But Grimlish soon tired of this sport. He leveled his spear and charged. The elfwoman spun,
bringing her sword down hard on the haft of the weapon. The force of her blow drove the spear's point
downward, and it plunged deep into the forest floor. Grimlish could not halt his charge. The spear
bent like a bow in his hands. He released it, an instant before it would have flung him up and over the
elfwoman. The weapon sprang upright, quivering like a sapling in a gale. Grimlish fell back, but not
before the female's sword scored a deep gash across his chest.

Badger darted in for the kill. With astonishing speed, the elf pivoted and kicked out. Her booted
foot caught the man just below the ribs and bent him double. Before he could recover, she swept her
sword into a powerful upward arc. Badger's bald, tattooed head went spinning off into the forest, and
his headless body slumped to the sodden earth.

But in her triumph, the elfwoman ensured her defeat. The powerful blow opened her wound, and
the bandage on her arm turned as deep a crimson as the tanned ears on Grimlish's trophy necklace.
The wounded orc, scenting another victory, drew a pair of long knives and closed in, hissing at Drom
to stand back and leave this kill to him.

Suddenly the orc jerked, his massive back arching and his arms thrown out wide. The morning
light glinted from the jeweled hilt of the knife buried deep between his shoulder blades. The female
stepped forward and drew her sword cleanly across Grimlish's throat.

Suddenly Drom understood the reason for his nagging uncertainty. He and his fellow hunters had
been tricked.

The trail of blood to the cairn was false, an illusion they might have seen through but for the
actions of the wolf. Something had weighted down the male's step, something had been buried
beneath that tree, but it was no elf.

"A doe," said a voice behind him, an elven voice musical in tone and rich with dark humor. Before
the half-orc could move, a strong hair seized his yellow braid, and the keen edge of a knife pressed
hard against his throat.

Drom knew that his death would be swift and well deserved. He had cloaked himself with the pelt
of a wolf to signal his respect for the animal and his desire to emulate him. Yet the elf had done him
one better. In cloaking himself with the illusion of the wolf, the magic-wielding elf had proven
himself the better hunter.

"Elaith, wait," the female protested, clutching her wounded arm and eyeing the clever ambush with
disapproval. "He is just a boy."

"A boy? He cut down the village elder and sliced off his left ear. If this half-breed orc is old
enough to kill, he is old enough to be killed," the male said coldly.

Still she hesitated. "But from behind? It is not the way of an elf."

"It is the way of a wolf," Drom countered, his voice steady. "I am bested, and I am content to die."

The female's eyes flicked to Drom's face, then over his shoulder to the elf who held him captive. A
canny, knowing look glinted in her blue eyes.

"He wants to die," she said softly. "The others won't have him back."

There was a long pause. The male did not loosen his hold on Drom's hair, or move the knife from
his throat. The half-orc could almost feel his captor's frustration and indecision.

Then the knife lifted, moved to the side. With a quick slash, the elf traced a wound in Drom's
weapon arm that matched the one Badger had dealt the female—but deeper, rifting the muscle in a
way that would never truly mend. Drom did not cry out, not then, and not even when the male's blade
bit through his left boot, just above his ankle. Unable to stand, never again able to hunt, Drom

slumped to the ground.

The female's eyes filled with fury. "Do you have any idea what you've done to him? It would have
been kinder to kill him outright!''

The elf called Elaith circled around, his wolf-gold eyes bright as he surveyed the ruined hunter.
"Yes, I suppose so," he said mildly. With that, he turned and disappeared into the forest.

The female hesitated, then she reached into a bag at her belt and stooped beside Drom. She placed
on the ground a healing potion and a small roll of cloth—a bandage, with a small bone needle thrust
into it. With this, he would mend himself, and perhaps survive.

But why would he want to?

"The wisest wolves, the canniest hunters, find new ways," she said. Her voice was low and intense,
and something in it drew Drom's gaze to hers. "If they truly wish to, they can find new and better
packs."

For a long moment, half-orc and half-elf, hunter and hunted, regarded each other with
understanding and honor.

Then she was gone, moving lightly after the wolf-clever male.

An agonized howl burst from the young hunter, born of the pain of his injuries, and the loss of the
only life he'd ever known. The eerie cry echoed deep into the forest and lingered long in the mist-
heavy air. And when at last the sound faded away, Drom found that the stillness within was a
strangely beautiful thing.

Acting on an impulse he did not quite understand, Drom reached into his bag and drew out the
little flask of tanning fluid. He flung his trophies into the underbrush. Something there caught his eye,
and he dragged himself over for a closer look.

There, where the half elf had disappeared into the forest, was a bent twig. And not far beyond,
another. She had left a trail for him, a clear trail that even a lame and wounded boy might follow. A
trail to her.

New ways, a new pack. Was it possible?

A smile touched the corners of Drom's lips as he reached for the needle and the bandage. Perhaps
not, but it would be a worthy hunt.

Originally published in Realms of Mystery
Edited by Philip Athans, June 1998

SPEAKING WITH THE DEAD

Let me tell you, it's not easy to set a mystery in a world where secrets yield to spells and corpses
tend to sit up and point cold, gray fingers at their killers. Clerics can summon the spirits of the dead
and compel them to answer three questions, and one of the immutable cosmic laws is that the dead
cannot lie.

When the body of a gnome innkeeper is discovered with Elaith Craulnober's dagger through the
heart, the gnome's wife, a priestess, has a brief but very public chat with her husband's spirit. The
results don't look good for Elaith, and the task of proving his "innocence," at least in this particular
matter, falls to Danilo Thann.

SPEAKING WITH THE DEAD

The sun began to disappear behind the tall, dense pines of the Cloak Wood, and the colors of an
autumn sunset—deep, smoky purples and rose-tinted gold—stained the sky over the Coast Way.
Every member of the south-bound caravan quickened his pace. While splendidly mounted merchants
urged their steeds on and drovers cracked whips over the backs of the stolid dray horses hitched to the
wagons, the mercenary guards loosened their weapons and peered intently into the lengthening
shadows. The trade route was dangerous at any time, but doubly so at night. But truth be told, most of
the caravan members lived in greater fear of their own captain than of any chance-met monster or
band of brigands. Elaith Craulnober was not an elf to be trifled with, and he had bid them make the
fortress by nightfall.

"Last hill! Fortress straight ahead!" shouted one of the scouts. The news rippled through the
company in a murmur of relief.

From his position near the rear of the caravan, Danilo Thann leaned forward to whisper words of
encouragement into his tired horse's back-turned ears. The ears were a bad sign, for the horse could be
as balky as a cart mule. Once they crested the last hill, all would be well. The sight of a potential
stable would spur the horse on as little else could, for he was a comfort-loving beast. He was also a
beauty, with a sleek, glossy coat the color of ripe wheat. Danilo had turned down several offers from
merchants who coveted the showy beast, and had shrugged off a good deal of jesting from the other
guards. Dan felt a special affinity for this horse. The "pretty pony," as the sneering mercenaries called
him, had more going for him than met the eye. He was beyond doubt the most intelligent steed Danilo
had ever encountered, and utterly fearless in battle. His mincing gait could change in a heartbeat to a
battle charge. In Dan's opinion, the horse would have been a worthy paladin's mount, if not for its
pleasure-loving nature and its implacable stubborn streak—both of which were traits Dan understood
well.

He patted his horse's neck and turned to his companion of nearly four years, a tall, rangy figure
who was wrapped in a dark cloak such as a peasant might wear, and riding a raw-boned, gray-dappled
mare. The rider's height and seat and well-worn boots suggested a young man of humble means, well
accustomed to the road. This, Dan knew, was a carefully cultivated illusion. This illusion was a
needed thing, perhaps, but he was growing tired of it.

Danilo reached out and tugged back the hood of his partner's cloak. The dying light fell upon a
delicate elven face, framed by a chin-length tumble of black curls and dominated by large blue eyes,
almond-shaped and flecked with gold. These marvelous eyes narrowed dangerously as they settled on
him.

"What in the Nine bloody Hells was that about?" Arilyn demanded as she jerked her hood back
into place.

"It seems days since I've had a good look at you, and what's the harm? We're almost at the Friendly
Arm," Danilo said. His smile broadened suggestively. "The name suggests possibilities, does it not?"

The half-elf sniffed. "A bard from a noble merchant clan can travel wherever he pleases, drawing
attention but not suspicion. But I am known in these parts as a Harper agent."

Danilo rather enjoyed the reproof, spoken as it was in a musical alto. He dismissed her concerns
with a quick, casual flip of one bejewelled hand. "When we passed through Baldur's Gate, certain
precautions were in order. But I hear the gnomes who hold this fortress are admirable little fellows—
easygoing folk who set a fine table and mind their own affairs. And the Friendly Arm is perhaps the
only truly neutral spot within a tenday's ride. Nothing much ever happens within the fortress walls, so
why should we not relax and enjoy ourselves?"

