, returned to you, don't you see, as promised!"

"So it is!" From high in a tree dropped the halfling, Osco. His cheek scar was more hideous than Llewellyn had remembered. "Follow me. The others await you."

In a few moments, the pair marched into the clearing where the Buckleswashers had pitched camp. They were sitting around a fire, identical in dress and habitat and mood to the halflings he had just left. They stood as Osco and Llewellyn approached.

"So, you've come back," Bungobar Talltankard exclaimed. "It's a damned good thing you have."

"Indeed," agreed Dimvel Stoutkeg. "For if you had not returned/ Your effigy we would have burned/ And then this burning blazing fire/ Would've been your actual funeral pyre."

"Enough singing, already!" Carthax Nayusiyim, the gnome of the group, yelled. "You and those songs! You'll drive me mad!"

Insulted, Dimvel responded, "You are mad! And an ugly little gnome, besides!"

Carthax reached for his rod of smiting, but Talltankard intervened. "Enough! We've no time for this bickering. We're all on edge because this ever-speaking bargainer has kept us waiting."

"Yes, but I have returned, don't you know," Llewellyn said. "And, most remarkably, with the key."

The six Buckleswashers drew closer to Llewellyn.

"Give it to us," demanded Carthax.

"Not so fast, my overly zealous compatriots," countered Llewellyn. "I want to reiterate our agreement, forged at our last meeting."

One of the two female Buckleswashers spoke up. "We agreed to nothing except to let you live."

"You forget, dear lady, that..."

Talltankard drew his knife. "My wife, Lyratha, forgets nothing!"

"But when I was last here ..."

The other female Buckleswasher added her words: "Relax, Nervous One! We shall give you a few trinkets and send you on your way."

Llewellyn thought better of pushing the matter too far. "That will be fine. That is all I ask. Except for one other thing, I must say."

"And that is what?" Osco asked.

"May I have the stones from the key after you take the treasure from the chest?"

"The jade stones?" enquired the gnome, laughing. "They are practically worthless in the whole Shining South. You are an idiot to want them."

"Yes, I suppose," Llewellyn said. "But the woman I love—the most beautiful woman I have seen in any kingdom—has a great fondness for jade. Surely, I do not ask much."

"Agreed," Talltankard said. "I suppose you should have something. Now let me have the key."

Llewellyn nervously handed it to him. But a bit of his anxiety faded when the jade stone was placed in the key. It fit perfectly, and the whole company of Buckleswashers grinned.

*****

Osco and Talltankard dragged the two-foot high by two-foot wide chest from the mouth of the cave into the fading sunlight. The rest of the company watched, as did Llewellyn, but every few seconds he looked around the

perimeter of the area. He prayed Indio's folk were ready.

Talltankard turned the key, and smoke seeped out of the chest. Then Osco pulled open the lid and revealed the myriad jewels and gold it contained.

While the company stared at it, stunned, Llewellyn asked, "I do so hate to ask you, since you are all so very busy, but may I have the stones, as you promised?"

Talltankard removed the key and tossed it to Llewellyn, who caught it.

"But that's all you get, vagabond!" Carthax, the gnome, said sourly. "Be on your way!"

Stoutkeg broke into a song: "We're richer than we ever thought/ Just reward for battles fought."

But, suddenly, the voice of Indio the Black answered with its own song: "But don't expect to keep that treasure/ For taking it shall be our pleasure."

Indio's band, who slightly outnumbered their opponents, attacked the Buckleswashers. In minutes, all were locked in combat. For a brief moment, Indio stood free of opposition, and Llewellyn approached him.

"Don't forget. Twenty percent."

Indio stared at him coldly. "You've served your purpose, scavenger. Get out of my sight before I cut off twenty percent of your head!"

Llewellyn backed into the brush, away from Indio and the rest. Carefully, he removed the three jade stones from the key and put it in his leather sack.

"There are a few things Zalathorn told me that I have kept to myself. Vagabond, am I? Scavenger, you call me? No! Try victor!"

Pairs and trios of battling halflings (and a gnome) spread out into the woods, up the mountain, and far into the cave. Here and there, a body lay stunned, unconscious, or worse. But more importantly to Llewellyn, the treasure was left unguarded.

Llewellyn ran to the chest, depleted it of as much of its contents as his improvised sack would hold—which was almost all—and, seeing that the way east toward the Halar Hills was safe and free of otherwise occupied halflings (and a gnome), he ran as quickly as his feet

would cany him.

Then, suddenly, he heard Talltankard's voice. "The vagabond! He has cheated us all!"

Llewellyn's heart beat faster, for he knew it would not be long before the halflings (and a gnome) would catch up to him. The sack was growing heavier, and it was slowing him down.

He took the jade stones and placed them in the three forged holes in the silver amulet he had acquired from Indio. And the moment the third stone was secured in the amulet, he felt himself leaving the ground, elevating, ascending, flying. Flying!

No, Llewellyn realized, not flying, but moving, or, more precisely, being moved.

Then, just as suddenly as the sensation had begun, it ended.

Zalathorn's amulet had proven to be as invaluable as Llewellyn knew it would. As the wizard had informed him, when the same person had possession of both the key and the amulet—with the jade stones in place in the latter— their bearer would be returned, together with his or her possessions, to his or her place of birth.

And, indeed, the Talkative One was home in the town of Klint, safe from both bands of adventurers and much richer than he had ever been. He looked around and sighed, relishing the safety and comfort he felt.

Llewellyn sensed that the wizard, too, must be amused. After all, it was Zalathorn himself who had helped him. It was Zalathorn who had "informed" him of the amulet that was originally part of the treasure. And it was he who revealed to him that one of the stones and the amulet were now in the possession of a band of halflings led by one who had the arrogance and presumption to call himself Indio the Black.

He doubted that Indio the Black or the Buckleswashers were amused, though, and vowed to steer clear of them for the rest of his days.

Indeed, he thought, a most excellent vow.

TOO FAMILIAR

David Cook

"It's extraordinarily complicated, you see ... ?"

The wineglasses clinked as the wisp-bearded enchanter rearranged the drinks on the cluttered table, all the while dragging out the 'see' in his thick Ankhapurian accent. Like a swarm of midge flies, the assembled alchemists, prestidigitators, conjurers, thaumaturges, and wonderworkers—courtiers all—swarmed around him and listened. Their professional antennae quivered for the slightest hint of unfounded theorizing.

Well aware of it, the graybeard—such beard as he had—continued with the unfazed confidence of a high master educating coarse apprentices. Fingers fluttering, he allowed five droplets of carmine wine into the honey-yellow mead before him. "A taste of aqua vitae—no more!—that's been distilled by the flame of a silver burner and added to the flux. Once cooled, I stirred in"— and here he added three pinches from the salt cellar—"a measure of powdered dragonelle scale, and the whole solution precipitated—"

"Preposterous!" croaked a frog-faced Calimshite, alchemist to the recently arrived consular of Calimport. "Scale as a precipitate? Ludicrous! You might as well

have used gravel for all of scale's suitability as a precipitate. Your whole theory's unsound!"

The blunt attack set the onlookers to buzzing, so much so that the proprietous and meekly disposed wizards of the swarm recoiled in pinch-faced distaste only to collide with those who surged forward at the first hint of the senior enchanter's hypothesizing weakness.

Only the challenger's basso voice rose above the polite cacophony that filled the royal salon. Fully aware, he pressed his assault with apparent obliviousness. "Undoubtedly it was another reaction—perhaps some containment in the powder... ."

The Calimshite's thrust was not lost on the Ankha-purian, but the older man guarded against the sting with the shield of dignity. "My powders were pure. I will gladly give you some if what you brought from Calimshan will not react." Wiping his damp fingers on a cloth, he coolly swatted back at this annoying fly.

"Good wit" and "Fine touch" hummed his supporters in the crowd.

"Scale never precipitates! Even apprentices know that," fumed the alchemist in his bubbling deep voice. He waggled a fat, pale finger across the table at the other, his stung pride, emboldened by drink, making him undiplomatically firm. He sputtered for words and finally blurted, "Why—ask your royal magister, if you doubt me!"

A chill swept the assembled collegium to a silence broken only by the tremolo titter of impudent apprentices from the back benches of the knot. The rest fingered their goblets and took great interest in their wine (forgotten till that point for the heat of the debate) while struggling to make their just-gay faces as bland as coal. In most cases, it only made them the more uncomfortably conspicuous, until they resembled no more than a line of hungry monkeys caught with the food.

Only the graybeard seemed unperturbed, arrogantly confident of his station. With a knowing smirk, he turned the baffled Calimshite's gaze toward the adjacent table— an island from their company. A lone woman, overladen

in finery ill-suited to her age or itself, stared numbly at the air—or perhaps at the half-empty bottle before her.

"Our royal magister," the enchanter sneered in an intentionally loud whisper. "An adventuress—nothing but a hedge wizard. Never properly schooled at all." The last he added with overemphasis. "And fond of her drink."

At her table, Brown Maeve—Magister to His Royal Highness King Janol I (aka, Pinch), the Lich-Slayer, the Morninglord Blessed—knew what was said even before it was finished . . . even now, in her cups. The collegium's contempt was hardly a secret. She had heard the words and seen the smirks all before: hedge wizard, upstart, rogue's whore—adventuress! Not a true wizard in any case—no scholarly talent, no proper training, wouldn't even know an alembic from a crucible. Worse still, there was no denying most of it. A prestidigitous courtier she was not.

It didn't make their words right, though. They were a pack of poxy charlatans to lay their airs upon her. She'd done more than the lot of them, including helping Pinch lay down the lich Manferic, and it weren't their place to look down to her.

The smugness of their lot spoilt her wine, and so she figured they'd earned a little present of her own making. She could research too, as they'd soon remember. It was just a simple spell, nothing like their fine studies after the philosopher's stone or any of that, but Maeve kept it handy for bestowing on arrogant asses.

With a wicked good cheer, the royal magister pushed aside her glass, rose majestically, and managed to trundle like an old cart toward the salon doors. As she lumbered past the wizard-thick table, that hypocritical lot fell into a hushed silence, as if they had been discussing the weather, Maeve nodded, smiled, with excessive politeness greeted them all by name, and serenely extended her hand to the worst offenders to her dignity. As each took up her hand, a faint warmth flowed from her fingers, and Maeve's smile grew and grew until she was beaming with genuine satisfaction.

"Good morrow, and may the dawn bring you new dis-

coveries," at last she said, disengaging herself from their group. Oh, they'd have discoveries, all right. She could scarce keep from hooting it out loud. There was no forgetting when you broke out with sores overnight—big ugly ones that were sure to put off wives and lovers. "Old drunk, am I?" She chuckled as she parted their company. Her gleeful echoes joined her as she wandered down the hall toward her own apartments.

*****

Fiddlenose, sitting in the shade of the big fern that grew just in back of Goodman Uesto's granary, yawned a yawn that for his wee size threatened to transform the whole of his face into a single pit of pink throat ringed by fine white teeth. He could veritably swallow another brownie half his size—as if brownies were inclined to go around swallowing up their own kind. He was bored, and the big yawn was just one way he had to show it. As if part of a flowing wave, the yawn descended into a sour pucker of pinched irritability.

Where was that baleful cat?

Fiddlenose the brownie was tired of wasting his morning like a dull huntsman squatting in his blind. This was supposed to be fun—a prank and revenge on old farmer Uesto's calico torn. The twice-, no, thrice-cursed beast was the spawn of night terrors, the very hellion of farm cats, who managed to ruin all good, honest Fiddlenose's peace. Every night it howled, prowled, hissed, and spat till there wasn't a hope of either rest or joy for a proper house brownie. Too many times, it had smelled him out just as he was creeping indoors for a taste of grog and jam, or scared him out of his haymount nest as it went springing after the barn rats. Poor, suffering Fiddlenose couldn't stand it anymore. With the proper logic of an irate brownie, he had devised a revenge that was all out of proportion to the crime.

Only that cursed cat wasn't cooperating. He'd waited all morning with his twisted vines and stink-plant bladder, and still that feline monster hadn't showed. The shade

under the fern was thick and stale, and Fiddlenose's eyes were steadily drooping into nap time.

Elsewhere, in a dingy ordinary in the meanest ward of Ankhapur, Will o' Horse-Shank, brownie by blood, opportunist by breeding, was in a sulk.

Fate's against me, he railed—venting in his own mind so no others could hear him. Two nights before, he was certain this morning he'd be in silk breeches and drinking firewine. It was sure he was a made man, and all by the wit of Mask.

This morning, though, he perched on a rickety old bench in Corlis's wineshop, still wearing the tattered hose he'd stolen from a child's laundry. Clutched like a great outlander drinking horn in his tiny hands was a battered pewter mug, half-filled with the cheapest sack old Corlis could pour—a pretty mean drink. Still, with no more than a ha' copper left in his purse, it was already more than Shank could afford. The brownie was not much heavier than a fat wharf-rat and barely up to a small man's shin, and the drink was already making good progress on his wee wits in these morning hours.

For the twentieth time, or at least as many times as it took to drink half the mug, Shank bemoaned the vile spin of Tymora's wheel that had reduced him to this treacherous state. For a week, he'd cozened an outlander merchant with a tale of dishonest captains, wreckers, smuggled goods, and a galley named Swiftoar, foxing the fool into letting Shank play the broker for the imaginary cargo. All it needed was another day, and the coney would have passed all his coin into Shank's hands and—heigh-ho!—that would have been the last of this little brownie!

But did the game play that way? No—the greedy fool had to talk around about his coming good fortune and that let out the truth. There was no captain, no Swiftoar, no cargo and, most of all, no coin for Shank to spirit off. Instead, Shank got curses and blows when he came to close the game—and all unjustly of course. It would have

taught the outlander a proper lesson if Shank had made off with his cash.

He moaned it all again, even though there was no use in it, and swigged down another gulp of sour brew. The taste reminded him of the empty jingle in his purse. Corlis would be wanting coin for the drink, and Shank didn't have any. What he needed right now was for a quick and wealthy mark to walk through the door, something not very likely at this squalid ordinary.

*****

"Too much joy or too much drink? Or a little of both?" a chipper, thin voice probed with just a touch of peevishness at having missed the fun.

Maeve stopped in the marbled hall, caught unawares by the stealth of her interrogator. Stealth wasn't that hard, considering the shadowed gloom between the pillars and the fact that the voice came up from somewhere around the height of her waist.

A halfling, fine-dressed in the gaudiest work the court tailor could tolerate, was suddenly beside the wizard, materializing seemingly out of nowhere. His garb was a garish mismatch—harlequin hose gartered with red silk and a rose and teal velvet damask doublet of intricate pattern, trimmed with more lace than a banquet table. It screamed of a soul utterly blind to taste . . . until one noticed that the blindness was actual. The little fellow's eyes were covered by a thick band of black cloth, and he clutched a short cane

Maeve was like to have leapt up in surprise before she realized it was only Sprite-Heels—or rather the Honorable Lord of the Watch Sir Sprite-Heels the Clever. (King Pinch's reward for loyal service was to put his fellow rogue in command of the city guard.) The knave had crept up on her yet again. For the years that she'd known him, the wizard was still not accustomed to the halfling's cat-footed ways. Blinded only twelve-months before, the half-ling still got himself about with surprising silence and ease.