"We have business to attend," she reminded him.

"I'm honored that you take your responsibilities to the caravan so seriously," said a new voice, one
slightly lower and even more musical than Arilyn's, rich with dark, wry humor. The companions
turned to face a silver-haired elf, just as he reined his cantering horse into step with Arilyn's mare.
Neither of them had heard the newcomer's approach.

Enchanted horseshoes, no doubt, Danilo mused. Elaith Craulnober was known to have a fondness
for magical items, and a wicked delight in keeping those around him off guard. The elf also valued
information. Though Elaith would probably have given Arilyn anything she asked of him, Danilo

suspected the elf had another motive for allowing a representative of the Thann merchant clan to ride
along with his caravan. Elaith knew that both Danilo and Arilyn were Harpers, and that members of
this secret organization usually had duties far more pressing than acting as caravan guards. No doubt
he wondered what these might be, and how he might profit from this knowledge.

Arilyn mirrored the elf's faint smile. "I take all my responsibilities seriously. Too seriously, if
Danilo is to be believed."

In response to that, Elaith lifted one brow and murmured an Elvish phrase, a highly
uncomplimentary remark that defied precise translation into the Common trade tongue. His jaw
dropped in astonishment when both Arilyn and Danilo burst into laughter. After a moment, he smiled
ruefully and shrugged. "So, bard, you understand High Elvish. I suppose that shouldn't have surprised
me."

"And had you known, would you have chosen your words with more tact?" Danilo asked,
grinning.

Elaith shrugged again. "Probably not."

The three of them rode in silence for several minutes. Something that for lack of a better term
could be called friendship had grown between the elf and the Harpers, but Danilo never lost sight of
the fact that theirs was a tenuous alliance. They were too different for it to be otherwise. Elaith
Craulnober was a moon elf adventurer, landowner, and merchant. He had far-flung interests, few of
which were entirely legal, and a well-earned reputation for cruelty, treachery, and deadly prowess in
battle. Arilyn was half-elven, the daughter of Elaith's lost elven love. She was as focused upon duty as
a paladin, and Danilo suspected that she would not allow a shared history and a common heritage to
stay her hand should Elaith step beyond the bounds of law and honor. Danilo was, on the whole, a bit
more flexible about such things. He had traveled with Elaith when circumstances had enforced a
partnership between them, and they had developed a cautious, mutual respect. But Danilo did not trust
the elf. There were too many dangerous secrets between them, too many deadly insults exchanged,
too many treacheries barely avoided.

At that moment, they crested the hill and the fortress came suddenly into sight. Nestled in a broad
valley just to the east of the trade route, it was a sturdy and defensible holdfast of solid granite. A tall,
thick curtain wall enclosed an austere castle and a bailey big enough to house perhaps a score of other
buildings. This holdfast, once a wizard's keep, was now a wayside inn held and operated by a clan of
gnomes.

The massive portcullis rose with a whirring of gears—a sure sign of a gnomish devise, noted
Danilo. Most of the holdfast's inhabitants were simple folk occupied with the maintenance of the
castle, but in recent years a few gnomes from the island of Lantan had settled at the Friendly Arm,
bringing with them the worship of Gond the Wonderbringer and a corresponding fondness for
mechanical devices that were often entertaining and occasionally useful.

The chain raising the portcullis slipped, and the pointed iron bars plunged downward. One of the
men approaching the gate shrieked and lunged from his horse. He hit the dirt and rolled aside just as
the portcullis came to an abrupt stop, mere inches from its highest point. This brought much laughter
and many rough jests from the other members of the caravan, but Danilo noticed that they all rode
through the gate with more alacrity than usual.

Inside the fortress wall, chaos reigned. The holdfast was home to perhaps three-or four-score
gnomes, hill-loving folk small enough to walk comfortably under the belly of Danilo's tall horse. Most
of these gnomes seemed to be out and about, busily loading goods into the warehouses, tending horses
in a long, low stable, directing the wagons into covered sheds, or bustling in and out of the many
small buildings that filled the Friendly Arm's grass-covered bailey.

Danilo took the opportunity to observe this unusual clan closely. They looked a bit like dwarves,
although somewhat shorter and considerably less broad than the mountain-dwelling folk. The male
gnomes wore their beards short and neatly trimmed, and the females' faces, unlike those of dwarf
women, were smooth and rosy-cheeked. All the gnomes had small blue eyes, pointed ears, extremely
long noses, and skin that echoed all the browns of the forest, from the gray-brown of the dusk-wood
tree to the deeply weathered hue of old cedar. They favored forest shades in their clothing as well, and
the lot of them were dressed in browns and greens, with an adventurous few adding a hint of autumn
color.

They were certainly industrious folk. Nearly every pace of the courtyard was occupied by horse or

wagon, but the gnomes directed the seeming chaos with the ease of long practice. A northbound
caravan had arrived shortly before Elaith's, and the southerners were still busily securing their goods
for the night. Merchants shouted instructions to their servants in a half dozen southern dialects. A few
swarthy guards loitered about, leaning against the walls and sizing up the newcomers with an eye
toward the evening's entertainment. In Danilo's experience, it was always so. The road was long, and
travelers were ever on the lookout for a new tale or tune, some competition at darts or dice or
weapons, or a bit of dalliance. Most of the guards from both caravans had already gone into the
castle's great-hall-turned-tavern, if the din coming from the open doors was any indication.

"Shall we join the festivities?" Danilo asked his companion. He handed the reins of his horse to a
gnomish lad—along with a handful of coppers—and then slipped an arm around Arilyn's waist.

She side-stepped his casual embrace and sent him a warning look from beneath her hood. "I am
supposed to be your servant, remember?" she warned him. "You learn what you can in the great hall
while I talk to the stable hands."

The young bard sighed in frustration, but he had no argument to counter Arilyn's logic. He nodded
and turned aside, only to step right into the unsteady path of a stocky, dark-haired man. There was no
time to dodge: they collided with a heavy thud.

The dark, smoky scent of some unfamiliar liqueur rolled off the man in waves. Danilo caught him
by the shoulders to steady him, then pushed him out at arm's length—after all, one could never be too
careful. The man was unfamiliar to him: a southerner, certainly, with a beak of a nose under what
appeared to be a single long eyebrow, a vast mustache, and skin nearly as brown as a gnome's. He
appeared harmless enough. He carried no apparent weapons, and his rich clothing suggested a bored
merchant whose only thought was to wash away the dust of a long road with an abundance of strong
spirits.

"Are you quite all right?" Danilo inquired politely. "Shall I summon your manservant to help you
to your room?"

The man mumbled something unintelligible and wrenched himself free. Dan watched him stagger
off, then glanced back for a final look at Arilyn and did an astonished double take. She had fallen
back into the shadows between two small buildings and dropped to one knee. There was a throwing
knife in her gloved hand, held by the tip and ready to hurl.

"I know that man," she said as she tucked the knife back into her boot. "Worse yet, he knows me.
He was in the assassin's guild with me, in Zazesspur."

Danilo swore fervently and joined Arilyn in the shadows. Together they squeezed back into a
narrow, gnome-sized alley. "Well, at least this confirms that we are on the right path," he said in a
low, grim tone. "I suppose it could be mere happenstance that a hired sword from Zazesspur shows up
at this particular time, but it's my observation that true coincidence is a rare thing—except in
Selgauntan opera, of course..."

Arilyn nodded absently. "I'll find out who sent him." Danilo swallowed the protest that was his
first instinct. Arilyn had spent many months posing as an assassin in Tethyr. The competition among
those ranks was fierce and deadly at the best of times, and she had not left the guild under good terms.
But she was right: they needed to know what prompted an assassin's presence in this neutral holdfast.
Even if the assassin's purpose was not the same as the Harpers', no one would risk violating the peace
of the Friendly Arm unless the need was dire, or the potential gain great. To do so would bar the doors
of the fortress against the wrongdoers for a gnome's centuries-long memory. This was a severe
penalty in these troubled lands, which for so many years could claim few truly neutral places.

Still, change was in the air. The seemingly endless civil war within Tethyr was winding to a close.
Zaranda Star had been acclaimed queen in the city of Zazesspur, and was on the way to solidifying
her hold on the entire country. To this end, she was preparing for a marriage of convenience to the last
known heir to the royal House of Tethyr. There were factions, however, whose interests were better
served by chaos and who had no desire to see peace come to their land. When the Harpers learned that
there was a potential challenger to Zaranda's throne, a distant relative of the soon-to-be-king and thus
a potential bride, they foresaw trouble. Danilo and Arilyn had been sent to find the young woman and
bring her to safety in the Northlands before someone else made her a pawn in a renewed struggle,
someone who might send an assassin to retrieve—or do away with—the unsuspecting girl.

Yes, concluded Dan glumly, Arilyn had no choice but to face the assassin.