Td say," Sprite drawled as he tipped his head to hear her echoes, "that's your poxing laugh—the one you make after you've just shook hands with some popinjay. You wouldn't be up to old tricks now, would you, Maeve? What would our King Pinch say if he heard his old gang was laying curses on his subjects?"

"He'd probably say I had my cause—and you would, too," Maeve sniffed back. "They got what they had coming."

"Don't they all!" The tap of Sprite's cane hurried to keep pace with her as the halfling fell in alongside. "Them wizards again?"

"Yes—them wizards." Maeve's face flared up redder than her usual cheery drunk-red. She hustled down the hall, a tornado of indignation. "They had no right saying all those things—not after all I've done for Ankhapur. Not a one of them there was ready to fight Manferic or do any of those things. / did and they weren't mocking me then. A pox is only the least of what that lot deserves."

"Of course, you're right, Maeve," the halfling said with a cynicism that masked his genuine sympathy. "Still, now, you go poxing every one of them, and people are bound to start asking about it. You could get 'em believing there's a plague here." The click of the cane's metal ferrule on the slippery-smooth stone of the floor set Sprite's words to a lively cadence.

"Ill pox every whoreson one of them."

"Maybe me and Pinch ought to go into the cure-all business." Not all that often did she latch on to an idea so fierce, but when Maeve did, Sprite knew there'd be sparks and smoke before it ended. "What'll Pinch say, Maeve?"

"A pox on our King Pinch, too!"

"Might be interesting," Sprite smirked.

They walked a bit farther. Their conversation had run out, lingering on the image of their lord—as much as they'd admit he was—covered with foul sores. It was morbidly amusing, but they both knew neither could bring it to pass.

"Drink?" With uncanny sense, Sprite tapped down a

side hall toward his rooms. "~-

"Why not?" Maeve agreed, resolved to be damned and determined even if it was almost dawn. There was always time for another drink.

With barely a fumble, Sprite undid the latch to his apartment and ushered her into the darkness beyond.

It was a full bottle (or two, since neither was keeping count) later when the wizard and halfling had come back to the question of respect

"They got no right," Maeve moaned for the several hundredth time, perhaps more so to Sprite's ears. She sloshed about her goblet, splattering drops over the antique table, a table that had been carved of fine bronzewood in some distant village of Chult and trekked the vast distance here no doubt on the back of some exotic beast. The morning sun, for the day was well up, glistened in the golden drops

"Maeve, what you need is one of those—oh—rats, beasties," the halfling suggested weakly. He raised his sagging head from the table, where he'd only been 'just resting" while the wizard poured more drinks. Though he couldn't see it, the sloshing sound of yet another round of poured wine rendered him immensely pale.

"Rats?"

Sprite tried to nod, but that only made him feel greener. "Rats—you know, rats, owls, frogs—them little pets wizards get."

"Familursh," she slurred, and gulped down more wine.

"That's right. All them high-ups got 'em. You should have one too, Maeve."

"A familiar?" The wizard rolled the words around like a fine drink, considering the idea. "It'd have to be a right pretty one. No toads."

"No toads," the halfling mumbled.

"I got me a scroll somewhere." Maeve was now musing, working out the deed in her head as if she were planning a foist of her own. Sprite sat back with bleary satisfaction and proceeded to topple right out of his chair.

Passed out drunk, the halfling was in no way able to hear (and certainly in no way able to see) Maeve trundle

out of the palace and into the morning light. She blinked like an owly fish caught in the overbright shallows. It had been some considerable time since she'd seen a morning; an early hour, anything before noon, was an exceptional moment. Nonetheless, she was determined to endure this grotesque hardship to realize her goal.

Thus determined, Maeve set out for the comfort of Ankhapur's grimy waterfront. It was the city's lowest of the low quarters, despised by the honest folk who nonetheless crept there every night to savor its taverns, flops, and festhalls. The waterfront stews were gray and small and pretended not to exist, letting their customers imagine they had privacy and discretion, though in truth little transpired that wasn't spread to someone's ears. The naive found themselves compromised, the gullible blackmailed, and it took a native, not just to Ankhapur but to the waterfront itself, to have any hope of keeping one's business to oneself. It was just the kind of place Maeve wanted, her true home.

Though she'd traveled here from far lands, she'd lived most her life in such surroundings. Every town that wanted to be of consequence had its version of the Ankha-purian waterfront. A town could never be a city without one, its character incomplete without this pocked and festering side of its urban body. More than any other monument, statue, palace, or memorial, such districts revealed the hidden souls of the city founders, the dark and secret selves of respected ancestors.

It was far better for her to work in such surroundings. The royal laboratories, territory hers by title, were too public for this work. Nothing she might try there would pass unnoticed, and with the real chance that she might get it wrong, the woman did not want to risk such open humiliation. This task was better done in some forgotten room, among her own kind, where she could do her work in peace. Among the stews, she might raise a few curious eyebrows, but folks there had the sense to give a wizard wide berth for fear they'd wind up as frogs or worse.

As for the stench, the thugs, the blackmailers and loose women, Maeve didn't mind. She was boozily confident she

could slide back in, even though her street sense was somewhat out of practice after a year of palace life. Indeed, the doubt that she might not know Ankhapur's cheats and black ways as well as she could never entered her mind.

Clutching an ungainly bag of powders, devices, and bottles, she ignored the looks of the festhall girls going home in the dawn light, the hungry stares of hungover drunks as they staggered themselves out of the mud where they'd fallen, and the curious thronging of urchins who acted far more innocent than they ever had been. She wound her way through the alleys and lanes leading to a wineshop she knew, one where the owner, Corlis, would be discreet and the company few. Corlis had rooms and didn't care what happened in them as long as it was quiet and the shiny nobles were slid across the scarred counter in advance.

*   *   *   *   #

Shank, sitting on the edge of the cold hearth, his little legs dangling over the low drop of stone, held his oversized mug close to his face from the first moment the door creaked open. Customers at this morning hour were unusual and therefore naturally of interest. Peering over the rim of his stein, only his eyes visible, Shank watched as a woman, frowzy and old, tottered into the commons. She juggled a bulging bag that threatened to squirt its contents out with every shift of her ample body. As entrances went, the woman's was unpromising, so Shank watched her with more curiosity than cunning.

It was the clink of coin on the landlord's table that caught his full attention. His little ears wiggled their sharp points with the slap of each piece the woman handed over. One, two, three—it was all far too much for anything in this slopshop. There was a lot more than room and board being bought here, and whatever it was, Shank wanted to know. As he gulped down one last hit of wine, he carefully sidled into the cool shadows of the cracked mantelpiece.

*    *    *    *    *

With a grumpy start, Fiddlenose woke to the screech of a cat yowl. He sprang to his feet, rustling the fronds of the shading fern. The beast was afoot, and he'd fallen asleep in the morning heat! Cursing furiously to himself with all his considerable store of colorful invective, he dived for the rapidly unspooling vines that had been coiled at his feet. The trap was sprung, and judging from the yowls, he'd snared the hellcat beast!

He grabbed the vine and tried to dig in his heels as the mighty tomcat heaved against the noose. Scrambling, he barely kept balance against the pull, losing ground with every jerk. His feet grew nearer the edge of the shade, and within moments he'd be hauled into the open, where farmer Uesto would discover him—and all because of that cursed torn!

Fiddlenose twisted about, slipped the vine over his shoulder, and valiantly heaved forward, dragging—footstep by tiny footstep—the noosed tomcat closer to the sapling at the edge of the grove. Sweating and straining, he finally reached close enough to loop his little slack around the springy trunk. Quick went the knots, and then it was done. Fiddlenose had triumphed! The hellcat was his!

Exhausted and satisfied, he collapsed against the trunk and waited for Uesto's calico torn to give up before he started the next step of his oh-so-cunning plan.

*****

Three nobles, Maeve mused to herself. It was all far too much, but she was feeling generous. Why not? It wasn't her money. Thanks to Pinch, all her needs came from the royal treasury, which in turn came from the people. She didn't feel like haggling with old Corlis, who would have gotten the best of her anyway, and so her three nobles and a promise of two more assured her of the privacy she wanted. Thus, overconfidently oblivious to the effect her entrance had made, Maeve paraded up the rickety stairs

to the room she'd bought.

As she reached the top of the stairs, a small figure behind her detached himself from the gloom of the mantel and slid along the edge of the commons. Quick and silent, Shank darted in front of the counter, just beneath the gaze of watchful Corlis. For his coins, the old landlord was doing his best to be watchful, to make sure no one disturbed his generous benefactor, but the old man's eyes were no match for Shank's cunning stealth. Quick as a dart, he was in the dusty gloom of the stairway, nimbly skipping over the squeaky treads. In the hall above, it was no hard matter to guess where his mark had gone. The brownie simply chose the biggest of all possible rooms.

Thus, he found the door that had to be Maeve's (or so he guessed by the clanking and puttering from the other side). There was a transom open at the top, in a vain attempt to let some air flow through the building. Nimble, even with as much drink as he'd had, he had little trouble squirreling himself up the flimsy jamb. His tiny hands and feet found holds no human could ever have hoped to use, and in a mere moment, the brownie was carefully wedged in the gap between the door and the splintery boards of the ceiling.

Oblivious to the dark, bright eyes watching her, Maeve was already about her work. The old scroll she had was faded and grease-stained—she vaguely recollected wrapping a roasted hen in it one night—and she could only hope the instructions and the words were still legible. It wasn't like the scrolls she was used to, where all that was needed was to utter the twisted words on the page. This one required procedures and processes to bring it to fruition. Deciphering the parchment as best she could, the wizard set out the powders, the candles, and all the paraphernalia needed to cast the summoning.

To the process, Maeve added a bottle of wine, setting it prominently on a table in the center of the pattern. She wanted a special familiar, by damn, not just any frog or rat, and figured, in her own way, that a little extra enticement to the spell couldn't possibly hurt. She added

another bottle, too, just for herself, a strengthening tonic for what she was certain would be an arduous process. The cork already pulled, she sampled heavily as the work went on and mumbled under her breath a running monologue of grievances and revenge.

From his post, Shank quickly got over his first dose of surprise. When he'd scampered up the jamb, he'd imagined what lay on the other side. This was not it. The old woman was certainly not making preparations for any lover's rendezvous, any easy material for blackmail. He'd had it all figured—she was some wealthy crone meeting her gentleman. (By his logic, she had to be wealthy, since she wasn't going to gain suitors by her looks.) He'd hoped to spy, learn some names, and turn the whole day into a nice profit.

Unfortunately, she clearly wasn't making arrangements for a tryst. She was preparing to do magic. Although disappointed that his ambitions were scotched, Shank watched with fascination. Whatever she was doing, she didn't want people knowing, so that still meant the possibility of profit for little Will o' Horse-Shank. She might be casting a curse on someone—that could bring him money. If she were a vile priestess plotting evil or a treasonous wizard, there might be reward for turning her in. Folks said King Pinch could be a generous man when it suited him. Of course, she might be one of them wild mages about to try something risky. Shank didn't feel so comfortable about that prospect. As a brownie, though, one of the things Shank had to be thankful for was an innate understanding of the mystical world. As he watched, he slowly gathered the clues he needed to see what she was about: the summoning of a familiar.

Ah, yes. The brownie's cunning little mind hatched a perfectly suitable plot. Suddenly he saw for himself a life of ease—wine, breads, new clothes and cheese, things he so dearly loved. He watched her go through the twists and turns, light the candles, and utter the words. He waited and poised himself for the right moment. If she wanted a familiar, by the gods, he'd make sure she got one.

Maeve swallowed another gulp of wine and pressed on with the reading of the scroll. The damned spell was tortuously hard, more complicated and twisted than it looked at the start. She forced her way through a few more syllables and arcane passes before reaching again for the wine to strengthen herself. She was almost done and was pretty sure she'd gotten it right. It was so hard to tell with these things, especially with it being so early in the morning and all.

Finally, she spoke the last syllables, and just in time, too, for her candles were almost burnt to nubs and her wine was nearly gone. She was sweaty from the effort even though the room was not particularly hot. As the last echoes rang out, Maeve stood back and waited.

Nothing happened.

There was no puff of smoke, no creature appearing out of thin air. Instead, she stood alone in the center of a dingy room, at the heart of a badly drawn chalk outline— circles had never been her strength—listening to a burst of boisterous singing from downstairs and waiting for something, anything, to happen.

All at once, there was a scrabbling thump and clump behind her, and Maeve whirled to face the door. There, at the edge of the circle, stood a little man with pointed ears and a pointy chin, improbably dressed in tattered children's clothes. With a flamboyant wave and a grand bow, the brownie—for it was a brownie much to Maeve's great joy—grandly announced, "The Mighty Will o' Horse-Shank, familiar to your arcane majesty, stands at your service!"

Maeve beamed with joy. The spell had worked!

*****

The old torn was quiet, resigned to its fate. Now was the time, Fiddlenose knew, to start the next step of his plan. Rousing from his seat, he pushed aside the brush that hid the stink-plant sac he'd carefully gathered. Now

he'd teach that torn to ruin his nights.

As he gathered the gelatinous pod, the air around him began to strangely hum. It was quiet and soft, but the old torn heard it too and began to yowl once more, though this time its voice was filled with fear. Something was happening, something that made Fiddlenose's skin itch. Worse still, he was suddenly keen on a strange urge—an urge to be with someone, someone far away and calling to him.

The hot air closed around him, thickening like bad porridge. The hum grew louder until it drowned out even the tomcat's shrill howls. As the entire world started to fade on Fiddlenose, the brownie, furious and confused, could only helplessly wonder, why do I want to serve someone I don't even know?

And then everything faded to nothing.

*****

"Cheese. I'd really like some cheese," her familiar loudly announced from his chair. His little feet dangled well above the floor, and he could barely reach the side table, but that didn't stop him from pouring himself another glass of palace wine. "Good cheese, not that mold old Car—I mean, not plain, ordinary human cheese. We familiars have delicate dispositions. I'm sure you wouldn't want to indispose your familiar, now would you, dear Maeve? I honestly believe that with a peck of cheese, I shall feel right again and be ready to do your bidding."

Maeve sighed. Somehow, this was just not working out as she'd thought it would. The way she understood it, a familiar was supposed to be at,your beck and call, but since Will had arrived he'd demanded wine, roast meat, the promise of new clothes, even gifts to the innkeeper in his name—and all before he could (and she could quote) 'Feel truly restored and ready to do her will.'

"I think you should be rested enough," she argued testily. "You're my familiar. I'd like you to demonstrate your powers."

Shank knew from her tone that he could not put off the

question any longer. The only problem was he hadn't a clue what sort of powers he was supposed to have or grant to her—even if he could.

"Powers? Such as?" he stalled.

Maeve screwed up her face, not expecting the question. She didn't know; she'd never had a familiar before. She racked her drink-fuddled memory for what little she knew on the whole subject.

"You should be able to hear my thoughts—obey my commands. That's one."

"Oh, that," Shank drawled as he tried to think of an explanation. "Well, that takes time. Uh-huh, that's it. We just met, and I'm very, very tense, so my mind is resisting your thoughts. I'm sure it will get better, especially if you've got any more of this wine." He poked at the now-empty bottle on the table and looked around the room significantly. "I'm sure it would help immensely."

Maeve sighed again, but there was no arguing, so she thrust her head out the door and hailed for Corlis to bring more wine. Nobody'd warned her that familiars were so demanding. "Senses, too," she said, coming back in. "I should have keener senses, like hearing and all."

Shank stalled by looking to the ceiling. This scam was starting to get more complicated. It was about time to scupper off. "Don't you feel sharper?" he finally asked, playing on her vanity. "You look positively prime and alert. It's very impressive. I don't think anybody could get anything by you—"

Before he could say more, the temperature in the room abruptly rose to a sweltering degree. The air was filled with the prickly scent of something magical. There was a loud pop, and with it Maeve stumbled back in slack-jawed surprise while Shank fumbled the wineglass from his grip, spilling Ankhapur's finest red all over the floor.

In the center of the room, looking almost as surprised and certainly as unhappy, was another brownie, dressed in a little jerkin of leaves and grass. Sticks and fern fronds jutted from the wild mass of his hair. Clutched in his hands was a green, floppy pod that he fumbled and almost dropped. Recovering it, he tucked it under his arm

and, with an irritated grimace, turned to Maeve and made an awkward, forced bow. "I am Fiddlenose and am—at your service, mighty mage." The last was said through firmly clenched teeth, as though the words were wrenched from the very core of his being.

Maeve goggled. Two brownies! By the gods. She'd summoned two brownies!

Shank suddenly eyed the door and the window, trying to decide which he could get out first. It was time for young Shank to get scarce.

Fiddlenose found himself compelled to serve, his mind suddenly filled with strange thoughts that went against his very nature. What was he doing here, and why did he say that?

As she looked from Shank to Fiddlenose and Fiddlenose to Shank, it slowly dawned on Maeve through the drink and the length of the day. She hadn't summoned two familiars, two brownies to serve her. One was a fake, and one was real.

She pointed at the newcomer. "You, Fiddlenose. You say you're here to serve me?"

"Yes, mistress," the brownie grunted.

Shank eased out of his chair.

"No cheese, no wine, no fine clothes?"

Shank tiptoed across the uncarpeted floor, hoping to reach the open window.

"Only if it pleases you," was the dutifully miserable reply.

"And you—" Maeve turned to Shank's now empty chair.

That was the imposter's cue. He broke into a run, hoping to scramble over the towering sill before she could catch him. It had been fun, but now it was time to go.

The words were uttered, and the ray crackled from Maeve's fingertips before Shank had loped two paces.

The magical beam struck him full in the back and spread like ticklish fire down every nerve of his limbs. For a moment, he plunged forward, his body flailing like that of a decapitated hen, and then he fell to the floor in a loose puddle—the impossible way a dead man falls when all his muscles surrender life and control.

He hadn't, at least, surrendered life, but control . . . ? Paralyzed. Through a sideways-canted view, he saw Maeve smiling with hard satisfaction. Perhaps still having life was not a good thing after all. If he could've closed his eyes, he'd have closed them and prayed to every god and goddess he knew for mercy.

Sure that Shank wasn't faking, Maeve turned back to her true familiar. She did feel keener and sharper, there was no doubt. A little of the wooziness was gone from her mind. She liked it; it was good. What other mage in Ankhapur could boast a brownie as her familiar?

A sniffled, "Mistress?" brought her attention back to the woodland sprite in front of her. She looked at Fid-dlenose—her brownie—and saw how sad and angry he was. "Mistress, what do you want of me?"

"You're my familiar?"

"Yes . . . mistress." Again the words were forced.

"Where do you come from?"

"Goodman Uesto's farm, near Woodrock." The question brightened the little face, but the joy quickly passed as the brownie thought of the sights he would never see again. "Will you let me go now?"

Maeve wasn't sure what to say. "Did you . .. want to be a familiar. I mean, how did I get you?"

Fiddlenose looked uncomfortably at the strange surroundings. He had never been in a human place like this before. Old Uesto's farm was just a cabin on the edge of the woods, nothing like this. "I wasn't asked. There was just a big buzz and—pop!—I was here."

The implication of it made Maeve weak, so unsettled that she took a chair, looked at the empty wine bottle, and wished she had some right now. She really wanted a familiar, a special, wonderful familiar, but this was like kidnapping—and worse. She'd snatched this poor brownie from its home and friends and was forcing it to serve against its will. It wasn't like getting a rat or frog at all.

She really wanted a familiar, and now look what had happened. What could she do?

On the floor, Shank was making gurgly noises not too different from those of a beached fish. The paralysis made

it hard for him to do more than slobber and sputter for rescue. The sound reminded Maeve of her victim, and a wicked look passed across her face. Suddenly Shank wished he could have been very, very still.

All at once clear-headed and firmly resolute, Maeve rose from her seat. "Fiddlenose," she announced with heartfelt relief, "I release you. Go home, brownie. I can't send you home the way you came, so it'll be an adventure or two getting back to your farm. Woodrock's a good week west of here, but if you follow the shore, you should make it all right. That's the best I can do."

The little wood sprite gaped in astonishment. "But what about you? I'm your familiar. Didn't you want one?"

Maeve shook her head, tossing her brown-gray hair. "You go. I'll find a solution to my problem. Go now, before I change my mind!"

The brownie was already making for the door. "Thank you, mistress," he said with heartfelt glee just before he ducked through the door.

With one gone, Maeve turned to the other. "Now, what should be done with you?" The question was pointless, and not just because Shank couldn't answer. The wizard already had plans.

"Perhaps, you don't know, but I'm the royal court wizard," Maeve continued, clearly relishing the look of panic in Shank's eyes. "That means my lord, King Pinch, could have you put away for a very, very long time. Or maybe just execute you as an example, dearie. Does that sound fair?"

The pupils grew wider.

"Or"—and for this she knelt down beside him—"you could be my familiar. Serve me, play the part, and you could have almost as much wine, cheese, and fine clothes as you'd like. Stick your tongue out if you think you'd like that instead."

Sweat matted Shank's hair, but he managed to poke his tongue through his parted teeth.

"Good." Maeve smiled, and then her face went hard. All the fine court manners she'd learned in a year dropped away as she spoke to him in her element. "Understand

this, Will o' Horse-Shank. Change your mind, scupper out on me, or play me for the coney again, and I'll see to it that Pinch scrags your scrawny neck from the leafless tree and leaves your bones for the dogs. Hide from me, and every sorcerer in the kingdom'll be scrying for you, every foin and cutpurse will be out to collect the bounty on your hide. You know I can do it, and you know I will. Understand?"

The tongue poked out again.

Maeve smiled and waved a hand over the paralyzed brownie. Sensation and order began to flow back into his limbs. "Then we have an understanding."

She picked up the empty wineglass and raised it in a mock toast while Shank stumbled to his feet. "Here's to getting me a very special familiar!"

RED AMBITION

Jean Rabe

Szass Tarn eased himself into a massive chair behind an ornate table covered with curled sheets of vellum and crystal vials filled with dark liquid. A thick candle stood in the middle of the clutter, its flame dancing in the musty air and casting a soft light across his grotesque features.

His pale, parchment-thin skin stretched taut across his high cheekbones, and his wispy hair, the color of cobwebs, spread unevenly atop his age-spotted scalp. His lower lip hung loose, as if there were no muscles to control it, and the fleshy part of his nose was gone, revealing twin cavities. The scarlet robes he wore fell in folds about his skeletal frame and spread like a pool of blood on the floor about his chair.

He absently swirled his index finger in a puddle of wax gathering on the table, letting the warm, oily liquid collect on his skin. He rolled the cooling blob between his thumb and middle finger until it hardened into a ball. Then he released the wax and watched it roll across the rosewood finish and come to rest near a decades-old scroll. The piercing points of white light that served as Szass Tarn's eyes stared at the parchment. It contained the last enchantment needed to turn his cherished apprentice into

a creature like himself—an undead sorcerer ... a lich. Of course, his apprentice would have to die before the spell could be invoked. Killing her would be no great matter, he decided. Bony fingers grasped the parchment and brought it close to his still heart.

Szass Tarn's mortal life had ended centuries ago on a Thayan battlefield a hundred miles north of his comfortable keep. But the magic coursing through him prevented him from passing beyond the land of the living. It bound him to the human realms in a rotting body that pulsed with an arcane power few would dare challenge. The lich considered himself the most formidable Red Wizard in Thay. A zulkir, he controlled the country's school of necromancy. His apprentice, Frodyne, was also a Red Wizard, one of an august council of sorcerers who ruled Thay through schemes, threats, and careful manipulation. Szass Tarn smiled thinly. None were more treacherous than he.

He listened intently. The soft footfalls in the hall were Frodyne's. He placed the scroll in a deep pocket and waited. One day soon he would bless her with immortality.

"Master?" Easing open the door, Frodyne stepped inside. She padded forward, the shiny fabric of her dark red robe dragging across the polished marble floor behind her. "Am I disturbing you?"

Szass Tarn gestured to a seat opposite him. Instead, the young woman's course took her to stand beside him. She quickly knelt, placed her delicate hands on his leg, and looked up into his pinpoint eyes. Her clean-shaven head was decorated with red and blue tattoos, fashionable for Thay, and her wide, midnight-black eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief. The corner of her thin lips tugged upward into a sly grin.

Szass Tarn had taken her as an apprentice several years ago. An amazingly quick study, Frodyne never hid her hunger for spells and knowledge, and she dutifully hung on his every word. The lich thought her loyal, or as loyal as anyone in Thay could be. As she grew in power through the years, he shared horrible designs with her— how to crush lesser wizards under the heels of his skeletal army, how to raise men from the grave, hdw to steal the

souls of the living. He recently confided in her that he was undead, showed her his true, rotting visage, and when she did not shrink from it, he shared with her his plans for dominating Thay. Frodyne had made it clear she wanted to be at his side—forever.

The lich stared at her unblemished, rosy face. Indeed, he thought, she is worthy of passing the centuries at my side. He reached a bony hand to her face and caressed her smooth cheek.

"What brings you here so late?" His deep voice echoed hauntingly in the room.

"I was at the market today, the slave pens," she began. "I was looking over the stock when I discovered a man asking about you and the goings-on in the keep."

The lich nodded for her to continue. "He was an unusual little man who wore only one tattoo: an odd-looking triangle filled with gray swirls."

"A worshiper of Leira," the lich mused.

"A priest of the goddess of deception and illusions, in fact," Frodyne added. "In any event, I followed him. When he was alone I cast a simple spell that put him under my control. I had to know why he was asking so many questions."

The lich's pinpoint eyes softened, and with his skeletal finger, he traced one of the tattoos on Frodyne's head. "And what did you learn?"

"Much, Master. Eventually. The priest had a strong will. But before he died he revealed he was worried about one of your armies, the one patrolling Delhumide. There is a ruin in that dead city that a few worshipers of Leira a~e particularly interested in. The priest believed that deep inside a crumbling temple rests a powerful relic. When your army passed nearby, he feared you had learned of the thing and had sent your army to retrieve it. But when your skeletons did not enter the temple, he was uncertain how much you knew. He came to the city asking about your plans and forces."

The lich gazed into Frodyne's eyes. "My skeletons were patrolling. Nothing more. But, tell me, Frodyne . . . why didn't the priest simply enter the temple and take the relic for himself?"

"I wondered that, too, Master." The young apprentice beamed. "I pressed him on the matter. He admitted that while he coveted the relic, he coveted his life more. It seems the Goddess of Liars has guardians and great magic protecting her prize."

The lich stood and drew Frodyne up with him. "And just what is this relic of Leira?"

"A crown. The priest said a great energy is harnessed in the crown's gems." Frodyne smiled thinly and stroked Szass Tarn's decaying chin. "And we shall share that crown and energy, just as I shared the priest's tale with you."

The lich stepped back and shook his head slowly. "I shall send my skeletal army into the heart of the temple and claim the relic as my own."

"Yours, Master?"

"Aye, Frodyne."

"But you would not know of its existence without me." She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. "This is treachery, Szass Tarn. I could have claimed the bauble for myself, with you none the wiser. But I chose to share the news with you."

"And in so doing, you chose to abandon your claim to it," the lich replied icily. "The relic will be mine alone. You have done well, my apprentice. I shall have another bauble to add to my hoard."

The comely apprentice strode indignantly to the door, then glanced over her shoulder at the lich. "But what of Leira, Szass Tarn? What if you anger the Patroness of Illusionists and Liars by breaching her temple and stealing something of hers?"

Szass Tarn laughed. "I have little regard for the goddess of treachery, dear Frodyne. Get some rest. I shall tell you in the morning what my skeletons find in Delhumide."

The lich listened to her footfalls retreat down the hall. Soon she would not need sleep. Or food. Soon she would need none of the things that made man weak, allowing her to one day sit at his side as he ruled all of Thay.

The lich sat straight in his chair and pushed Frodyne from his thoughts. He concentrated on his army of skele-

tons in Delhumide, stretching his mind across the miles until he made contact with his undead general and directed him to march to Leira's temple. The miles melted away beneath the soldiers' bony feet as they neared the ruined temple of Leira. In an untiring cadence, they approached the temple steps. Then Szass Tarn lost contact with them.

The lich cursed and cast himself upon the Thayan winds to fly to Delhumide. As he soared, his form changed. His skin took on a ruddy tint. His cheeks became puffy, and his body thickened to fill out the red silk robes that only moments before had hung on his frame in voluminous folds. His eyes became black, almost human, and his white hair grew thicker and longer, then darkened to match the color of the night sky. The lich added a thin mustache for effect. Few in Thay knew Szass Tarn was one of the dead. Outside the confines of his keep he assumed the image of a living man.

The ground passed below him in a blur, the darkness obscuring most of the terrain. But the lich didn't falter in his course. He knew the way to the dead city. He'd been born there.

It was near dawn when he reached the ruined temple. He descended to the rough ground and glared at the crumbling stonework. His eyes smoldered in the gloom and surveyed the carnage. He knew now why he'd lost contact with his army. Strewn about the shattered pillars were more than a hundred skeletal warriors. Their broken bones and crushed skulls gleamed faintly. Near them lay more dead—figures with tattered gray flesh and rotting clothes, things that stank of the grave. The lich knelt near a one-armed zombie and slowly turned the body over. It had little flesh left on its frame. Most of it had been burned away by fire. Szass Tarn ran his fingers through the grass around the corpse Not a blade was singed. Magical fire had killed the army, the lich realized, fire meant for undead.

The hunt for Leira's relic was now very costly. It would take many, many months and considerable effort to raise enough dead to replace these fallen soldiers. Szass Tarn stood, silently vowed retribution for the slaughter of his minions, and carefully picked his way toward the crumbling temple stairway. At the base of the steps, the lich spied a twitching form, an undead creature with pasty white flesh, hollow eyes, and protruding broken ribs. The ghoul, lone survivor of the lich's force, tried futilely to rise at the approach of its master.