"Be careful," he murmured. Before she could protest, he framed her face in his hands and tipped

back her head for a long and thorough kiss.

"You know better than to distract me before battle." Her tone tried for severity, but did not quite
succeed.

Danilo chuckled. "I shall take that as a compliment."

He turned and strode into the castle, his manner far more insouciant than his mood. But this was
his role to play, and he would attend to his part no less faithfully than did Arilyn.

Since this was his first visit to the Friendly Arm, he looked around with interest. The great hall had
been set up as a tavern. Long tables and sturdy wooden chairs were scattered about, some of them
gnome-sized, others intended for the comfort of taller travelers. A wild boar roasted on a spit in the
enormous hearth, and kettles of steaming, herb-scented vegetable stews kept warm in the embers
along either side. The air was thick with the fragrance of fresh bread and good, sour ale. Several
young women moved briskly about the room carrying trays and tankards.

Prompted more by habit than inclination, Danilo slid an appraising eye over the nearest barmaid.
She was young, not much past twenty, and blessed with an abundance of black hair and truly
impressive curves. The former was left gloriously unbound, and the later were displayed by a tightly-
laced scarlet bodice over a chemise pulled down to expose her shoulders. Her skirts ended several
flirtatious inches above her ankles, and her black eyes scanned the room. They lit up with an
avaricious gleam when they settled upon the richly-dressed newcomer.

The barmaid eased her way through the crowd to Danilo's side. A passing merchant jostled her at a
highly opportune moment, sending her bumping into the Harper. She made a laughing apology, then
tilted her head and slanted a look at him through lowered lashes. "And what can I get you, my lord?"

"Killed, most likely," he said, thinking of the response this flirtation would earn from the half-elf
who was prowling the shadows beyond the brightly-lit hall. "Or severely wounded, at the very least."

The barmaid's dumbfounded expression brought a smile to his lips. "Wine, if you please," he
amended. "A bottle of your best Halruaan red, and several goblets."

As she wandered off to relay this order to another barmaid, Danilo scanned the tables for the
captains of the northbound caravan. Before he could make his way over, he found his path barred by a
stout, stern-faced, white-bearded gnome whose crimson jerkin was nearly matched in hue by an
exceedingly red and bulbous nose.

"Bentley Mirrorshade," the gnome announced.

Danilo nodded. "Ah, yes—the proprietor of this fine establishment. Allow me to intro—"

"I know who you are," Bentley interrupted in a gruff tone. "Word gets around. There'll be no
fighting and no spellcasting. Leave your weapons at the door. Sophie here will peace bind your left
thumb to your belt."

Danilo winced. "It appears I will never live down that incident in the Stalwart Club."

"Never heard about that one." The gnome nodded to the barmaid who had greeted Danilo earlier.
She fished a thin strip of leather from her pocket and deftly secured the bard's hand. As she worked,
Danilo scanned the room and noticed that he was not the only one subjected to such precautions: all
known mages were peace bound, and everyone was required to leave weapons at the door.

Danilo made his way to the merchant captains' table. After the introductions were made, he poured
out the first of several bottles of well-aged wine, and listened as the conversation flowed. Although
the merchants talked a great deal, they said little that informed his cause.

As the night wore on, Danilo found his eyes returning with increasing frequency to the door. His
fellow travelers trickled in as their duties were completed and the caravan and its goods secured.
Elaith was one of the latecomers. Danilo noted with interest that the elf was subjected to peace
binding. Few people knew of the moon elf's considerable magical abilities. Dan had heard that
Bentley Mirrorshade was a highly gifted mage, specializing in the illusionist's art. Obviously, he
didn't miss much. Still, Dan suspected that Elaith managed to retain a good many of his hidden
weapons.

The evening passed and the hall began to empty as the gnomes and their guests sought their beds.
As soon as he reasonably could, Danilo left the hall in search of his partner.

He found Arilyn in the stable, currying her mare. She looked up when he came into the stall. Her
face was pale and grim beneath its hood, and gave clear testament to her evening's work. Fighting
came easily to the half-elf—Danilo had never seen anyone who could handle a sword as well—but
killing did not. Even so, Danilo sensed at once that something else weighed heavily on her mind.

"Tell me," he prompted.

"I had to wait until Yoseff was alone," Arilyn said in a low, furious tone. "He had a meeting. With
Elaith Craulnober."

Danilo hissed a curse from between clenched teeth. "Why am I not surprised? Did you hear what
was said?"

"No, nothing. Elaith must have cast a spell of silence, or some such thing."

"Now what?" mused Dan, running one hand through his hair in a gesture of pure frustration. He
had investigated Elaith's purpose in this trip, which was allegedly to acquire exotic goods from
faraway Maztica in the markets of Amn. The elf would make a fine profit selling these wares to the
merchants of Waterdeep, but he had also arranged to acquire goods that were restricted or forbidden
outright: feather magic, enspelled gems, possibly even slaves. Danilo had considered this the extent of
Elaith's planned mischief; apparently, he had been wrong.

"And the assassin? What had he to say for himself?"

"Yoseff was never one for conversation," Arilyn said shortly. "But he carried a few things that
might help us."

She reached into the bag that hung from her belt and took several glittering objects from it. The
first to catch Danilo's eye was a finely wrought gold locket on a heavy gold chain. A very nice
amethyst—brilliant cut, thumb-sized, and deep purple in hue—was set into the front of the locket and
a wisp of fine, black hair was nestled within.

"An amulet of seeking," he surmised, fingering the soft curl. "Hair so soft could only have
belonged to an elf or a baby. I'm guessing the latter. So we not only have a fair idea who the assassin
came to find, but also who sent him—may all the gods damn the woman who would so use her own
child!"

Before he could elaborate, a female voice, raised in a keening wail, cut through the night. It was a
chilling sound, an age-old, wordless song of mourning. It spoke of death more clearly than any cleric's
eulogy, and far more poignantly.

Arilyn bolted from the stable with Danilo close behind her. They dashed through the nearly empty
hall, toward the babble of gnomish voices in a side chamber. A thick-chested gnome barred their way,
an odd-looking fellow with hair and skin of nearly matching shades of slate gray. Danilo recognized
him from descriptions as Garith Hunterstock, Bentley's second-in-command. Though the gnomish
commander was determined to keep them out, the Harpers were tall enough to see over the heads of
the crowd.

In the room beyond, Bentley Mirrorshade lay in a spreading pool of blood. The hilt of a jeweled
dagger rose from his chest.

"No one in, no one out," the gnome guard decreed. He raised his voice and began to bellow orders.
"Lower the portcullis and bar the gates! Archers, to the walls! Shoot down anyone who tries to leave
the fortress before the murderer is found."

* * * * *

Later that night, Danilo and his "servant" attended a grim gathering in the castle's hall. The body of
Bentley Mirrorshade lay in state upon a black-draped table. Lit torches lined the walls, casting a
somber, golden light.

The crowd parted to allow a green-robed gnome woman to pass. Respectful silence filled the room
as Gellana Mirrorshade, the high priestess of Garl Glittergold and the widow of Bentley Mirrorshade,
made her way to her husband's bier. She carried herself with admirable dignity. Her pale brown face
was set in rigid lines, but her eyes were steady and dry.

The priestess spoke into the silence. "You are gathered here to see justice done. It is no small thing
to speak with the dead, but evil deeds must not go unpunished."

Gellana began the words and gestures of a complicated ritual. Danilo watched closely; nothing
about the spell was familiar to him. He had studied magic since his twelfth year with no less a teacher
than the archmage Khelben Arunsun, but the magic of a wizard and that of a priest were very different
things. Apparently, the priestess was skilled and devout, for a translucent image of Bentley
Mirrorshade slowly took form in the air above the pall.

"The dead must speak truth," Gellana said softly, "and in life or in death, Bentley Mirrorshade

would tell no direct lie. Tell us, my husband, who is responsible for this death."

The specter's eyes swept the assemblage. His stubby, translucent finger lifted, swept to the left, and
leveled at Elaith Craulnober with a sharp, accusing stab.

For the first time in their acquaintance, Danilo saw the elf's composure utterly forsake him. Elaith's
face went slack and ashen, and his amber-hued eyes widened in stunned disbelief.

"What nonsense is this?" the elf protested as soon as he could gather enough of his wits to fuel
speech. "I am innocent of this thing!"

"Silence!" Gellana demanded. She held a jeweled dagger up for the ghostly gnome's inspection.
"Was this the weapon used?"

The spectral head rose and fell once, slowly, in a nod of confirmation. Despite the gravity of the
occasion, Danilo could not help but observe that the gnome's spirit had a remarkable flair for drama.

"And whose dagger is this?" persisted Gellana.

"It belongs to the elf," proclaimed the spirit. "It is Elaith Craulnober's dagger."

Gellana Mirrorshade's eyes were hard as they swept the gathering. "Have you heard enough? May
I release my husband, and in his name order the death of this treacherous elf?"