"Speak to me," the lich commanded in a sonorous voice. "Tell me what happened here."

"Followed your orders," the ghoul rasped. "Tried to breach the temple. Tried to get what you wanted. But they stopped us."

"How many?"

"Three," the ghoul replied. "They wore the robes of Red Wizards."

Szass Tam growled deep in his throat and looked up the stairs. If only three had been able to conquer this force, they must be powerful. He took a last look at his beaten army and padded by the gasping ghoul to carefully select a path up the crumbling steps. Leira's temple lay in ruins like the rest of Delhumide. A once-great city, it was now populated by monsters and was laden with incredible traps—the remaining wards of the nobles and wizards who had once lived here. Creatures roamed freely across the countryside—goblins, darkenbeasts, trolls, and dragons, and they presented enough of a threat to keep the living away.

Szass Tarn searched for the magical energies that protected the fallen temple, and then he made his way around them to reach the comfort of the shadows inside. The damp coolness of the ruins reminded the lich of a tomb. This was his element. Focusing his eyes, he separated stonework from the darkness. He saw before him a crumbling old hallway that extended deep into the temple and sensed other presences within. He glided toward them.

Eventually the hallway ended, and the lich studied the walls, searching. Nothing. No moving stonework. He scrutinized the bricks by running his ringers over the cool surface to his left and right until he felt no resistance. The bricks before him were not real. Then he heard footfalls, soft and distant. The sound was regular, as of someone walking, and it was coming from far beneath him. He took a step forward and passed through the illusionary wall.

Beyond lay a damp stairway that led down into darkness. The lich cupped his hand and spoke a single word. A globe of light appeared in his palm and illuminated the stairwell. Along the walls and on each step were weathered sigils of various-sized triangles filled with swirling gray patterns—all symbols of Leira. The lich paused to appreciate them. He had little regard for the goddess, but thought the sigils had been rendered by someone with considerable skill.

Most Red Wizards in Thay worshiped one or more malign deities. At one time Szass Tarn had, too—but the need to worship some power that might grant eternal life had faded away with the years and with the onset of lich-dom. Szass Tarn still considered himself respectful of some of the powers, such as Cyric. But not Leira.

Szass Tarn was halfway down the steps when he felt a presence approaching. The minutes passed, and the undead zulkir's patience was finally rewarded when a pearl-white phantasm with the face of a beautiful woman formed in front of him. The lich pondered its appearance and decided the thing was nothing more than a hapless spirit tied to the temple.

"Trespasser," the spectre whispered in a soft, feminine voice. "Begone from the sacred place of Leira, she who is most powerful. Begone from the Lady of the Mists' temple, the place we are sworn to protect."

The lich stood his ground, eyeing the thing, and for an instant, it appeared the spirit was astonished he did not run. "I will leave when I am ready," the lich said flatly. He kept his voice low so his quarry deeper in the complex would not hear.

"You must go," the spirit repeated, its voice changing, becoming deeper and sultry. The visage was that of another woman. "This is not a place for those who do not believe. You

do not believe in our goddess. You wear no symbol of hers."

"I believe in myself," the lich replied evenly. "I believe in power."

"But not in Leira."

"No. I have no respect for the Lady of the Mists," the lich growled softly.

"Then your bones shall rot here," the spectre cursed in a new voice.

The lich stared at the creature. The undead now bore the image of a young man with a long nose, and the voice was strong and masculine. Large ghostly hands reached out and thrust into Szass Tarn's chest. The lich stood unmoving, unaffected by the spirit's attack.

"This cannot be! You should be dead!" the spirit shouted with the voice of an old woman. Indeed, the pearl-white form was now covered with wrinkles, and the transparent flesh sagged on her cheeks and jaw.

"I am already dead," the lich whispered in reply. "And you will bend to my will—whatever manner of undead you are." Szass Tarn's eyes once more became pinpoints of hot white light. They bore into the old woman's eyes and fixed the diaphanous being in place.

"Who are you?" Szass Tarn demanded. "What are you?"

"We are Leira's," the old woman replied. "We are the last of the priests who lived in this temple. When the city fell to the army of Mulhorand, we died. But so strong was our faith in the Lady of the Mists that our wills banded together in one form so we could serve Leira forever."

The lich's lips curled upward slowly. "It is your misfortune you stayed." His pinpoint eyes glowed brighter, and he concentrated on the ghostly form before him. The spirit "moaned in pain, the voice of a young man joining the old woman's.

"No!" the spirit cried in a chorus of voices. "Do not hurt us! Do not send us from the temple!"

"To the Nine Hells I will send you—to join the other priests of the Patroness of Liars," Szass Tarn threatened, "unless you serve me and cease your cacophonous whining."

"We serve only Leira," the spirit wailed even more loudly.

"Now serve a better master." The lich raised a fleshy finger and pointed it at the spectre's face. The visage of the young man had returned. A silver beam shot from the tip of Szass Tarn's finger and struck the spirit's head, sending the apparition flying backward several feet. The beam pulsed wildly while the spirit convulsed in agony.

"Who do you serve?" the lich persisted.

"Leira," the creature groaned in chorus.

Again the lich struck the creature with a silver beam. The ghostly image wavered and began to spread, as if it were being stretched on a torturer's rack. The spirit's arms and legs lengthened to the corners of the stairwell, and it became as insubstantial as mist.

"Who do you serve?"

"We serve you," the spirit finally gasped in its myriad voices.

Szass Tarn's eyes softened to a pale glow. He studied the spirit to make sure it was indeed under his control. The many minds he touched berated him, but they swore their loyalty. Smugly satisfied, Szass Tarn willed his human eyes to return.

"Tell me, priests," the lich began. "Were you this ineffectual in stopping the Red Wizards who came before me?"

"The ones below?" the spirit quipped. The creature's face was now that of a beautiful woman, the one the thing had displayed when Szass Tarn first encountered it.

"Yes. The ones below."

"They believe," the ghostly image stated. "They wear the holy symbol of Leira upon their shiny heads. All believers are welcome in this temple. All believers—and you."

"You let them pass freely because they tattooed symbols of Leira on their heads?" the lich queried. "You believed they worshiped your goddess because of a little paint?"

"Yes," the ghostly image answered. "Leira's temple is for Leira's own."

The lich looked past the creature and peered down the stairs. "You will come with me. You will show me the traps that litter the path before us. And you will show me the relic I seek."

Szass Tarn resumed his course down the stairway, the spectre at his side pointing out weathered mosaics of its goddess, expounding on the greatness of Leira, and gesturing toward magical wards on every step. The lich passed by the broken bodies of long-dead trespassers as he moved from one chamber to the next. He was so intent on finding the relic that he nearly passed over the only freshly killed corpse. The spectre pointed it out to him. The body of a red-robed man, no older than twenty, lay crumpled amid chunks of stone. The man, who wore the painted symbol of Leira on his head, sprawled with his limbs at odd angles. His eyes were wide with terror, and a thin line of blood still trickled from his mouth.

"He was with the other wizards," the spectre said in an old man's voice. "Pity he died so young. Though he wore the symbol of the Lady of the Mists and I let him pass, the guardian looked into his heart. His heart betrayed him as an unbeliever. The guardian struck him down."

"Guardian?"

"The Lady of the Mists' eternal servant," the spectre replied. "The guardian waits in the chamber beyond."

The lich peered into the black distance and started forward. The spirit of Leira's priests dutifully followed on his heels.

"Kill the thing!" Szass Tarn heard a deep male voice cry. The lich quickened his pace and entered a massive cavern lighted by luminous moss. He stopped and stared at the cavern's three occupants—Frodyne, a Red Wizard he didn't recognize, and a monstrous construct.

"What treachery is this?" the lich's voice boomed.

"Master!" Frodyne squealed. She was dressed in a soiled and torn red robe, and the triangle she had painted on her scalp was smeared with sweat. Her normally soft features were set in grim determination as she called for her companion to join the fight. The man stayed behind her, ignoring her coarse words, and stared at the great thing before them. Frodyne spread her fingers wide and unleashed a magical bolt of fire at the monstrosity.

Frodyne's foe stood at least thirty feet tall, its head nearly reaching the chamber's roof. The guardian was not

undead, but it was certainly not living. The lich eyed the thing from top to bottom. It had the torso of a man and the head of a goat. Its chest bore the symbol of a triangle filled with swirling mists. The thing possessed four eyes that were evenly spaced above the thick bridge of its metallic nose, and its mouth gaped open, exposing pointed teeth made of steel. Four arms as thick as tree trunks waved menacingly at the sides of its body and ended in six-fingered iron claws. Every inch of the creature was gray. The thing's massive legs ended in cloven hooves that created sparks when they stomped on the ground and rocked the cavern. The shockwaves made Frodyne and her companion scramble to stay on their feet.

"It seems you've made it angry, dear Frodyne," Szass Tarn said. "Just as you've angered me. You destroyed my army."

"I wanted the crown!" she said as she unleashed another bolt of lightning. "I learned about this temple and the relic, but you said the bauble would be yours. It should be mine!"

The lich watched her nimbly avoid a fist that slammed into the cavern floor where she had been standing.

"I'm sorry!" she yelled. "Help us, please. The crown will be yours. I swear!"

The lich folded his arms and surveyed the battle, not bothering to reply to her plea.

She scowled and brought up her fingers, touching the thumbs together and holding her open palms toward the guardian. She mumbled words Szass Tarn recognized as one of the first spells he'd taught her, and icy shards sprang from her hands. The shards flew true and imbedded themselves deep into the breast of the thing. But the attack proved ineffectual, the guardian oblivious. It pulled an arm back to swat her. Frodyne leapt to the side, and the guardian's hand found her companion instead. The sharp metal nails pulled the man's chest open. The wizard was dead before he hit the ground.

"Please, Master," Frodyne begged. "Help me. I'll do anything you ask."

"You destroyed my army," Szass Tarn spat. "Your soul

can rot here for all I care."

Frodyne raised her hands again and mumbled. A sparkling blue globe appeared in front of her. She blew at it, propelling it magically toward her ebon attacker. The globe impacted just above the thing's waist, popped, and squirted acid on the black metal. Crackling and sizzling filled the chamber, and the guardian bent its head to look at its melting stomach.

"You wield magic well, my sweet," the lich said icily.

"But I need your help to beat this thing!" she cried as she fumbled in the folds of her robe and withdrew a handful of green powder.

Szass Tarn slowly shook his head. "You stopped my skeletons all by yourself. You stopped my plans for having you rule Thay at my side. Surely you can stop this creature." His voice was gravelly and showed no hint of emotion.

Frodyne started tracing a symbol in the powder in the palm of her hand. The lich turned to watch the construct, which was somehow repairing its stomach. Before Szass Tarn's eyes, metal flowed like water to cover the melted section. In an instant, there was no evidence it had been damaged. It took a step toward Frodyne, its massive footfall rocking the cavern and causing her to spill the powder she had intended to use in another spell.

"It could kill her," the spectre at Szass Tarn's side said simply. This time it wore the face of the young man. "But she cannot kill it. You cannot kill it. It is Leira's guardian, and it will continue to repair itself until the end of time. It has looked into her heart and discovered she does not honor the black goddess. It cannot rest until she is dead."

"And can it see into my own heart?" the lich posed. "Or perhaps it cannot even see me because the shriveled organ in my chest does not beat."

Frodyne's scream cut off the spirit's reply. The guardian swatted her like an insect, and she flew across the cavern to land on her back. Her red robe was shredded, and blood oozed freely from gouges in her flesh. Her face was frozen in terror, but still she did not give up. The lich had taught her well. Frodyne withdrew a bit of pitch from the pocket

of her ruined garment. Placing it in her bloody palm, she raised her hand until it was in line with the guardian's four eyes. A black bolt of lightning shot forth from her fingers and struck the creature in the bridge of its nose. The guardian stumbled backward from the impact, but was not damaged.

Szass Tarn coaxed her. "Think, my lovely apprentice. Cast a spell that will keep it from reaching you. Buy yourself time."

She drew what was left of her robe about her and struggled to her feet. Words gushed rapidly from her mouth, and she pointed her index finger at the cavern floor. The stone beneath the guardian's cloven hooves wavered for a moment, shimmered in the meager light of the chamber, then turned to mud. But the guardian did not fall into the muck. Rather, the gray construct hovered above the great muddy patch, its hooves dangling inches above it in the musty air. Beneath the guardian, the mud hardened and cracked like a dry river bed.

"This cannot be!" Frodyne screamed. Then she turned to glance at her mentor.

Szass Tarn's hands glowed a faint blue, his long fingers pointed at the ebon guardian. An evil grin played slowly across his face as he returned Frodyne's disbelieving stare. He flicked his wrist, and the guardian floated forward and came to rest on a patch of rock near Frodyne.

"You! You kept it from becoming trapped!" she cried, as she twisted to the side to avoid another blow.

The lich nodded and thrust his hand into the air, mentally summoning an ancient parchment that lay in his tower. His fingers closed about the curled scroll as the guardian reached for Frodyne. Staring at his terrified apprentice, Szass Tarn carefully unrolled the parchment. "I promised you immortality, my dear, a reward for your loyalty. You shall have it."

The lich began to read the magical words, and the construct grabbed Frodyne about the waist. Szass Tarn read faster, while the construct lifted her until she was level with its four eyes. The lich finished the enchantment as the guardian squeezed the breath from her lungs and

dropped Frodyne's lifeless body like a child would discard a ruined doll.

The parchment crumbled in Szass Tarn's fingers, and his apprentice's dead body shimmered with a pale white glow. A moment passed, then Frodyne's ches* rose and fell. She took great gulps of air into her lungs and struggled to her feet. She glanced at her mentor, then at the construct, which again reached out to grab her. The thing's fingers closed about her once more and squeezed harder, and Frodyne realized what Szass Tarn had done. He had given her eternal life—of a sort.

"No!" she shouted as her ribs cracked and she fell lifeless a second time.

The construct stepped back and waited. Again, the young Red Wizard was resurrected from the dead. Again she struggled to her feet.

"Enjoy your immortality, Frodyne," the lich hissed, as he watched the guardian deliver another fatal blow and witnessed her rise again. He was pleased Leira's construct would busy itself with Frodyne and leave him alone.

"The relic," the lich pressed the spectre. "Show me where the crown is."

The spectre gestured to a stony recess. Szass Tarn strode to it and took in the mounds of coins and gems. Perfectly faceted emeralds, sapphires, and diamonds glimmered from every cranny. A crown dotted with rubies sat atop the mass. The lich quickly snatched it up and felt the energy pulsing in the metal band.

"Leira's gift," the spirit declared. "The prize of our temple."

Stepping from the alcove, Szass Tarn placed the crown upon "his head then doubled forward as pain shot through his chest. The lich was caught off guard by the icy hot sensation. He pitched over and writhed on the rocky chamber floor until his frantic movements knocked the crown free.

The painful spasms ended, and the lich slowly stood. "What manner of power was that, priests?" the lich gasped.

The spirit wore the face of the old woman. 'The power of eternal life. The heart of he who wears the crown will beat

forever."

Szass Tarn's human form melted away, revealing his skeletal frame and pinpoint eyes. "My heart does not beat," he said flatly.

"So instead, you felt pain," the woman answered. "The Lady of the Mists is indeed more treacherous than you. Leira lured you here. The priest who tempted your favored apprentice with the relic was merely a pawn."

The lich kicked the crown across the floor and glared at the spectre.

"Again the Patroness of Illusionists and Liars struck when your apprentice betrayed you and sought the crown herself. Then my goddess triumphed once more when you lost that which you held dear, a beautiful sorceress who would have spent eternity at your side." The ghostly image pointed at the struggling Frodyne. "You've lost your army, your woman, your ability to trust others. And the prize at the end of your quest was something you can never possess. Who is the more treacherous, Szass Tarn?"

The lich threw back his head and laughed, a deep, throaty sound that reverberated off the walls of the cavern. The lich roared loud and long as he padded from the chamber and climbed the stairs.

THIEVES' REWARD

Mary H. Herbert

The water of Lake Ashane lay far below Teza's feet, as hard and dark as a sheet of black glass. No wave rippled its smoothness; nothing could be seen beneath its glistening surface to indicate the depth. Not that depth really mattered to Teza. She could not swim, and no one had ever measured the bottomless depths of the Lake of Tears.

The young woman forced her terror back and stared up the length of her outstretched arms to the frayed bit of rope that prevented her from plunging into the lake so far below.

"Please," she whispered in agony. Her arms felt like melting lead, and her body seemed to grow heavier by the second. There was nothing beneath her feet to catch her weight—nothing but air and that terrible fall to the water. Teza stilled a sob. She hated water.

The young woman looked higher into the eyes of the creature who dangled her so carelessly over the edge of the high cliff. He was blacker than night's shadow, hungrier than a shark, and more beautiful than the most exquisite horse Teza had ever seen. Some people said the rare predatory water horses, the aughiskies, did not exist, but Teza would have been delighted to trade places with

any of those doubters just to prove them wrong.

A tense stillness closed around her. There was only her hoarse breathing, which rasped like a threnody behind the beating of her terrified heart. She sensed a scream well inside her from the depths of her mind, and it spread outward to her heart, lungs, throat, and mouth until she nearly burst with the primal terror within her.

The aughisky's eyes glowed green with their own cruel fire. Deliberately he shook the rope attached to his bridle. Teza slipped downward. Her face turned white, and her features screwed into a mask of panic.

Suddenly he wrenched the rope out of her hands, and Teza began to fall.

The scream so tightly held burst loose in a horrible, rending shriek of protest. "NO!"

Teza bolted awake to the sound of her own voice. Blackness enveloped her, and she tore frantically at the blanket that covered her head. Panting, wet with sweat, she scrambled out of her rough bed and crouched like a cornered beast by the embers of her campfire.

Close beside her, head hung low to see her, stood the aughisky, blacker than the night around him. His large eyes gleamed a ghastly light, and he watched her with an uncanny intelligence she found disconcerting. He snorted, a noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

"Oh, gods of all!" Teza gasped and collapsed to a sitting position by her fire. She heaped wood on the embers until the flames roared, but the heat and light did little to dispel the cold fear that settled in her bones from that terrible nightmare. It had seemed so real!

What am I going to do? she thought. Over a year ago, she had fled Immilmar with a price on her head and a stolen aughisky in her keeping. Since that time, she had hidden in the wild lands—far from the city she loved and the lake that nourished her horse. They had scraped out a meager living, but Teza was sick of the struggle, and she could see the aughisky was not thriving.

What he felt about their circumstances, she didn't know. She never knew what he was thinking. Teza usually had a close rapport with horses, and she loved this

glorious black animal with a passion she had never felt for another beast. But he remained aloof, unfriendly at times, watchful, and distrustful. She knew he could not leave her voluntarily, nor would he really try to drown and eat her because of the spell of binding she had placed on him with a hippomane. Yet he always seemed so cold and distant.

Something cool brushed her cheek. Teza looked up from her fire and saw with dismay snowflakes swirling around her camp. It was early in the month of Uktar, and already winter approached. Winter the year before had been a miserable series of frozen hungry nights and empty hungry days.

She turned to study the aughisky. There were real risks taking a water horse that drowned and ate humans to Immilmar. On the other hand, what was worse? The threat of exposure and imprisonment or the very real danger of freezing if she spent another winter in the wilderness? Her world was the city with its back streets, busy ports, markets, and people to keep her company. Surely her minor crimes had been forgotten by now.

The wind gusted through her camp, driving snow before it with icy-sharp teeth. Teza shivered. "Oh, to Thay with it all. I'm going home!"

*    *    *    *    *

Teza! You black-haired catamount! Where have you been?" A long-familiar voice boomed to her over the raucous afternoon noise of the busy tavern.

Teza looked up from a flagon of huild, and a grin spread over her long, swarthy face. "Rafbit!" she exclaimed, acknowledging a friend she had not seen for a year.

She watched with pleasure as a shaggy, slightly disheveled half-elf wove his way through the crowd toward her. Slender as a willow branch and sinuous as a weasel, he always reminded Teza of a cat in the way he could move through a room light-footed, silent, causing barely a ripple in the crowd as he passed. That ability, as well as delicately etched features and blue-black hair, were inherited from his moon-elf mother. His voice, Teza

firmly believed, was bequeathed solely by his father, a Rashemi berserker of prodigious skill and temper.

She slid over to make room for him at the bench near the roaring fire.

"The last time I saw you," he said heartily, dropping down beside her, "you were packing your worldly goods before the Fang found your door. Something about the Huhrong's prized stallion turning up in the Fair Street Horse Market?"

Teza winced. The volume of Rafbit's talk drowned out the voices around them and caused heads to turn their way.

"Whisper, Rafbit," she reminded him.

The half-elf grinned good-naturedly. He was used to such advice. "So where have you been?"

"Living among the wild things," Teza replied. She pulled a long swallow from her flagon to savor the fiery taste ofthejhuild. "By the cloak, I missed that."

"When did you come back?"

The thief did not twitch from her pleasant contemplation of the firewine, but her senses jumped alert. She knew Rafbit well enough to hear the slightly tensed tone in his words. There was more than simple curiosity in his question. She replied casually, wondering what he was about. "About two days ago."

Rafbit lowered his voice even further until he actually reached an undertone. "Teza, you are a gift from Mask! Your return couldn't have come at a better time. How about a job?"

She moved then, deliberately pulling a plate of bread and sjorl cheese closer to break off several pieces. While she ate, she studied the man beside her.

Rafbit was an old friend, not a close one and not one she would willingly trust with her life, but still a friend. Her problem was she could never entirely trust his motives. A streak of self-serving maliciousness ran through his character, and it sometimes landed other people in serious trouble. She stared intently into his face, but all she could see was excited query.

"What sort of job?" she asked mildly.

"Come to my place." He hustled Teza out the back door into the bitter blue twilight.

Winter had come with a certainty since Teza returned to Immilmar, bringing snow and freezing winds. People dressed in layers of wool, leather, and furs and hurried more than normal through the busy streets of the Iron Lord's capital.

The tavern Teza and Rafbit had left was a tiny place tucked away in a back alley in the lowest, dirtiest part of the city. It was a place frequented mostly by patrons who had moved beyond the law and did not wish to be bothered by the guardians of the Huhrong's peace. Thus, it was very unusual to see a horse standing against the wall near the exit. Especially a horse of such magnificence and color.

Rafbit's eyes widened when he saw it, and he chuckled. "You're slipping, Teza. Inside taking your ease when this gorgeous animal is out here looking for a new master."

"He's not looking for a master," Teza said dryly. "He's looking for a meal."

"A meal? That horse doesn't look hungry. I've never seen a beast look as healthy as that one." He walked toward the black animal slowly but confidently.

Teza agreed. To her relief, the aughisky had flourished since they returned to the environs of Lake Ashane, and now his glossy sable coat and perfect conformation made him an eye-catcher in a city where most of the horses were short, shaggy work beasts. Already several of her competitors had disappeared. "Be careful," she added, a warning to both the half-elf and the aughisky.

Rafbit reached out to clasp the horse's bridle, the only tack he wore, but the aughisky flung his head away. His long teeth shone against his black muzzle, and his eyes glowed with a strange greenish fire.

Rafbit fell back, swearing. "Gods, what that beast needs is a tenday with a horse-breaker."

"No," Teza sighed. "All he needs is understanding." She whistled softly. Prancing and snorting in the cold air, the water horse came immediately to her side.

Rafbit was astonished. "He's yours? Where on Toril did you get such as him?"

"I earned him," Teza said, smiling in memory of the Witch of Rashemen and the tricks they had played on each other.

"Well, I've never seen anything like him!" the half-elf marveled. "Will you sell him?"

The young woman put her arm around the horse's neck—a caress he rarely seemed to like—and answered shortly, "No."

Rafbit nodded once, but his eyes strayed to the horse often as he led Teza and her aughisky to a ramshackle building near the warehouse district by the busy docks. He ushered her into his quarters, stoked the fire in his brazier, and came arrow-straight to the point.

"I am organizing a thieves' guild in Immilmar, and I need a second officer I can trust."

Teza couldn't have been more surprised if he had asked her to marry him. "A guild!" she snorted. "In Immilmar? The Huhrong would have you hanging in the gibbets in days."

Rafbit's gem-blue eyes sparkled with excitement. "Not necessarily. What a guild needs to survive in a city like this is subtlety, patience, and a careful hand to control the thieves and their activities."

Rafbit was a burglar, and a good one, who had never been directly linked to any of his successful crimes. But the leader of an organized den of thieves? It made Teza laugh. "Subtlety? Patience?" she mocked. "From you?"

Her friend grinned, unoffended, and leaned toward her. "That's why I need you. I have talked to most of the thieves in Immilmar, and they are interested, but I need someone to help organize the guild and its functions; to set up a system of rewards, opportunities, and arbitration. To find safehouses, set a watch on the guards, select suitable targets..."

"And what are you going to do?" Teza interrupted sarcastically. "Count your percentage?"

"Well, of course, any member will have to pay dues for guild services. But there will be plenty of work for two."

Teza had to admit she was intrigued. An organized thieves guild would be an advantage to the city's popula-

tion of rogues . .. unfortunately . . . "There is still the Iron Lord. He will not tolerate organized crime in Rashemen."

"He will if the organization does not flaunt its presence. We will keep the guild small, make it open only to those who can prove their worth."

"Now, how are you going to do that?" she demanded.

"A test of skill. Any thief regardless of age, sex, or origin can join as long as he or she can pass a test."

Teza's eyes narrowed. "Does that include me?"

"Umm . .. yes," Rafbit hesitated. "It's only fair."

Teza jumped to her feet. "You ask me to join your little light-fingered squad, but you expect me to prove my worth?" she cried, her voice rising dangerously with every word.

"A mere formality!" Rafbit hastened to calm her. "It's really only to reassure our patron. He should be aware of your value to the guild. Just as I am."

The horse-thief stilled, her long legs apart, her arms crossed. "Patron?" she growled.

"Yes! He is our key to success. A judicial authority with a penchant for collecting rare gems. In exchange for any 'collectibles' we might find, he will be our ears and eyes in the Iron Lord's court."

Teza's glance narrowed in speculation. "I want to meet him first."

Rafbit shook her hand. "Done."

*****

The meeting went better than Teza had anticipated. For one thing, she didn't really expect there to be a patron. But two days after Rafbit's invitation, she and the half-elf met a short, powerfully built man cloaked in rich snowcat furs and quiet self-importance.

The official acknowledged her identity with a lift of his thick eyebrow. They talked briefly. The man and Teza examined each other from head to boot, and both were satisfied with what they saw.

When the meeting was over, Teza turned to Rafbit. She was still wary of his motives in this venture, yet the pres-

ence of a patron in the Huhrong's courts put a different light on the matter. She was willing to take the next step and see what happened.

"What is the test you had in mind for me?" Had she not been watching her step in the muddy snow, she might have seen Rafbit's mouth move in the quick, hungry grimace of a stoat on the hunt.

"It's simple really. I have a customer who lost a particular item and is willing to pay for its recovery."

Teza did not accept other people's use of "simple" without explanation. "What, exactly, and where is it?"

"A book. In the library of Lord Duronh."

Teza stopped in midstride. "Are you serious? A book? That's ridiculous. I'm a horse-thief! You're the burglar."

"If you are going to be my officer," Rafbit explained patiently, "you need to excel in many skills. Your ability to steal anything four-legged is legendary. So is your talent with disguises. You've also been known to pick pockets, purses, and bags. But can you break into a house and steal something useful? That is your test."

Teza, ignoring the flattery, conceded he had a point. Yet she couldn't help asking, "Who's testing you?"

To her surprise, Rafbit's pale face turned whiter and the gleam went out of his eyes. "I have already been tested," he growled, and he would not say any more.

That was why, three days later, in the deep of a cold, still night, Teza rode the aughisky into the quiet streets of the city. She breathed a silent prayer to Mask, the god of rogues and thieves. Her enterprise that night would be to the god's advantage, so she hoped he was paying attention.

He had certainly helped in one fashion. A dank, thick fog rolled over the city from Lake Ashane, turning the darkness into a solid mass. Only the aughisky, bred in the black waters of Ashane, seemed at home in the dense wet air. He picked his way unerringly through the streets at Teza's direction, past the Huhrong's towering palace, and into the gentle hills of the wealthier section of the city, where the houses were larger and surrounded by their own ornate walls.

The water horse turned at Teza's cue onto a path that led between two high walls and down a steep bank to a river. The river was a small one that wended its way to Ashane from the east, just slow enough and deep enough for pleasure craft. Many of the houses built along its bank had docks or boathouses.

Lord Duronh's residence had one, too, although the lord had gone one step further. He had dug a cavern into the high bank below his house and built a dock for his crafts, where they were protected from all but the most frigid weather.

Teza thought this underground boathouse would be her best entrance into the house. Any guard left standing over one small back door on a night like this would not be expecting trouble.

As silent as a black shadow, the water horse carried her downstream through the fog to the broad opening of Duronh's boathouse. Teza shuddered at the sight of that dark river lapping at her knees, but the aughisky made no attempt to drop her or carry her into deeper water. He worked his way around the lord's small boats and deposited Teza on the wooden dock. With a sigh of fervent relief, she patted him and eased farther along the dark dock toward what she hoped was the stairs.

The darkness was absolute in the cavern, so Teza silently opened a small bag she wore buckled around her waist and pulled out her most useful thieves' tool: a pair of night glasses. She had bought them from a wandering wizard for a horrendous sum, but they had paid her back a hundredfold with their usefulness. She slid them on, and immediately the night slipped into focus. Although the glasses made everything look red, their vision was remarkably clear.

Swiftly she found the stairs leading to the rear of the house and mounted them to the entrance. The door was a heavy affair of oak and iron, but its lock yielded easily to the pick Rafbit had loaned her. Just inside, she saw the first guard leaning against the wall. As she had hoped, he dozed over his weapons.