A murmur arose, gathering power and fury. The accused elf stood alone in an angry circle of
gnomes, buffeted by a storm of accusation and demands for immediate retribution. Elaith's eyes went
flat and cool, and his chin lifted with elven hauteur as he faced his death.

That gesture, that purely elven mixture of pride and courage and disdain, was to be his salvation.
Danilo had always been a fool for all things elven, and this moment proved no exception. He sighed
and quickly cast a cantrip that would add power and persuasion to his voice.

"Wait," he demanded.

The single word thrummed through the great hall like a clarion blast, and the gnomes fell suddenly
silent. Garith Hunterstock froze, his sword poised to cut the elf down. Danilo reached out and gently
eased the gnome's blade away from Elaith Craulnober's throat.

"The elf claims innocence," he said. "We should at least consider the possibility that he speaks
truth."

"Bentley Mirrorshade himself accused the elf!" shouted a high-pitched gnomish voice from the
crowd.

"The dead do not lie!" another small voice added.

"That is true enough," Dan agreed in a conciliatory tone, "but perhaps there is some other
explanation that will serve both truths."

Inspiration struck, and he glanced at Arilyn. She stood near the back of the room, nearly
indistinguishable from the shadows. "Earlier this evening, Elaith Craulnober was seen meeting with a
known thief and assassin. Perhaps this man stole the dagger, and used it to kill the gnome?"

"That is not possible," Arilyn said flatly. "The assassin was dead before Bentley Mirrorshade's
murder."

"Dead?" Garith Hunterstock said, turning a fierce glare in her direction. "By whose hand?"

The half-elf returned his gaze steadily. "He attacked me; I defended myself. You will find his body
behind the smokehouse."

"And who might you be?" demanded the gnome.

Arilyn slipped down her cowl and stepped into the firelight. Before she could speak, a young
gnome clad in forest green let out a startled exclamation. "I know her! She's the Harper who fought
alongside the elves of Tethyr's forest. If she says the stiff behind the smokehouse needed killing, that's
good enough for me. And if she speaks for yonder elf, I say that's reason enough to think things over
real careful."

Dozens of expectant faces turned in Arilyn's direction. Danilo saw the flicker of regret in her eyes
as she met Elaith's stare, and he knew what her answer would be.

"I cannot speak for him," she said. "On the other hand, it never hurts to think things over. Lord
Thann has apparently appointed himself Elaith Craulnober's advocate. Give them time—two days,
perhaps—to prove the elf's claim of innocence. I know of Bentley Mirrorshade, and nothing I've heard
suggests that he would want anyone denied a fair hearing."

A soft, angry mutter greeted her words, but no one could think of a way to refute them. Garith
Hunterstock ordered the elf taken away and imprisoned. The others left, too, slipping away in silence
to leave Gellana Mirrorshade alone with her dead.

* * * * *

As the sun edged over the eastern battlements of the fortress, Danilo made his way down the
tightly spiraling stairs that led to the dungeon. It was a dank, gloomy place, lit only by an occasional
sputtering torch thrust into a rusted sconce.

Since Elaith was the only prisoner, his cell was not hard to find. Danilo followed the faint light to
the far corner of the dungeon. The elf's cell was small, the ceiling too low for him to stand upright.
The only furniture was a straw pallet. Elaith wore only his leggings and shirt, and his thumbs were
entrapped in opposite ends of a metal tube, a gnomish device of some sort designed to make spellcasting
impossible. He had been stripped of weapons, armor, and magical items. These lay heaped in an
impressive pile, well beyond reach of the cell.

Danilo eyed the glittering hoard. "Did you actually wear all that steel? It's a wonder you could
walk without clanking."

The elf's furious, amber-eyed glare reminded Danilo of a trapped hawk. "Come to gloat?"

"Perhaps later," he said. "At the moment, though, I would rather hear what you have to say."

"And you would believe me?"

"I would listen. That seems a reasonable place to start."

The elf was silent for a long moment. "I did not kill the gnome."

"You know, of course, how difficult it is for the dead to lie," Danilo pointed out. "The spirit of
Bentley Mirrorshade named you as his killer. The weapon that dealt the killing stroke is yours. The
proof against you is formidable."

"Nevertheless, I am innocent," Elaith maintained. A sudden, fierce gleam lit his eyes. "I am
innocent, and you must prove me so."

Dan lifted one eyebrow. "Since I have a full two days, shouldn't I warm up with an easier task?
Pilfering Elminster's favorite pipe maybe, or bluffing an illithid at cards, or persuading Arilyn to
dance upon a tavern table?"

"I did not say the task would be easy, but when you signed on to travel with my caravan you
promised your support and aid to the expedition."

"Insofar as its purpose was lawful and just," Danilo specified.

"What better way to fulfill this pledge than to clear an innocent person, unjustly accused? And why
would you speak for me in the tavern, if you had no intention of following through?"

The Harper shrugged. "Excellent points. Very well, then, let's assume for argument's sake that I
will take on this task. Consider my dilemma; even under the best of circumstances, 'innocent' is not
the first word that comes to mind when your name is mentioned."

"Perhaps the gnome priestess erred."

"An unlikely possibility, but one I have already considered. Gellana Mirrorshade permitted me to
test the murder weapon myself," the Harper said. "I cast the needed spell not once, but three times.
Each time the result was the same. The dagger is indisputably yours, and it was indeed responsible for
the killing stroke. Now, I understand that most people would hardly consider my command of magic
sufficient to such a task—"

"Save your breath," Elaith said curtly. "I have seen what you can do. Your command of magic
exceeds my own. If it suits you to play the fool at court and muck about with minstrelry in taverns
rather than proclaiming yourself a wizard, that is your affair."

"Enough said, then. Let's consider the murder weapon. Was the dagger ever out of your keeping?
Did you entrust it to another? Lose it in a game of dice? Anything?"

Elaith shook his head. "I didn't even notice it was missing." With a grim smile, he nodded to the
pile of weapons outside his cell. "I carry several, you see."

The Harper folded his arms. "The situation is bleak, make no mistake about it. But it might interest
you to learn that I, too, seem to be without an item or two. It would appear there is a very talented
pickpocket at work here. I was jostled by the assassin Arilyn dispatched, and you were seen meeting
with. And speaking of which, is there anything you would like to tell me about that?"

"No."

"Not a surprising response, but I had to ask," Danilo commented. "As I was saying, this assassin
would be my first suspect. It is possible that he had a partner."

"It is possible, and a good place to start," the elf allowed. "Then you will do it? You will honor
your pledge?"

"Don't get your hopes too high. Arilyn bought us some time, but not much."

Elaith's gaze faltered. "She believes that I am responsible for the gnome's death."

The Harper didn't deny it. Arilyn had had a great deal to say about Danilo's defense of the rogue
elf. Dan's ears still burned from the heat of their argument. "My lady is occasionally more elven than
she realizes."

This earned a small, wry smile from Elaith. "If she could not be supportive, at least she has been
fair. More than fair. I don't suppose my other employees have followed her example."

"The caravan guards have already drawn their pay from the quartermaster, and plan to scatter once
the gates of the city are opened. Forgive me, but the prevailing attitude seems to be that this is a long
overdue justice."

The elf was silent for a long moment. "I am not unaware of the irony in my situation," he said
finally, "but I maintain that I am innocent of this murder. Go now, and prove it!"

* * * * *

That morning, over a breakfast of bread, cheese, and newly-pressed cider, Danilo related the
conversation to Arilyn. "And I have but two days to accomplish this miracle," he lamented in
conclusion. "You couldn't have asked for a tenday?"

The half-elf sighed and stabbed a piece of cheese with her table knife. "I doubt it would help. You
know Elaith as well as anyone, and you know he could have killed that gnome. He nearly killed you
once."

"Three times, actually, but why quibble?"

Arilyn sighed cast her eyes toward the ceiling. "Why do you persist in this?"

"My promise to help Elaith, and the task that brought us here," he said quietly.

His partner nodded, accepting this reasoning. "What do you propose to do?"

"You're not going to like this," Danilo cautioned, "but we could ask the priestess to speak to the
spirit of the dead assassin. We need to know who he was working for, and who he was working with."

Arilyn's lips thinned. "You know elves do not believe in disturbing the dead."

"But gnomes do. Gellana Mirrorshade can hardly deny us this, considering that she called back her
own husband's spirit. And what other course could we take?"

"Nearly any would be preferable," the half-elf grumbled, but Danilo read the surrender in her eyes
and tone. He tossed several silver coins on the table to pay for the meal and followed Arilyn out of the
tavern. One of the dark-haired barmaids sashayed over to clear the table and pocket the coins. The
barmaids were hardworking girls, Danilo noted, recognizing several faces familiar from the night
before.