Teza drew another useful item from her belt pack: a

small circle of fabric permeated with a fast-acting sedative. She rubbed a little spit into the cloth to activate the drug and, before it could affect her, stuck it to the skin of the napping guard. In seconds he slumped into a deeper sleep.

From there, the rest of the job was easy. A friend of Raf-bit's had told Teza the floor plan of the house, enabling her to slip through the night-darkened halls, past two more guards, to the second floor, where the library stood at the end of a long corridor. Teza's glasses saw nothing amiss. No watchdogs, no statues enspelled to shout an alarm, no traps, nothing. Lord Duronh must not consider his books very valuable, Teza told herself.

Her suspicions proved correct when she entered the library. It was a small room—cold, damp, and musty. Sheets covered the furniture, and the books were layered with dust.

Teza wasted no time. She knew the book she needed was tan-colored, fairly large, and labeled with a wizard's rune on the spine. Silently she ran her eyes along the shelves lining the walls, along row after row of old manuscripts, scrolls, and bound books. Half an hour later, she found the one she wanted, crammed on a bottom shelf beneath a stack of moldy vellum sheets.

Teza pulled it out and nearly dropped it in surprise. It was much heavier than she had expected and was bound with something much smoother and softer to the touch than leather. She hefted it. It seemed to be the right book. It had the sigil on the spine and the tan-colored binding. It must have belonged to a wizard at one time, but what was it doing here, and what was so important about it that someone would pay to have it stolen?

Teza tried to open it, but discovered something else very odd. Someone had attached hair to the book from top to bottom along both edges of the cover. The hair was then braided, tying the book closed to casual view. The braid lay soft under Teza's fingers, as soft and fine as human hair.

Without quite knowing why, Teza grew angry. She began to have the feeling Rafbit had not told her every-

thing she ought to know about this book. She tucked the tome under her arm and fled noiselessly back the way she had come, to the cavern where the aughisky waited for her.

She had planned to meet Rafbit and his customer before dawn, but first, she told the water horse to take her to her bolt-hole. The hole, nothing more than an abandoned shack at the edge of the city, was her hiding place in time of need. Obediently, the aughisky carried her to the old hut. As she dismounted, he neighed impatiently and slammed his hoof on the frozen ground. Teza knew the signs. He was hungry.

"Wait," she asked. "I will be quick. Then you may go."

Carrying the book, she slipped into the old shack. Her cold fingers fumbled with the flint and steel over a lamp she had left there. When the flame was burning, the woman laid the book on her lap and carefully began to unbraid the hair. In the light, she could see now the hair was red, a deep coppery hue that gleamed in the lamplight. Softly it flowed through her fingers until the book fell open on her knees.

Teza stared in delight. Full-length illustrations, beautifully illuminated with delicate traceries, bold colors, and bright gold leaf, covered each page. There were no words or letters or even runes, only exquisitely detailed pictures.

Teza turned the thick pages to the beginning. She could not read, yet she did not have to to understand the story. The pictures portrayed a romance between a lovely red-haired woman and a dark-haired, serious-looking young man. They met in a garden of peonies and roses, and the illustrations continued their tale in a series of scenes from a dance, a hunt, and a picnic, as the couple's passion grew deeper.

Then the atmosphere of the pictures changed. The drawings became harsher; the colors shifted to hues of red and black; the expression on the lovers' faces turned to anger and sadness.

Teza sat enthralled by the drama unfolding on her lap. She was so engrossed, she did not immediately notice what began to happen. As she studied one picture of the man and the woman in a gloomy room, the figures shifted

slightly on the page. The man's face turned down into a scowl, and the woman took a step back.

Teza suddenly gaped. Before her eyes the small painting of the man strode forward and viciously backhanded the woman. She fell backward against a stone wall.

Teza's fingers tightened on the cover. "You nasty little—" she began, without realizing what she was talking to. Then the tiny woman climbed to her feet. She wiped blood from her mouth, tore a ring off her finger, and flung it at the young man. No words were spoken, but Teza could see the fury on the woman's face, and the devastation on the man's. The painted lady turned to leave, when in one swift movement, the man grabbed her long, braided hair. His hands lifted in a strange movement, his lips mouthed silent words, and in a brilliant flash of silver light that made Teza blink, the woman disappeared. When Teza looked again, the young man was alone, standing as still as before and holding a large tan book.

"What is this?" Teza muttered irritably. She flipped back to the other pages, but none of the remaining pictures moved. Finally she turned past the man and his book to the last page. The last illustration was the strangest of all. In the upper left was a small portrait of the woman, her oval face filled with pleading and her large green eyes brimmed with tears. The center of the picture revealed the book with its binding of red hair unbraided. A dagger pierced the pages, and blood dripped off the binding. At the bottom right, another portrait of the woman showed her joyfully happy.

A horse-thief though she was, Teza was not stupid. Her mind leapt to the obvious conclusion that the lady in the pictures had been transformed into a book by a wizard, and that book was the very one she was holding. That would help explain the red hair and the odd binding of what felt like human skin. What it did not explain was what Teza should do with it now.

If she understood the last picture correctly, a way to free the trapped lady was to open the book and stab it with a dagger. Simple enough. Yet what would that accomplish? Would the knife free her or kill her? And who

was she? Why did she make her lover angry? Did she deserve to be transformed, or was her punishment cruelly unjust?

Teza didn't know, and there weren't nearly enough answers in the book. Should she trust her first instincts and break the spell, or take the book to Rafbit and his customer? And for that matter, Teza thought, her anger stirring again, who was this customer, and what did he want with this specific book?

Teza had the distinct impression she was being used, not tested, and she resented it. The job had been easy, even for her, but she was the only one taking the risks, and Rafbit probably figured she was too illiterate to be interested in a book. Maybe he didn't know what was in it either.

She quickly made up her mind to take the book to Rafbit. "But that loud-mouthed half-breed better have some answers," she muttered as she blew out her lamp.

Teza gently closed the book, leaving the hair unbraided, then mounted the aughisky and rode to find her friend at the agreed meeting place near the docks. The water horse, impatient to be away, cantered rapidly through the fog-hung streets, and his green eyes glowed like lamps in the night.

As they neared Immilmar's port facility, with its maze of storehouses, taverns, merchant offices, and docks, Teza slowed the horse to a walk. He moved quietly along the deserted roads to the last pier in the harbor. The air hung thick and heavy with the odors of wet timbers and rotting trash, and the watery smells of Lake Ashane.

Teza gripped the book tightly under her arm, where it remained hidden by her cloak. There was no tingle of magic power to this book, no inherent feeling of a human presence beneath the binding of skin and hair, but Teza sensed somehow that the lady of the book was still alive, trapped in an inanimate form and able to reveal herself only by the beautiful illuminations in her pages. Perhaps she was even aware of what was going on. Teza had always been a firm believer in freedom—particularly her own—and the woman's plight stirred her heart.

At that moment, she spotted a tiny light glowing in the shadow of a shed at the base of the last pier. The light blinked three times in the arranged signal. The aughisky walked toward it, his legs stiff and his nostrils flared. He was so close to the water, his entire body trembled.

Teza ran a hand down his silken neck. "A few minutes more, my beauty," she whispered.

Teza!" Rafbit's voice echoed out of the darkness.

The horse-thief winced at his volume. "I'm here," she called softly.

The half-elf s lean form and a second taller figure stepped out of the shadow. "Do you have it?" Rafbit questioned. His voice sounded strung tight with tension.

Teza hesitated answering until the aughisky stopped about five paces away from the two forms. The intense darkness that shrouded the bay and the pier around them was so black Teza could barely make out Rafbit's face. She could see nothing of the person beside him. "Who is your companion?" she asked, stalling for time.

"The customer," Rafbit snapped. "Do you have the book?"

The woman stared at her friend. His white skin glimmered, as pale as a winter moon, and the hand that held the tiny lamp shook perceptibly. His eyes looked everywhere but at her. An alarm went off in Teza's head. "I have a book," she replied carefully. "But can your customer identify it so we all know the book is the right one?"

The stranger spoke then. "It is large, heavy, bound with a braid of red, and bears the sigil of the Wizard Ashroth." His words were colder than ice and deep with menace. "Dismount and give me the book," he charged.

Almost against her will, Teza slid off the aughisky, compelled by the powerful voice. "What do you want with this book?" she hissed.

The lamp in Rafbit's hand flared to a brilliant star, throwing a veil of light over the three people and the horse. As the stranger strode forward, the sudden glow exposed his clothes as robes of crimson red.

Teza backed up against the aughisky, appalled. A Red Wizard of Thay—one of Rashemen's bitterest enemies—

and he was standing brazenly on the docks of the Huhrong's own city.

"The book is mine!" the Red Wizard snarled viciously. "Stolen from me nearly thirty years ago. I traced it at last to Lord Duronh's library, and if you have it now, you will give it to me before I flay you alive."

Teza's eyes narrowed. She could see the wizard's face now, lean as a wolfs, gray and cruel, but with the same dark intensity as the young man in the book. She recognized immediately the man who had raged at his lover enough to strike her and then imprison her in a book.

The young thief felt her blood begin to burn, not only at the danger of facing a Red Wizard and the ferocious pos-sessiveness he exuded but at Rafbit as well. Her friend had betrayed her, and from the shifting look of his eyes, he had done it deliberately.

Teza thought no more about her decision. With the swiftness of a practiced pickpocket, she pulled a slim dagger out of her boot, drew the book from her cloak, yanked it open, and stabbed the blade deep into the pages.

The wizard roared with rage.

A pool of blood welled up over the wound. Almost immediately, a bright silver beam flared up from the book, followed by another and another until the tome resembled a starburst. Momentarily dazzled, Teza dropped it on the muddy ground and fell back in astonishment.

"No!" shrieked the wizard. He raised his hands to countermand the dissolved spell, but he was too late. The cover of the book began to expand. Pulsating with its silver light, it stretched taller and taller until it reached the height of a full-grown woman. The red hair cascaded down her shoulders. Her face resumed its shape, as lovely and as young as the portrait in the book.

A frigid draft from the lake swept around the docks, swirling the fog. The silver light faded. The lady of the book stood before the three people, proud and fierce. Blood trickled unnoticed down her shoulder. She flung Teza's dagger at the wizard's feet.

"How dare you," she breathed in a voice thick with contempt. "How dare you think to possess me!"

Stunned and mute, Teza stared from the woman to the wizard. They were glaring at each other, so totally absorbed in their confrontation they did not acknowledge anyone else.

"Kanlara!" the wizard said, more a moan than a command. "You are mine. I loved you."

"Loved!" the woman mocked. "You didn't love me. You wanted to own me, to add me to your collection of assets." She stepped away from him, her pale robes glimmering in the lamplight. "You took me by surprise once, but never again. I have had thirty years to think about you, and now that I am free, I will take my revenge as best I can. I am not powerful enough to defeat you or kill you, but I can leave you, totally and with joy. Think of me often, Ashroth, loving other men and giving myself to someone other than you. You are pathetic to think you can own a woman like me." Flinging that last insult in his face, she formed a spell as adroitly as the wizard had and vanished before his eyes.

"NO!" the wizard shrieked again. "Kanlara, don't leave me now! I just found you!" His voice echoed over the bay.

Only a cold stillness answered his despairing cry.

Before Teza could move, the wizard turned on her. "You loathsome little meddler!" He swung his hand in her direction.

Teza saw the burning ball of magic flying not toward her but at her beautiful aughisky, and she leapt in front of his chest. The sphere struck her in the stomach like a solid missile and slammed her to the ground. The power sank through her skin, down into her muscles, stealing her strength and her ability to move. She lay in the icy mud, stunned.

Teza saw the wizard raise his hand again, but Rafbit caught it. For a moment, she thought he was going to help her. Then he said, "Not here. The guard is already roused."

The wizard's hand dropped. He, too, heard the signal horns of the nearest guard unit. "Put her in my boat, then. I'll dispose of her later."

The half-elf did not move. "What about my payment?" he asked nervously.

"Payment?" retorted the wizard, seething with scorn and bitter fury. "You failed me. Be thankful I do not treat you with the same punishment I shall give her!"

Rafbit's blue eyes darkened with anger, but he was too fearful to argue. "Then I claim her horse as my recompense."

A knowing smile flitted over the wizard's face and was gone. "Take it and go. It is all you deserve."

Rafbit nodded once. He reached hesitantly for the augh-isky's bridle, and this time the black horse remained still, the green fire dampened in his eyes. Rafbit grinned. He leaned over Teza and stared into her pain-filled face. "Sorry, old girl. The guild could have used you," he muttered. "Unfortunately, I needed the money more." He swiftly mounted the water horse and trotted him away.

Teza watched them go, her eyes full of tears. She felt a hand grasp the front of her clothes and haul her off the ground. The magic blast, whatever it was, had left her paralyzed, and she could do nothing as the wizard dragged her down the dock and dumped her unceremoniously into a boat. The boat was small but long and lean, double-ended for maneuverability and rigged with both sails and oars.

From her position on the floorboards, Teza heard the wizard snap a command. Silent oarsmen moved the boat away from the docks and into the expanse of Lake Ashane.

Teza lay still, feeling distinctly sick. Her stomach roiled with the motion of the boat and with an abject terror that went beyond fear of the Red Wizard. She was in a boat over water and over the black depths of the lake. Her mouth went dry; her body began to shudder uncontrollably. She could move her fingers now, perhaps a sign that the magic was wearing off. But it didn't fade fast enough.

The wizard, his lean face taut with impotent rage, loomed over her. "I would take you to Thay and make you suffer a hundred deaths for what you have done, but I must find Kanlara and bring her back."

"Why?" Teza managed to croak. "She doesn't love you. Let her go." It was a terrible effort to talk, yet anything was better than thinking of the water.

The wizard yanked her upright, his hands like iron on

her shoulders. "You of all should understand. You keep an aughisky, a creature incapable of love. Yet you love it. You leapt in the way of my spell to protect it."

"A bad decision," Teza conceded.

"Almost as bad as freeing my betrothed." He wrenched the young woman to her feet where she stood, sick and dizzy, her eyes screwed shut.

"Lord," a voice called urgently from the bow.

The wizard ignored it while he studied Teza intently.

"Lord! Come see," the voice cried again. "We're being followed by a witch-ship."

A flash of hope opened Teza's eyes. The witch-ships that roamed the vast Lake of Tears were pilotless boats created by the powerful sisterhood of witches to protect Rashemen from predation from Thay. The witch-ships could unleash monstrous beasts, poisonous gases, or any number of defensive spells, and were extremely difficult to evade. The Red Wizard visibly blanched when he heard the warning.

For just a second, Teza thought he might forget her, and she could crawl out of sight while he dealt with their pursuer. Then her feeble hopes imploded into panic.

The wizard, his expression a mask of fury, picked her up bodily and threw her overboard.

Teza had time for one frenzied scream before she crashed into the dark water. Icy blackness closed over her. She scrabbled frantically to bring her head up, but her body was still partially paralyzed from the magic. She could only feebly thrash as her water-soaked clothes dragged her deeper.

She opened her eyes. Above, she could barely make out the lighter surface of the lake, where air and life lay only a few strokes away. Below lay death in the eternal dark at the fathomless bottom of the lake. Teza tried to struggle upward again, only to feel herself sinking farther toward that abyssal pit. Her lungs burned now; the air in her body was almost gone. Water pressed against her as if seeking a way into her nose, mouth, and lungs, seeking to drag her down faster. The blood roared in her head. She felt so weak.

"No!" she cried silently with every shred of her resistance. "Help me!"

Then, from somewhere out of the lightless depths, something moved toward her. She felt a large shape glide past her, and before she could understand what it was, a heavy, tight grip settled on her right shoulder.

Teza felt too far beyond her strength to struggle against this new terror. If some creature of Ashane was going to devour her, let it do so quickly and end her fear. But the thing did not rend her immediately. It hauled her upward, and just before Teza passed out, her head broke the surface. She drew in a great gasping breath of air, then struggled, thrashing wildly at the painful grip on her shoulder.

The thing let go of her. Teza started to sink again, and in her panic she grabbed at the large dark thing beside her. Wet hair met her fingers, the long, streaming mane of a horse, and she held on to it with all her might.

The head turned toward her. A green fire flickered in the eye that regarded her.

"You glorious creature," Teza sobbed into his neck.

The aughisky waited patiently in the cold water while the woman worked her way onto his back. Then he swam slowly toward the distant shore, his ears cocked back to listen to Teza's sobs.

At last, he clattered up the rocky bank to a patch of thick grass. Teza pried her fingers out of his mane and rolled off onto the blessed ground. For a while, she simply lay on her back and stared up at the aughisky. He was watching her, too, but the animosity she had always seen before was gone. Perhaps, she marveled, a creature who could not love could at least learn not to hate.

She finally worked herself upright and very slowly pulled on the aughisky's leg until she could stand. Although the wizard's magic had at last worn off, she had never felt so weak, dizzy, and deathly cold.

"There you are!" a woman's voice suddenly called.

Teza looked around. To her surprise, the night was fading to a pale watery dawn, and out of the lightening mist came a tall, beautiful, red-haired woman.

"Knowing Ashroth, I thought he might dump you once

the witch-ship caught up with him."

Teza's mouth fell open. "You knew about the ship?"

"Of course." Kanlara smiled with the pleasure of a satisfied cat. "I may not be powerful enough to defeat a Red Wizard, but the Witches of Rashemen are. I warned one I still knew in Immilmar." She came forward with a dry cloak, peeled off Teza's wet one, and helped her into the thick warm folds. "I'm sorry," she said at last. "I didn't get a chance to say thank you for releasing me. That took a lot of courage."

Teza leaned against the water horse, too tired to reply.

The wizard woman crossed her arms and looked at her thoughtfully. "I hoped to reach you before Ashroth did anything rash, but the aughisky was faster, thank the gods."

Teza's hand ran lovingly down the horse's elegant neck. "He saved my life," she whispered. "He didn't have to. If I died, the bond of the hippomane would be broken." She grinned suddenly and said to the horse, "I wonder where Rafbit is. Stuffed under some sunken rock more than likely. You came so fast you, didn't have time to eat him, did you?"

He tossed his mane and snorted a reply.

Abruptly Teza reached up and unbuckled the throat latch of the bridle on his head. The aughisky stilled, his wild eyes fastened on Teza. Gently she pulled the straps over his head and drew the bit out of his mouth. "I release you freely," she announced. "The spell of the hippomane is nullified."

The water horse stared at her. Then he reared, his hooves flashing over her head. Quick as an eel, he turned and plunged into Lake Ashane. He neighed once before the dark waters closed over his head and he was gone.

Teza watched him go. With a sigh, she flopped to the grass and drew the cloak tightly about her. She shivered. "Now what?" she murmured.

Kanlara smiled and sat down beside her. "Well, I need a place to stay."

Teza glanced at the woman. Even after thirty years as a book, Kanlara seemed very close to her own age. Still the

woman was wizard-trained and, by her speech and looks, nobly born. "I'm a horse-thief," she said.

"I know," Kanlara said simply, "and you saved my life. I could use a friend right now."

Teza looked out over the lake, now gray and pearl with dawn's coming light. She thought of Rafbit's treachery and the aughisky"s last act of loyalty. Her lips formed a smile. "I could use a friend, too." She rose unsteadily to her feet. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in helping me form a thieves' guild would you?"

Her companion stood, too, her red hair as long and thick as Teza's dark mane. They stood eye to eye for so long Teza grew certain Kanlara would refuse.

Then the wizard woman replied, "I have been a book stashed away in a moldy old library for so long, I think dust has settled in my brain. I want to do things, I want to travel, I want to experience life again. I suppose Immil-mar is as good a place as any to start. Then who knows, maybe you'd go on a dajemma with me?"

Teza's eyes widened with delight. A dajemma was an expedition taken by Rashemen's young men, a journey through the world to manhood. Females did not usually go, and certainly not ones in their midtwenties. But why not? A dajemma, an adventure, a journey. Call it what you will, Teza thought, it would do.

"I know where to find some good horses." She grinned.

SIX OF SWORDS

William W. Connors

Moonlight on a silver blade was the last thing Jaybel ever saw.

Fifteen years ago, when he and his closest friends had been adventuring throughout the Western Heartlands, he might have expected such a demise. In those days, he had made his living as an expert picking locks, disarming traps, and unobtrusively eliminating enemies—tasks known for short-lived practitioners. Indeed, on more than one occasion, he'd been snatched from death's dark abyss only by the mystical healing power of the acolyte Gwynn.

In the years since, however, Jaybel had given up the rogue's life. Following the tragedy of his company's last quest, when they had been forced to leave the dwarf Shandt to the so-called mercy of a hobgoblin tribe, the glamour had gone out of that life. Indeed, so terrible had that ordeal been that every member of the Six of Swords had second thoughts about his career.

"I've made my fortune," Jaybel told his comrades. "Now I plan to relax and enjoy it." With his next breath, he asked Gwynn to marry him, and she hadn't even paused

before accepting. The company parted, and he and Gwynn took up residence in the great city of Waterdeep.

With the treasures they had gathered from countless forgotten tunnels and valiant quests, Jaybel and Gwynn had built themselves a modestly elegant home. It included a chapel where she could teach her faith, and a locksmith's shop where he could keep his fingers nimble and his eyes sharp.

For nearly a decade and a half, he and Gwynn had been happy. They had put tragedy behind them and started a new life together. When Jaybel had looked back on those wild days, he always said, "It's a wonder I'm not dead."

Now he was.

II

The metallic ringing of steel on steel fell upon ears so long past ignoring it that they may as well have been deaf. With each impact, sparks filled the night air, streaking upward like startled fireflies, becoming brief ruddy stars, and then finishing their fleeting lives with meteoric falls to the stone floor. Thus it went as the sun set and night cloaked the city of Raven's Bluff. Time and time again, Orlando repeated the ritual of his craft. Hammer fell, sparks flew, and the wedge of a plow gradually took shape.

When the farmer's blade was finally completed, the noise ended and the smoldering coals of the forge were left to cool. The brawny, dark-skinned Orlando set about returning his tools to their places, taking no notice of the ebony shape that appeared in the open doorway of his shop.

For a fraction of a second, the shadow filled the doorway, blocking out the stars and crescent moon that hung beyond it. Then, with the grace of a hunting cat, it slipped through the portal and into the sweltering heat of the blacksmith's shop. In the absence of the ringing hammer, the shadow drifted in supernatural silence.

Without prelude, a sepulchral voice wafted from the darkness. Although a whisper, the intonation and clarity

of the words made them as audible as any crier's shout. Jaybel and Gwynn are dead.

Orlando froze, his hand still clutching the great hammer, half-suspended from an iron hook. The voice sent a chill down his spine, raising goose bumps across his body just as it had when he had last heard it years ago. Orlando turned slowly, keeping the hammer in his hand and trying to spot the source of the voice. As had always been the case when she desired it, Lelanda was one with the darkness.

Relax, Orlando, said the night. / didn't do it.

"Then show yourself," said the blacksmith, knowing she wouldn't.

It had been years since Orlando had taken up a weapon aside from a tankard in a tavern brawl. Still, even the passing of the years didn't prevent the well-honed reflexes of his adventuring days from surging back to life. If the witch tried anything, his life wouldn't command a small price. Still, he knew who would walk away from the battle. He doubted Lelanda had given up magic. She was probably even more powerful now. So, Orlando's rusty reflexes would provide her only brief entertainment.

To Orlando's surprise, the darkness before him parted. Lelanda's face, crowned with hair the color of smoldering coals and set with emerald eyes that reminded him all too well of a cat's, appeared no more than a yard away from his own. As always, he was stunned by the shocking contrast between her external beauty and her malevolent soul within.

If he struck now, there was no way the witch could save herself. The muscles in his arm tensed, but he could not bring himself to strike first. He had to hear her out.

"Satisfied?" she asked. Her voice, no longer distorted by the magical shroud of shadows, seemed gentle and alluring. Orlando knew that, like her beauty, her voice was a deadly illusion. Black widows were beautiful as well. Even knowing the truth, his pulse quickened.

The retired warrior put aside the distraction and asked the only question that made sense. "What happened to them?"

"It wasn't an accident," she said, her eyes lowering to

the hammer still in Orlando's hand. He grinned halfheartedly and tossed it toward the nearby workbench. She returned his smile and went on. "Someone killed them."

"You're sure it wasn't you?" he asked.

"Fairly," she said. "I'm on my way to Waterdeep to find out who. We made a lot of enemies in those days."

"We made friends, too," the blacksmith said.

"We lost them as well," said the witch.

Orlando's memory was quick to pull up an image of Shandt, his enchanted battle-axe glowing as it swept back and forth through the ranks of hobgoblins that swallowed him up. It wasn't the way he would have wanted to remember the smiling dwarf.

"If we leave in the morning, we can be there in a few days," said Lelanda. "I know some . . . shortcuts."

"If we leave now, we can be there sooner," said Orlando. "Give me an hour to get ready."

III

Orlando moved through his darkened house without so much as a flickering candle to light his way. Outside, Lelanda sat unmoving on the back of a horse even blacker than the night sky. Orlando knew she was anxious to get under way, and so went from room to room as quickly as possible. The walls of his home were decorated with swords, shields, and other reminders of his adventuring life. Now, like a thief in his own house, he gathered up three of these heirlooms.

The first of these was Talon, the curved sword that he had recovered from a dark labyrinth beneath the sands men called the Battle of the Bones. This arcane blade proved almost unstoppable when turned against the living dead. Removed from its traditional place above the hearth, the enchanted blade was returned to the scabbard on Orlando's black leather belt.

The second item removed from his collection was a bronze breastplate. Countless attackers had learned that it had the uncanny ability to turn aside even the most deadly missiles. Arrows, quarrels, and even bullets had all

proven impotent against the charms of the bronze armor. Orlando liberated it from the wooden mannequin that guarded an empty first floor hallway. As the yellow-orange armor once again embraced Orlando's muscular chest, he noticed that the passing of his youth made it more snug than he remembered.

With the sword and armor safely recovered, Orlando moved on to the last item he planned to bring with him: a good luck charm. Pausing beside the small shrine adjacent to his bedroom, Orlando slipped a small silver amulet from the hook on which it hung and looped it around his neck. Unconsciously, his fingers ran across its surface, tracing the outlines of the crossed battle-axes that were the icon of the dwarven god Clanggedin Silverbeard. There was no magic in this simple pendant, but it had been a present from Shandt. Since it had been given to him not five hours before the noble dwarf had met his fate somewhere in the Underdark, Orlando could not look upon it now without remembering the broad, crooked smile and gleaming eyes that had made his best friend's countenance so pleasantly memorable. The memory brought Orlando both a smile and a tear.

Locking the door behind him, Orlando left the house and moved to join Lelanda by the stable. She had already saddled Zephyr, his dappled gray horse.

Without a word, the warrior placed his foot in the stirrup, swung himself onto his mount, and nudged the horse into a trot. Many miles passed before either of the old adventurers spoke a word to the other.

IV

Orlando drew back on Zephyr's reigns. The animal, well trained and eager to please its master, slowed quickly from its trot to a full stop. The enigmatic black equine that Lelanda rode did the same, although Orlando saw no sign of a command from rider to mount. The horse seemed always to know what the enchantress expected of it.

"Aren't we going a bit out of our way?"

"Only slightly," responded the witch. "I thought we

might stop at Jolind's estate and tell her what happened. She won't be interested in joining us, of course, but she was one of the Six. She has a right to know."

Orlando was surprised to hear Lelanda speak like that. In their adventuring days, she'd had little use for the individual members of the Six of Swords^ To her, they were bodyguards, scouts, and healers, who enabled her to explore the mysteries of magic, recover rare spell components, and otherwise practice her arcane art. Perhaps time had softened her heart, or perhaps there was more to this detour than she was telling him.

With the aid of Lelanda's magic, the miles passed as fleeting images in the corner of the eye. Even at that rate, however, it was several hours before the lights of Jolind's tower were visible. When they reached the edge of the clearing in which it stood, both riders brought their mounts to a stop.

"She's done a remarkable job here," said Orlando as his head swept back and forth to indicate the lush forest that rose around them. "I remember when we first found this clearing. The soil was so poisonous that nothing less robust than spitweed would grow here."

"I'll go in first," said Lelanda, ignoring his attempt at conversation. "Jolind always valued her privacy, and I'd hate to have a druid angry at me in the heart of her own forest."

She slipped the hood of her cloak over her head, causing the sunset colors of her hair to vanish into a thick darkness. Even as he watched, Orlando found that he could no longer focus clearly on her. Though he knew exactly where she was standing, he was able to see her only as a fleeting image in the corner of his eye.

m be back as quickly as I can, said the darkness. Before he could respond, Orlando realized he and the horses were alone by the side of the road. He wanted to chuckle, but the chills that her macabre voice had left running along his spine wouldn't let him.

While he waited for his companion to return, Orlando opened the saddlebags draped over Zephyr and pulled out an apple. He fished around for a few seconds more and

brought out a small knife. With a deft flick of his wrist, he split the fruit cleanly in two. After wiping off the blade and slipping it back into the leather pouch, he offered one of the halves to his horse and considered the other for a moment. With an unconscious shrug, he reached over and held it before Lelanda's mount. The ebon animal eyed his offering, but then snorted and turned away. Orlando shrugged again and ate it himself. The first hints of dawn were lighting the horizon, and he had an unhappy feeling that the animal's snobbery was to set the tone for the day ahead. He was right.

Jolind is dead, came the too-familiar voice of the darkness. And the body is warm. The killer must still be nearby.

The inside of the tower stirred Orlando's memories of the time when the Six of Swords had first explored it.

In those days, these lands had been defiled by the black dragon that made its lair here. The entire area had been poisoned by the creature, with pools of acid, swarms of stinging insects, and tangles of slashweed dominating the tortured remnants of the forest. From the moment they entered that fell region, the druid Jolind had become solemn and morose. Such destruction, she swore, could not go unpunished.

When they reached the tower—a ruined structure built by an unknown hand centuries before any of the Six were born—Jolind had led their attack against the dragon. Turning the very elements of nature against the creature, she had been instrumental in its destruction.