Retrieving the assassin's body was an easy matter. The gnomes had simply tossed it into the
midden wagon along with the remnants of the wild boar they had roasted for their guests the night
before, some chicken bones, and an over-ripe haunch of venison. The gnomes regularly removed any
leftovers to the forest to feed the animals who lived there, and to return their bounty to the land. They
gave the dead assassin no less respect, and no more.

Danilo wrinkled his nose as he shouldered the dead man. "I can see why Gellana didn't want to do
the ritual on site. That venison should have been buried long ago."

"The same could be said of Yoseff," retorted Arilyn, "but that's another matter. Don't you think it
odd that Gellana Mirrorshade told us to bring his body to the temple?"

Her partner immediately seized her meaning. "Come to think of it, yes," he agreed as he fell into
step beside her. "Gellana Mirrorshade summons her own husband's spirit in a tavern. Why would she
afford greater honor to a human assassin? Perhaps she feared that the curious tall folk who gathered at
last night's summoning would ill fit the Shrine of the Short."

Arilyn's lips twitched. "The gnomes call it the Temple of Wisdom. But perhaps the size of the
temple explains the matter."

It did not. The Temple of Wisdom was undoubtedly a gnomish work—a curious, asymmetric
building fashioned of forest-hued stone and marble and filled with odd statues and embellished with
gems—but the vaulted ceilings made concession for human supplicants. In fact, the shrine was large

enough to accommodate all those who had witnessed the solemn ritual in the tavern the night before.
This puzzled Danilo. He watched the gnomish priestess carefully as she spoke the words of the spell.

A dank gray mist gathered in the hall and coalesced into the shape of the man who has jostled
Danilo the night before.

"Word your questions carefully," Gellana advised, "for the dead will tell you no more than they
must."

Danilo nodded and turned to the specter. "Who were you sent to find?"

"She was named Isabeau Thione; I know not what she is called now."

Arilyn and Danilo exchanged a look of mingled triumph and concern. This was indeed the woman
they had been sent to find, and their competitors were also close on her trail.

"Who sent you?" Danilo asked. "If you do not know names, describe the person or people."

"There were two: a fat man who smiles too much, and a small woman. She had the look of the old
nobility of Tethyr; fine features, dark eyes, and a curve to her nose. She wore purple, in the old style."

Danilo recognized Lucia Thione, an agent for the Knights of the Shield, recently exiled from
Waterdeep for treachery against the secret lords who ruled that city. She had never come to trial; hers
was a private justice. She was given over to Lord Hhune, her rival. The man had apparently kept her
alive for his own purposes. And Lady Thione, ever a survivor, had apparently found a way to earn her
keep. Twenty years before, she had birthed a daughter in secrecy and given her away into fosterage.
Apparently she now planned to reclaim the girl and present her as a more suitable bride to the royal
heir than Zaranda Star, a common-born mercenary with a purchased title. Danilo foresaw two possible
results: the girl would be accepted and crowned queen, thereby increasing Lucia Thione's influence
and status in Tethyr, or she would be rejected, but in the process providing a focal point to rally the
anti-Zaranda sentiment and foment rebellion.

"Thione and Hhune," Danilo commented in an aside to Arilyn. "The Harpers erred when they
made that match."

She nodded and turned with obvious reluctance to the spirit of the man she had killed. "What was
the purpose of your meeting with Elaith Craulnober?"

The spirit sneered. "The elf's purpose was the same as mine, the same as your own! Oh, yes, he
knew you sought the Thione heiress. He agreed to take you with him for that reason. He is using
Harper hounds to sniff out his quarry."

Arilyn turned away. "I have heard enough," she said shortly. "Send him back."

The priestess murmured a few words, and the figure of the assassin faded away. Danilo thanked
her, and led his grim-faced partner out of the temple.

"We need to talk to Elaith," he said.

"You talk to him. Yoseff was all I can stomach for one day."

"At least come and listen," he cajoled. "You might hear something that I miss. The answer lies
right before us—I am certain of that!"

"Finally, you're making sense," the half-elf said. "Elaith is guilty of murder and more. He planned
to find that girl, sell her to the highest bidder. He used us to that end. What more answer do you
need?"

When they reached the dungeon, Danilo repeated most of these sentiments to Elaith while Arilyn
looked on in stony silence. "None of this endears us to your cause, you know," he concluded.
"Frankly, I'm disposed to let the matter stand."

"I have your pledge," Elaith insisted. "You must press on."

Danilo sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. "What more can I do?"

"Find the girl," the elf insisted. "Find her, and learn who else seeks her. Who else would wish to
see me condemned to death?"

"Had I more time, I would write you a list," Danilo said dryly. He took the amethyst locket from
his bag and held it up. "This is an amulet of seeking, taken from your erstwhile friend Yoseff."

"We won't find her here," Arilyn said, speaking for the first time. "Bentley Mirrorshade kept the
peace for over twenty years. He could never have done that if he got caught up in the endless local
fighting, so he swore never to admit anyone to the stronghold who claimed to be of the Tethyrian
royal family. We can assume that the girl was never at the Friendly Arm."

"Can we, indeed?" mused Danilo. "Now that I think on it, wouldn't Bentley's vow provide a perfect
cover for the girl's presence?"

"Bentley is known as an honorable gnome," the half-elf countered. "What purpose would he have
in breaking his sworn word?"

"Saving the life of an infant seems purpose enough. For that matter, he could have kept to the letter
of his word: he swore not to admit anyone who claimed ties to the royal family. An infant could
hardly make such a claim. If indeed Lady Thione's child was brought here, it is possible that the
gnome did not know at the time who the child was."

"But he learned," Arilyn surmised. "He probably died to protect that knowledge."

"It is worth pursuing," Dan agreed. He nodded a farewell to Elaith, and he and Arilyn walked
toward the stairs.

"Did you notice the barmaids at the inn? Any one of them could be the woman we seek—they are
all about the right age, and by the look of them, any one of them could be kin to Lucia Thione."

Arilyn considered this. "Their presence in the gnomish stronghold is difficult to explain otherwise.
Do you want to take a closer look at them?"

Her partner responded with a smirk. Arilyn bit back a chuckle and tried to glare. "I'll come looking
for you in an hour."

"Make it two," Danilo murmured. "In such cases, it pays to be thorough."

He made his way back into the tavern and tried to strike up a conversation with the gnome
barkeep. All the inhabitants of the fortress were stunned by their leader's murder, and none of the
small folk were inclined to share information with the human who had defended the accused elf. But
Dan pieced together a series of grudging, one-word answers and eventually learned that there were a
total of eight barmaids, six of whom were on duty.

Since Danilo was more interested in a woman who was not on duty, he left the castle and went to
the barmaid's house, a stone structure built right against one of the curtain walls. Danilo knocked
softly on the wooden door. When there was no answer, he tried the door and found it unlocked.

There was but one large room, simply furnished with straw pallets softened by down-filled
mattresses. Two women lay sleeping. Danilo recognized one of them as Sophie, the girl who had
administered the peace bonds the night before. A shadow of suspicion edged into his mind.

He stooped by her bed and softly called her name. When still she slept, he tapped her shoulder,
then shook her. Nothing woke her.

Danilo rose and took a couple of odd items from the bag at his waist, then cast a spell that would
dispel any magic in the room. The result was only half what he expected.

"Sophie" was not a woman at all, but a pile of laundry. The other barmaid was not a woman either
but an iron golem, a magically-animated construction enspelled to look enough like Sophie to be her
cousin. One apparently solid stone wall was breached by a wooden door that was closed but not
barred.

The Harper crept closer for a better look. The golem was curled up in mock slumber, but when it
stood it would be nearly twice the height of a tall man. The body, shaped roughly like that of a human
woman, probably outweighed Danilo's horse three or four times over. No wonder so few gnomes held
the fortress, Dan realized. An iron golem could stop a war-horse's charge without getting knocked
back on its heels, crush an ogre's skull with one fist, and shrug off blows from all but the most
powerful magical weapons.

Still, this golem was in need of repair. There was a considerable amount of rust along some of the
joints, requiring filing and oils at the very least, and possibly the ministrations of a blacksmith. Danilo
guessed that the golem could still do considerable damage in its current condition. He backed out of
the room, grateful that the stone floor, which had no doubt been built to support the construct's great
weight, did not creak.

He bumped into Arilyn at the door. "The barkeep thought I might find you here," she said.

"Keep your voice down," he implored, nodding toward the golem.

But his spell had faded, and the figure that rose from the pallet appeared to be nothing more than
an angry girl.

The illusion-draped construct rushed forward, fist raised for a blow.

Arilyn stepped forward, her forearm raise to block the attack. There was no time for explanation,
so Danilo did the only thing he could; he leaped at Arilyn and knocked her out of the golem's path.
Her angry retort was swallowed by the sound of an iron fist smashing into the wall. Jagged fissures
raced along the stone, carving a spider-like portrait on the wall.

The half-elf's eyes widened. "Iron golem," Danilo said tersely. "Rust on the elbow joints."