Eighteen months later, when the company disbanded, she announced her intention to return to this place and restore the forest to its past glory. She had done an outstanding job.

Jolind had not, however, restored the tower. At least, she hadn't done so in the way that Orlando would have. The interior floors and walls had been stripped out, a great glass dome placed atop the tower, and a bubbling fountain set into the ground at its center. The combination

of the fish-eye skylight and the dancing water of the fountain made the climate inside the tower hot and sticky.

Under normal circumstances, this would have made the place unbearable. With the careful hand of Jolind to shape the place, however, it had been transformed into a tropical paradise. Great tresses of ivy climbed gracefully up walls dotted with brilliantly colored flowers. Shafts of morning light, shunted downward by the facets of the glass dome, illuminated a dozen trees and the colorful butterflies that flitted between them.

The horrors of the past had been completely banished by the careful hand of the druid. Sadly, they had been replaced by the horrors of the present. At the heart of all this splendor was a copper-smelling pool of red. And at the center of that scarlet expanse lay the body of the druid Jolind. Her head had been cleanly cut from her neck.

It took all the courage Orlando could muster to approach the body. Jolind had been a friend, a companion, and more. For a time, the warrior and druid had been lovers, seeking escape in each other's arms. Their relationship had lasted less than a year, but in that time, each had learned much about the other's philosophy and profession. For Orlando, that meant a keen appreciation of the ways of nature, the give-and-take of the environment, and an understanding of his place in it. Jolind had not feared death. In her mind, it was nothing more than the end of life. To Orlando, death had always been an enemy to be held at bay. In the end, he knew, death would triumph. For the present, however, he preferred to keep that most final of foes as far away as possible.

"Horrible way to die," he said softly.

The same way Jaybel and Gwynn were killed, said a voice from nowhere. Although the sound still irritated him, Orlando had already adjusted to the macabre intonations that came from empty air. It was amazing to him how quickly the old ways of thinking returned. Indeed, even as that thought crossed his mind, he realized he had subconsciously drawn Talon from its scabbard. Without the slightest thought, he had made ready to defend himself from Jolind's attacker.

"A pretty fierce struggle," said Orlando, examining the disturbed earth around the pool of blood and beneath the decapitated body. "But something doesn't make sense. All of these footprints were made by Jolind's sandals. Whomever she was fighting didn't make the faintest impression as he moved about."

Perhaps we're dealing with a doppleganger or other form-shifter. If her killer assumed Jolind's shape, you wouldn't be able to tell one set of prints from another.

"I doubt it," responded the warrior. He tilted his head to one side, and then to the other. "No, the positioning is pretty clear. Only one person made these prints. What about the undead? Remember that vampire we tracked down near Dragonspear? He didn't leave footprints, throw a shadow, or make any sound when he moved." As soon as he mentioned that adventure, he wished he hadn't. It was in the ancient crypt where the vampire's coffin had been hidden that Lelanda found the mysterious shroud of shadows.

Possible, responded the enigmatic shadows of the garden, but unlikely. This place is pretty heavily warded against intrusion by the undead and other unnatural creatures. If the killer is something like that, he'd have to be extremely powerful to enter the tower. For our sakes I'd prefer to believe that isn't the answer.

Orlando said no more for several minutes. Instead of allowing dark thoughts to dominate his mind, he forced his attention back to the matter at hand. With measured steps, he walked to and fro around the area, using his experience in combat to piece together this puzzle, whose pieces had been scattered in the darkness of the previous night.

After a time, he noticed something and reached into a beautiful but painfully prickly shrub. Cursing and wriggling, he pulled back his arm and drew out a slender, wooden rod some three feet long. Covered in a gleaming white lacquer, it was painfully cold to the touch. From past experience, however, he knew that it was warmer than it should be.

What have you found? inquired the stillest part of the garden.

On some level, Orlando realized it wasn't the fact that

he couldn't see Lelanda that bothered him most. It was the spectral nature of her voice while she wore the shroud. There was too much of death and darkness in this place already.

Orlando could stand no more of this one-sided conversation. "Take off that damned shroud, and I'll show you!" he hissed.

Almost at once, the shadow of a pear tree lightened and the elegant sorceress was standing beside him. She quickly complied with his request, making the hostility in his voice seem suddenly unnecessary.

"I'm sorry," Orlando said softly, "but you have no idea how quickly that thing gets on your nerves." He expected her to argue the point, just as she would have in the past. To his surprise, her response was quite civil.

"No," she answered, "I suppose I don't. You see, it's been a very long time since I've had a traveling companion. I've gotten rather used to wearing the shroud all the time. I'll try not to use it unless it's an emergency."

There was a brief pause, a moment of still contrast to the violence that had unfolded around them. Orlando searched for something to say, but failed.

Lelanda seemed only slightly more at ease, picking up the frayed threads of conversation. "I asked you what you had found," she reminded him.

"Looks like a piece of that staff Jolind used to carry with her; feels like it too, almost as cold as those blizzards it could summon up."

Lelanda tilted her head and looked at the broken staff. Her lips pursed as she considered the broken end and several places along its length where something had cut deeply into it. "There was some pretty powerful magic woven into this thing. It wouldn't be easy to break. The weapon that hacked these notches out of it and finally broke it must have been every bit as powerful. That doesn't bode well for our future."

Silence fell upon the garden again. Orlando went back to fishing through the shrubs, eventually finding the other section of Jolind's staff.

Lelanda examined the head, looking into the druid's

eyes as if she might read the woman's dying thoughts. Then she walked a distance toward Orlando and called to him. He met her halfway between the shrubs and the fallen body.

"We've learned a little bit from an examination of the area and the body, but Jolind can tell us more."

"Necromancy?" asked Orlando, the word sounding just as bitter as it tasted in his mouth. She nodded. He growled. "I suppose there's no choice. Get it over with."

"I'll have to..."

"I know," he said.

Two steps brought the witch to the edge of the bloody pool, another to the place where Jolind's severed head had come to land. She looked back at Orlando, flashed him an uncomfortable smile, and raised the hood of the shroud above her head. Instantly, it became difficult for the warrior to focus his eyes on her. Even knowing where she had been standing only a few seconds earlier, he could discern nothing but the faintest impression of the shrouded figure.

The magical energies of death and darkness answered Lelanda's urging. She spoke words of power whose sounds had no meaning to Orlando's untrained ears. He felt the strange tugging of death at his spirit and knew that something stood nearby, hungering for the taste of his soul, contained only by the power of Lelanda's will. If her concentration failed, the consequences could well be disastrous. Then, with a cry of agony from the unseen mage, the spell was completed.

Orlando steeled his nerve as the eyes on Jolind's severed head snapped open. The thin-lipped mouth did likewise, and a hissing, hollow scream filled the garden. Unable to stand the sight, Orlando turned his head away. He felt the need to vomit, but retained control of his traumatized body by remembering that a deadly enemy might lurk nearby.

Jolind, said the spectral necromancer, can you hear me?

"Yesss," responded an empty, lifeless voice. "Who are you? Your voice is familiar ... but distant."

Jolind, this is Lelanda. I'm here with Orlando. We've come to help you.

At that, the disembodied head released a humorless, rasping laugh. "You're a little late for that, old friend."

Orlando's nerve buckled, but did not fail him.

I know. We're sorry. But we want to find the person who did this to you. He murdered Jaybel and Gwynn, too. Can you help us? Did you recognize your killer?

"Yes, I know who killed me," whispered Jolind.

Then tell me, Jolind. Be quick; the spell is failing fast, urged Lelanda.

Orlando couldn't decide which was more macabre, the living but unseen spirit of the wizard or the dead, but substantial head of the druid.

"Kesmarex," hissed the head as the eyes slipped quietly shut and the jaw went slack. The spell had ended, and the spirit of the druid had gone to rest with those of her ancestors.

Orlando hoped she would find peace there. In his heart, he said a last farewell to the woman who had meant so much to him so long ago. It seemed a crime to have drifted away from her. He wondered what mysteries had died with her. A single tear slipped down his bronze cheek.

Kesmarex? said the witch, slipping the hood of the shroud from around her locks and emerging beside the fallen druid. "Who is that?"

"It's not a who," said Orlando. "It's a what. That was the name given to Shandt's battle-axe by the dwarves who forged it. It mean's something like 'Vengeance of the King,' but the words don't translate perfectly into our language."

"But Shandt is dead," said the witch, her voice trailing off into a haunting silence.

"I know." Orlando exhaled. "He couldn't have survived." After a moment of reflection, he continued. "Tell me more about the wards around this place. Just how certain are you an undead creature couldn't have gotten in here . . . ?"

An hour or so later, Orlando still hadn't made sense of Jolind's warning. "If it was Shandt, he'll be back to get us," said Orlando. "He wasn't one to leave a job undone."

Rather than answer, Lelanda merely poked at the campfire that now burned at the heart of Jolind's tower.

In the last few hours, her beauty had begun to look worn and haggard. Orlando studied her face, which was still delicate and gentle, with innocent features that belied the cunning viper that lurked within. Still, there was something human showing through the facade she maintained. "How did you ever become a wandering adventurer?"

"I don't really know," said the witch. "It just happened, I guess. I was studying in Waterdeep, the usual courses they force on a child of a merchant prince, but they just weren't enough to keep my attention. One of the other students said he was being tutored in magic by an old woman on the outskirts of town. I followed him one day and learned where his teacher lived. When he left, I paid her a visit and demanded she teach me magic. She looked me over carefully and refused.

"I was furious. I guess I was more than a little spoiled in those days. When I tried to pay her for the lessons, she wouldn't take my money. I'd never .met anyone like her before, anyone that gold couldn't buy. It took me weeks of pestering her, but she finally agreed. I guess she wanted proof of my devotion.

"About a year later, I showed up for my lesson and found her dead. She had been murdered by a pack of thieves—assassins, really, in the service of a dark priest. I vowed to avenge her death. That took me another year. By then, I'd gotten used to life on the road, and returning to Waterdeep just didn't seem very palatable to me. I never went back to school or to see my family. I suppose they assumed I'd been killed while trying to avenge my mentor. Somehow, it just didn't matter anymore."

A gust of wind swirled through the tower, twisting the flames that danced above the hearth and lifting a cloud of glowing embers into the air. Lelanda gazed silently at them as if there might be some hidden meaning in their traces. "How about you?" she asked.

"Ever been a farmer?" he asked in answer.

"No," she said.

"Well, if you had been, you'd understand perfectly."

Lelanda laughed, a clear and sweet sound that Orlando never would have expected from her. There, in the garden

where they had once slain a black dragon and had recently buried an old friend, he saw a side of her he had never thought existed. His hand, as if it had a will of its own, reached out and rested atop hers. Her laugh faded away, and her green eyes shifted to meet his.

"Orlando," she said, and then a shock went through her body. Every muscle was rigid for a second, and her eyes bulged. As suddenly as the spasm had struck her, it passed. She went limp and toppled forward, the blade of the great axe Kesmarex buried in her back.

The warrior, his rekindled reflexes already in action, sprang back. Without conscious thought, he brought the enchanted sword Talon into play, interposing it between himself and whoever might wield the ancient battle-axe. "Shandt," he cried, "is that you?"

There was no answer, but in a second Orlando knew none would be forthcoming. With a swift and sudden motion, the axe Kesmarex lifted into the air. Lelanda's blood dripped from the blade, but no living hand wielded the weapon.

At last, Orlando understood. He had always known Shandt's blade was enchanted, but had never realized the full extent of its power. Now, years after the death of its owner, the weapon had tracked down the people it blamed for Shandt's death.

Describing a great arc in the air, Kesmarex swept toward the warrior. He fell back, uncertain how to attack a weapon that had no wielder. He jabbed feebly with Talon, but found that the axe was every bit as maneuver-able as it had been in Shandt's hand.

"You don't understand," Orlando cried. "We had no choice!" The battle-axe chopped at his legs, causing him to leap backward. When his feet touched the ground, he felt the soft earth shift and give way. He had landed squarely on Jolind's grave. Unable to retain his balance, Orlando toppled over and thudded hard on his back. The blade of the axe flashed through the air inches above his nose. Had he still been standing, it would certainly have severed his leg at the knee.

"Shandt was buying us time to escape!" he yelled. The

axe, unheeding, swept upward as if it were being held aloft by its departed master. For a brief second, it hung there. Then, like the blade of a headsman at the block, Kesmarex plunged downward. Orlando tried to roll aside, but the enchanted blade sensed his intention and twisted to follow him. With a metallic crash, it smashed into the warrior's bronze breastplate, tearing through the amber metal and biting into the soft flesh beneath.

Pain burned through Orlando's body as clouds of red rolled across his vision. Talon fell from a nerveless hand, making no sound as it landed atop Jolind's newly dug grave. As the vengeful weapon drew back for its fatal strike, Orlando's hands clutched at the searing wound. His fingers touched jagged metal, exposed flesh, and warm, flowing blood.

And something else. Something smooth and warm and comforting: the amulet of Clanggedin Silverbeard. His fingers closed upon the medallion, and he snatched it clear of his neck. The silver chain upon which it hung stretched and snapped. As the great weapon began to sweep downward, Orlando held the holy symbol high.

"Shandt was my friend!" he cried. "I would have died to save him!"

Moonlight, sifting down from the cloudless sky, struck the glass dome and streamed down into the garden. It fell upon the fallen body of Lelanda, the druid's fresh grave, and the silver axe that sought to avenge its owner's death. Two pinpoints glinted brightly in the shaft of moonlight, one the blade edge and the other the pendant.

VI

Orlando stepped back from the wall. He had returned Talon to its place and cocked his head left and right to make sure it was positioned properly. He reached out and lifted the hilt an imperceptible fraction of an inch.

"Don't worry," said Lelanda from the couch on which she lay. "You've got it right."

Orlando nodded and turned back to the table behind him. With his right hand, he reached tentatively for the

great battle-axe Kesmarex, but something stopped his fingers just short of its haft. His other hand slipped to his neck and touched the silver pendant that hung from its recently repaired chain.

His thoughts drifted back to the battle in Jolind's garden. He remembered the great blade falling toward his head, the hollow sound of his voice as it filled the silent garden, and the flash of light that came when the holy symbol was presented. Somehow, the battle-axe recognized the amulet and knew that the silver symbol belonged to the same warrior whose hands had once wielded it. Knowing that anyone who wore that particular crossed battle-axe medallion must be a friend of its owner, it had fallen inert. As far as Kesmarex was concerned, its mission was completed.

He returned to the present as a delicate hand touched his shoulder. He turned and found the emerald eyes of Lelanda scant inches away from his own. The gold band on her finger reflected a greatly distorted image of his own countenance.

"You shouldn't be up," he said, urging her gently back to the couch.

"I'll be okay," she said, "the wound's almost healed. Hang up the axe and come to bed."

Orlando nodded and lifted the magical weapon from its resting place. He turned and elevated it to a place of honor above the hearth. Next to it, he hung the amulet that had saved his life.

"Rest quietly, old friend," said the crimson-haired witch.

Orlando said nothing, but in his heart he knew that Lelanda's wish had been granted.

THE WILD BUNCH