Arilyn nodded in understanding. In one swift movement, she rolled to her feet and drew her sword.
Danilo reached for his, then remembered that only magic-rich swords could have any impact. After a
moment's hesitation, he reached for a thin, ornamental blade he wore on his right hip—a singing
sword with a ringing baritone voice and an extremely bawdy repertoire.

"Softly," he admonished the sword as he tugged it free of its sheath. "There might be more of these
things waiting tables in the castle." Obligingly, the sword launched into a whispered rendition of
"Sune and the Satyr."

Arilyn shot him an exasperated, sidelong glance, and then turned her attention to the golem. The
woman-shaped construct turned slowly to face the half-elf, spewing a cloud of roiling gray smoke
from its mouth. The golem balled one fist into a deceptively dainty weapon. Arilyn sidestepped the
attack, holding her breath and squeezing her eyes shut against the stinging gas. She brought her sword
up high and delivered a powerful two-handed blow that would have cleaved an orc's skull in two. A
harsh clang resounded through the room, and Arilyn's sword vibrated visibly in her hands. There was
not so much as a scratch on the illusionary barmaid, and as the gas cleared, the golem wrapped its
arms around one of the beams that supported the building and began to rock.

As dust and straw showered down from the thatch roof, Danilo remembered his glimpse of the
golem, recalled how the iron plates of the arms were arranged. He lunged forward and thrust his
weapon into the arm. The magic sword slid between the plates and out the other side. The blade bit
deeply into the wooden beam the golem was holding, pinning one arm fast.

Arilyn stepped in and swung again, hitting the golem's other arm at the crook of the elbow. She felt
the give of rusted metal and struck again, and then again. The limb fell to the stone floor with a
clatter, the illusion dispelled. Its iron fingers flexed and groped. Arilyn tried to kick the arm aside and
swore when her boot met unyielding iron. She sidestepped the twitching limb and struck again and
again, chopping at the construct like a deranged woodsman determined to fell a tree one limb at a
time. With each piece she knocked or pried loose the constructs struggle weakened.

But not soon enough. The golem, now plainly visible for what it was, managed to work its impaled
arm free. Danilo's singing sword went skidding across the floor.

At once the half-elf struck, thrusting her own blade back into the same place. She leaned into the
sword to hold it in place and shot a look over her shoulder at Danilo. "Melt it," she commanded. "It's
the only way to be sure."

Danilo hesitated, quickly considering his options. Fire would only restore the golem. Lighting,
then. He lifted both hands and deftly summoned the force, holding it between his hands in a crackling
ball as he shouted for Arilyn to stand clear.

Magic flowed from his fingertips in an arc of blue-white lightning. The construct wilted like a
candle left out in the sun; the moonblade remained impeded in the wooded post, unharmed by the
magical assault.

Danilo went to Arilyn and brushed a stray curl off her damp forehead. When he gathered her close,
her arms went around him instinctively.

"Casting an illusion on an iron golem—very clever," he murmured. "Bentley Mirrorshade was a
powerful illusionist, and a clever gnome."

Arilyn lifted her head from his shoulder. "And?"

"One of the main tenants of the illusionist's craft is to make people overlook the obvious. What is
the most obvious question, and the one question no one thought to ask?"

The half-elf pondered this. A small, wry smile lifted the corner of her lips when the answer came
to her, and she eased out of Danilo's arms. "Give me the amulet of seeking," she said. "I'll go after the
girl."

* * * * *

Within the hour, Danilo again stood in the Temple of Wisdom. The body of Bentley Mirrorshade
had made it there at last, and it was laid out in the enclosed courtyard in the center of the temple, upon
a bier of stacked wood well-soaked with fragrant oil. It was no coincidence, thought Danilo, that the
gnomes were preparing so hasty a funeral. After this ritual was completed, nothing he could do would
save Elaith.

He explained his intentions to Gellana Mirrorshade. The gnomish priestess was not happy with his
request, but she had pledged her aid to his quest for justice. She sent Garith Hunterstock to the
dungeon to retrieve Elaith.

"The accused has a right to tell his story," Danilo said, "but he does not wish to do so before so
many witnesses. The elf is weaponless and bound; I can confidently ensure the priestess's safety."

Gellana shrugged and spoke a few gnomish words to her fellow clerics. All left the temple. When
the only sound was the steady dripping of the large Neveren water clock that stood like a monument
in the courtyard, Danilo bid the priestess to summon Bentley Mirrorshade. When the ghostly gnome
stood before them, Danilo turned to Elaith.

"You were late to the tavern last night. Did you have dinner?"

The elf looked at Danilo as if he had lost his mind. "I ordered, but did not eat. The gnome's murder
was discovered before my meal arrived, and the tavern closed."

"Ah. And what did you order?"

"Medallions of veal, I believe, with capers and cream. Why?"

Danilo ignored the question. "You were also subjected to a peace bond, of the sort given to mages.
Is your magical skill widely known?"

"It is not," the elf replied. "I find that the best weapon is often the one you keep hidden."

"Well said. So it would appear the gnomes knew more of you than is commonly told. Who tied
your thumb in a peace bond?"

The elf shrugged. "A human wench, overblown and under-clad. Dark hair. I did not ask her name."

"That sounds like Sophie. Is peace bonding her task?" Danilo asked Gellana. The gnomish
priestess responded with a cautious nod. The Harper held up a small sack of green-dyed leather. "Is it
also her task to relieve guests of their valuables? This coin purse is mine. I lost it in the tavern and
found it this morning in Sophie's chest. But Sophie herself, I could not find. A marvel, considering
that the fortress is sealed."

Gellana scowled. "You had me summon my husband to listen to this nonsense? If you have
questions for Bentley Mirrorshade, ask them!"

Danilo nodded agreeably and turned to the specter. "Is Bentley Mirrorshade dead?"

"What kind of question is that?" snapped Gellana.

"A very good one, I should think," the Harper replied. "It is the one question that no one thought to
ask. When presented with a body, everyone's instinct was to look for the killer. But Bentley
Mirrorshade is an illusionist of some skill, and considerable sophistry. Looking back, it strikes me that
your questions at the summoning, dear lady, were rather oddly worded. You referred to the spirit by
name, but never the body. The elf was responsible for 'the death,' and his weapon struck the killing
blow—that is all that was said. Elaith would be responsible indeed, if the death in question was that of
the veal calf he ordered for his dinner."

Danilo held out his hands, his palms open and empty. "Shall I cast the needed spell?" he asked the
priestess. "One that can dispel the effects of others' spells?"

"Don't bother," said a gruff voice from the vicinity of the clock. A door on the pedestal cabinet
flew open, and Bentley Mirrorshade, very much alive, strode toward his bier. He snatched the
illusionary specter from the air and crumpled it as a frustrated scribe might treat a sheet of blotched
parchment. On the bier, as Danilo expected, lay the body of a brindle calf.

The gnome illusionist folded his stubby arms and glared up at the Harper. "All right, then, you got
me. What now?"

"That depends upon you." Dan said. "Tell me, why did you stage your own death?"

Bentley rolled his shoulders in a shrug. "Had a responsibility to the girl. She's trouble, and no
mistake about that, but she don't deserve the likes of this elf sniffing around. I got no use for those
who would use the girl to stir up rebellion, and even less for those who would hunt her down to enrich
themselves." He glared at the elf.

"And by leaving behind your own illusionary corpse, you created a diversion that allowed the girl
to escape unnoticed, and that condemned Elaith Craulnober to death. Masterfully done," Danilo
complimented him. "But how did you intend to explain your eventual return from the grave? I have
my suspicions, mind you, but I'd like to hear you tell the tale."

The gnome had the grace to look sheepish. "I've been known to go off fishing now and again.
Gives me time alone, time to think. I thought to come back when this was over, act surprised by this

rogue's fate. And you're right in what you're thinking, Harper; I thought to pin the blame for the
illusion on you. You're known for pranks, and for spells gone awry."

Danilo took note of the remarkable change which came over Elaith during this confession.
Understanding, then profound relief, then chilling anger played over his elven features. Danilo sent
him a warning look.

"I must say, this leaves me with something of a dilemma," the Harper said. "Elaith has been found
to be without guilt in this case, but to make public your scheme would upset the balance in the
Friendly Arm, and would alert others who seek the Thione heiress."

"True enough," the gnome agreed. "What's your thinking, then?"

Danilo sighed. "I see no real choice. I shall take the blame for the illusion, as you intended. If
asked, I can cite old and very real enmities between myself and Elaith." He turned to the elf. "In return
for this, I expect your word that you will not hinder Arilyn and me in our task. We intend to take
Isabeau Thione—better known as Sophie the pickpocket—to safety in the north."

Bentley snorted. "You're gonna take the word of such a one as this?"

"In your position, I would not be too quick to cast aspersions on the honesty of another," Elaith
said, his voice bubbling with barely controlled wrath. "I am what I am, but the Harper knows that my
word, once given, is as good as that of any elf alive, and better than that of any gnome. And so you
may believe me when I swear that if ever I meet you beyond these walls, I will kill you in the slowest
and most painful manner known to me."

The gnome shrugged. "Fair enough. But mind you, take care who you're calling a liar. I never said
a single thing wasn't Garl's honest truth. An illusion ain't never a lie—
people just got a bad habit of
believing what they see."

Danilo took Elaith's arm and led the furious elf from the temple. "I will keep my oath to you,
bard," the elf hissed from between clenched teeth, "but there is another I long to break! Like any other
elf I believe disturbing the dead is a terrible thing. But I would give fifty years off my life to continue
this discussion—with that wretched gnome's real spirit!"

The Harper shrugged. "We are neither of us quite what we seem, are we? Why, then, should you
expect anything else to be what it seems?"

Elaith glared at him. After a moment a smile, slow and rueful, softened the elf's face. "If a moon
elf of noble family commands half the illegal trade in Waterdeep, and if a foolish minstrel from that
same city displays insight that an elven sage might envy, why should we make foolish assumptions
about speaking with the dead?"

He extended his hand. A simple gesture, but for once, the Harper felt no need to seek for hidden
meanings or illusionary truths. He knew the elf for what he was, but there were some absolutes that
Danilo took when and where he found them. Friendship was one of them.

Without hesitation, he clasped Elaith's wrist in a comrade's salute.

Originally publishing in Dragon #259, May 1999
Edited by Dave Gross

STOLEN DREAMS

Everyone knows some variation of the story about the six blind men and the elephant. Even as a
kid, I understood that this tale was universally applicable. No one, no matter how good his eyesight or
how fair and balanced his view, ever sees the whole picture. Two different points of view can yield
two very different tales without contradicting each other. I decided to experiment with this notion and
retell the events of "Speaking With the Dead" from the perspective of Sophie, a human barmaid who
was left with the gnomes as an infant and raised without knowledge of her name or heritage.

STOLEN DREAMS

The bustle of an arriving caravan filled the courtyard of the Friendly Arms tavern. Inside the
tavern's great hall, a tiny brown woman—short even by the standards of the gnomes who ran the
fortified travelers' rest—scrambled onto one of the smooth-planked tables and clapped her small
hands for attention.

"Caravan from Waterdeep coming through! Step lively, now." Her voice boomed through the vast
room, surprising in its depth and resonance. In response, a small army of gnomes began to scurry
about in frenzied last-moment preparation, like roaches scattering before the light of an unexpected
lantern.

Or so they seemed to Sophie. She'd lived among these small folk for all of her twenty-odd years,
and never had she been so heartily sick of them as she was this night. Although she was only a serving
wench, she dreamed of grander folk, better places, and opportunities only the wide world could offer.
Some odd quirk of fate had left her a foundling babe, and a second, darker turn had landed her on the
doorstep of gnomes who insisted that she stay until she worked off the cost of her early keep.

The other girls—there were seven of them—had similar tales. Indentured servants all, they
occasionally bemoaned their ill luck but seemed content to accept their fate. Not Sophie. Let other
fools toss their coins into the alms pots at Tymora's temples and pray for Lady Fortune's favor. Sophie
had noticed that the harder she worked, the better her luck seemed to be. Tonight she would work
very hard indeed.

She wiped her hands on her apron and tugged at the hem of her tightly-laced bodice, pulling the
crimson garment as low as she dared. It was easier to steal from the travelers who frequented the
Friendly Arms once their attention was fixed upon something interesting.

"You're selling ale and stew," observed a gruff voice behind her, "but you're advertising other
wares. We don't sell that here, girl, so stop teasing the customers."

Sophie hissed a sigh from between gritted teeth and turned to glare down at the gnome who called
himself her guardian and employer. Her jailer, more like it!

Bentley Mirrorshade was stout and brown-skinned and much weathered by the passing of years
and the use of magic. To Sophie's eyes, he had little in common with the magic-users who passed
through on their way to better places. Not for him the embroidered spell bags, the studied grace of
gesture, and the trained resonance of tone. No fine robes draped his squat form, and no potions of
longevity smoothed the wrinkles that seamed and whorled his face like the patterns in wood. Indeed,
except for the rosy hue of his bulbous nose and the slightly darker crimson of his jerkin, he might well
have been carved from wood.

"My fingers tingle," she informed him. "I can't smell the stew over the scent of money. Listen to
the din out there! Look at the fine weapons the merchant's guards carry. Tonight is the night, I feel it!"

The gnome sighed. He had long ago become resigned to the larcenous streak in Sophie's nature
and had worked out a compromise that served both his reputation and her sanity. But he could not
resist wagging a stubby brown finger in admonition.

"Remember the Mirrorshade Cipher, wench."

Sophie rolled her eyes and held her hands out to her sides, palms up, pantomiming a scale seesawing
in a fruitless quest for balance.

"The treasure worth keeping, the risk worth taking," she recited in a mocking singsong. "But what
risk could there be this night? Waterdeep merchants are fat and smug and lazy."

"There are wizards in Waterdeep," the gnome reminded her. "Play your games if you must, don't
get caught lifting some silly trifle. That sort of thing ruins an inn's name, and what would you be
without the Friendly Arms?"

Sophie tossed her head. "Free," she retorted.

Bentley Mirrorshade sent her a look that was both dour and long-suffering. He fell silent as a small
group of the travelers came into the hall, and his small, shrewd blue eyes scrutinized each one in turn.

As she waited the gnome's verdict, Sophie reached into her pocket for a handful of long, thin
leather thongs. One of her favorite tasks was peace-binding the left thumb of visiting mages to their
belts. On the surface of things, it was a foolish convention—most spells could be cast one-handed—
but it had its purposes. For one thing, it left the visiting magic-users smug, certain their gnomish hosts

were ignorant of magic and awed by those who practiced it. Bentley Mirrorshade was in truth a highly
skilled illusionist, but he was not above using simple, mundane ploys to distract the eye and create a
desired effect. Peace-binding also gave Sophie a decided edge. The pressure of the thong, the
awkward position of the hand—this was enough to nudge the senses off balance. Men thus distracted
were less likely to notice a sudden lightening of their purses.

"This caravan carries more magic-users than a bugbear has ticks," the gnome observed. "Peacebind
that fat man wearing purple, and the woman in leather armor. And those two over there, the
young skinny ones tripping over their robes. And be looking for a tall elf with silver hair. When he
comes in, bind him tight, but otherwise leave him be." A new swirl of wind drew the gnome's gaze
back to the door, and he sucked in a sharp, startled breath.

"Danilo Thann," he said flatly. "Better wizard than he wants you to think. Bind him well, or there'll
be trouble later, sure as kobolds are ugly."

Sophie's eyes lit up with pure avarice. The newcomer handing his coat to the doorkeeper was the
most promising pigeon she'd seen in a month of tendays. A young man, tall and fair, splendidly attired
and wearing more jewels than any sensible traveler would dare display. He wore two fine swords,
which he handed to the gnomes who collected weapons at the door. Sophie slid a measuring eye over
him. A nobleman, judging from the heraldic crest embroidered onto one shoulder of his tabard and the
easy, innate arrogance of his stance and manner. The green leather bag at his belt was too big to lift
without risk, but the coin purse hanging over his left hip, the small silver knife tucked into his boot,
his emerald pendant—these were as good as hers.

Sophie pushed past the gnome, ignoring his protests as she eased her way through the growing
crowd. With practiced calculation, she stepped into the path of a thick-bodied merchant. They
collided, and she bounced off him and all but fell into the young nobleman's arms.

She pulled away with a laughing apology, running her hands through her abundant dark hair as if
to smooth it into place. It was an artful move, one she'd practiced and perfected, designed to lift her
bosom to impressive heights and draw an admirer's eyes slowly up to her equally remarkable face.

"And what can I get you, my lord?" she said meaningfully.

The nobleman took note of her performance, but did not seem inclined to applaud. "Killed, most
likely," he said mildly. "Or severely wounded at the very least."

Her puzzled look earned her nothing but a smile and a request for expensive wine. A cold fish, this
one! Sophie took off in a huff with his coin purse tucked into her pocket. When Bentley sent her back
a few moments later to peace-bind the nobleman, she tied the thong more tightly than necessity
demanded.

The night wore on without further incident. Sophie collected coins, bangles, even a few travel cups
and personal table knives. The cups and knives would be easily returned to their owners when the
night's sport was through, explained as a wench's error in clearing the tables. The other things would
be more difficult, but only slightly so. Sophie was as adept at returning the stolen items as she was in
acquiring them. And return them she would. So far, she had collected nothing worth keeping.
According to Bentley, never had she done so.

It was beginning to dawn on Sophie that, as far as Bentley Mirrorshade was concerned, she would
never find a treasure whose value outweighed the risk. They were playing a game that only one could
win, and the winner was the gnome who made the rules. If she desired to be completely honest,
Sophie would have to admit that she'd realized the truth of Bentley's ploy long ago. She had pretended
otherwise, for the game amused her and gave her an opportunity to hone her skills. More importantly,
it allowed her to hope that someday she could win free of this place.

A false hope, of course—one of Bentley's small illusions, no more convincing than the little farce
of peace-binding.

Her disgruntlement grew as the night wore on. Other than the coin purse she'd lifted from the
young nobleman, most of her "treasure" was of little worth. Most of the knives were lead or bone, the
bracers and bangles either brass or copper and devoid of either valuable carving or precious stone. But
this caravan was from Waterdeep! Where were the gems, the gold and silver?

A glint of lamplight on silver—at last!—drew her eye to the door. There stood a tall, slender moon
elf, frowning slightly as he unburdened himself of weapons. Surely this was the elf of whom Bentley
had spoken. A small, delighted smile curved Sophie's lips as her appraising eyes settled upon the elf's
belt. Though he had given up a half dozen weapons, he was permitted carry such tools as were used at

table, as well as small items deemed too valuable to entrust to another. The elf retained several such
items, including a dagger fashioned of silvery metal the same hue as the elf's hair—a color so pale it
was nearly white. That marked it as elven steel, priceless even without the elaborate carving and
lavish jewels that graced the hilt.

Revelation jolted through Sophie. This was it! This had to be the treasure whose worth out-
measured the risk of stealing it! The elf carried so many fine things that he would not miss that single
small knife. Surely Bentley would acknowledge this, and concede that the game they played had at
last been won! She could buy free of this place tonight!

Exultation swept through her, quickly chased by a sense of betrayal and then cold, furious rage.
Bentley knew this elf carried treasures. Of course he did, and that was why he warned her clear of
him.

Bentley Mirrorshade, whatever his other faults might be, was a gnome of his word. Once the
priceless dagger was hers, the gnome would have no choice but to honor the bargain they'd made
years ago, and that would mean the loss of his most popular tavern wench.

Sophie tamped down her wrath and forced an inviting smile onto her face. She elbowed one of her
fellow wenches aside and undulated over to the silver-haired elf.

"And what can I get you, my lord?" she purred as her fingers reached toward freedom.

* * * * *

Bentley Mirrorshade stared with horror at the glittering hoard laid out before him. Several long
moments passed before he lifted his eyes to Sophie's face. The depth of emotion in them set her back
on her heels, for she could not begin to fathom the mingled sorrow and fear in the gnome's small blue
eyes. She had expected either the anger or the resignation of a gambler who knew himself beaten.

"What have you done, girl?" he said in a faint voice.

Sophie tossed her dark head. "I've bought my way free, that's what I've done! You can't claim that
dagger isn't worth the risk of taking it."

A strange, ironic little smile twisted the gnome's lips. "Depends upon how much value you give
your life. That dagger belongs to Elaith Craulnober. He's a rogue elf, and not a forgiving sort. They
say not a man or woman crosses him and lives."

"So? 'They' say many things, few of them true."

Bentley gave her a long, somber look. "Do you remember Hannilee Whistlewren?"

It took Sophie a moment to attach the name to the remembered image of a small, rosily smiling
face. "The halfling wench. She worked as a laundress for a moon or two, then left with the caravan
bound for Lurien."

"That's the tale we put about. Maybe you also remember the fouled well."

That she recalled instantly. For months she and the other girls had had to carry heavy buckets from
the spring just outside the fortress walls. Suddenly the gnome's meaning grew clear. "The halfling was
killed and tossed into the well?"

"Pieces of her came up in the bucket," Bentley agreed grimly. "Small pieces."

Some of the gnome's fear began to edge into Sophie's heart. "Elaith Craulnober?"

"That'd be my guess. Last thing Hannilee did, far as we could figure, was bring fresh linens to the
elf's room. Maybe her fingers were a mite sticky. Never could find cause to accuse him, but the tale
sings in tune with many another I've heard."

Sophie's bright hopes faded. "I'll return the dagger at once. He'll never know."

"No." Bentley spoke quietly, but emphatically. "I'll deal with this. It could mean your life if you
were caught with the dagger—"

He broke off abruptly, as if considering some new and promising thought. "Your life," he mused,
"or mine."

It did not take Sophie long to weigh these options. "Have it your way." She began to gather up the
other treasures. It would take her most of the evening to return them to their unwitting owners.

But by the time she'd tied the third coin bag back in place, Sophie began to reconsider the gnome's
offer. It was not like Bentley to be so solemn; usually the gnome was all grit and bluster. Perhaps her
first instinct had hit the mark after all—perhaps she had finally found the item valuable enough to
offset the risk involved.

There was one sure way to find out, and it wasn't from the treacherous, slave-driving gnome. Not
directly, at least.

Sophie deftly lifted the keys from Bentley's pocket and slipped away from the tavern to the low-
ceiling chamber that served as his workroom. The lying little troll was as adept at creating magical
illusions as he was at shaping the truth into whatever form suited his purposes. Somewhere among the
jumble of pots and vials and powers would be something useful.

A few moments later, Sophie strode awkwardly toward the stables, trying to school the swish from
her hips and add length to her stride. Thanks to a bottle of vile-tasting potion, she wore the form of a
burly, bearded mercenary who served as Elaith Craulnober's second in command. In such guise, it
would not do to be seen mincing about like a Calishan harem boy.

She found a tall, thin lad in the first stall, busily grooming a dappled mare. "May the gods save me
from tripping over these gnomes, because they're too stupid to get out of the way," she said, wincing
at the bluff, deep sound that emerged from her throat.

The boy's only response was an indifferent shrug, but Sophie pressed on. "One of them tried to buy
Craulnober's dagger for five hundred gold. The elf turned him down, of course. What's the thing
worth, do you think?"

The gloved hand stilled, and the lad lifted his gaze to Sophie's face. "Lord Craulnober's business is
his own. Not mine, and I daresay not yours."

The voice was low, the face deeply shadowed by the hood of the rough cape, but Sophie saw what
was there to see. This was no lad. A female, and judging from the size and tilt and color of those
eyes—blue as sapphires, and flecked with gold—she was probably not entirely human. A prickle of
mingled fear and distaste shimmered through her. She quickly covered her reaction with a boisterous
laugh and a comrade's slap on the shoulder.

"Well said, lad! You passed the test, and I'll be telling the elf so later this eve. He's got his eye on
you for better things, you know."

"Cap'n?"

A whip-thin man with a scarred cheek had edged closer during this exchange. The tentative,
inquiring note in his voice suggested that Sophie had blundered. She'd gambled that this elfwoman's
true identity was secret from the rest of the caravan. Apparently she'd lost that wager. She gave the
newcomer a sheepish grin and a shrug.

"It took three tankards to wash the taste of road dust from my mouth." She raised one hand to her
temples. "Scarce can remember my own name, much less hers. The elf wench isn't much for gossip, is
she?"

"No cap'n," the man agreed.

"And here I could use some company. Let me buy you a meal and drink, and you can remind me
why we're here."

The man's eyes widened and then shone with pleasure at what was apparently an unaccustomed
honor.

It took Sophie the better part of an hour and several of the coins she'd taken from the fair-haired
nobleman, but finally the scrawny mercenary was getting around to the part of the story worth
hearing. Worth the risk of stealing a shapeshifting potion, worth the risk of wearing a borrowed form,
worth risking the possibility that her friend Belle might not keep the real captain busy until Sophie's
task was done.

Worth any risk.

Sophie gestured for another round and edged the full tankard closer to her informer. The thin man
was weaving now, wearing the beatific smile of one who totters on the brink between sentience and
sleep.

"This wench we're looking for," she prompted. "How are we to know her?"

The mercenary turned a stare of bleary-eyed puzzlement upon her, but he obediently repeated what
he thought his "captain" should know. "Got a mark on her thigh." He dipped an unsteady finger into
the trencher and used a bit of gravy to draw three lines on the table. "We're to work our way through
the wenches, careful like, until we find her."

Sophie stared at the familiar mark. "A birthmark."

He snorted. "Something like. The mother cut that onto her baby's thigh so she'd know the brat if
ever she had cause to look for her. A piece of work, that woman."

That woman. Her mother. For a moment, Sophie conjured a wistful image of a pleasant home, the
comfort of being the pampered daughter of a human household, not the servant of a gnome clan. The
mark cut into her flesh was nothing—a bit of unremembered pain. It was the potential that interested
Sophie.

"What cause does she have to be looking for the wench now?'

"Cause enough! Things down Tethyr way got turned boots over britches. Time was, everyone with
a drop of royal blood was butchered like a hog."

Royal blood! Hers?

The man started to tilt slowly to one side. Sophie grabbed a handful of hair and hauled him
upright. "And now?" she prompted.

"Some folks still see things thataway. Some don't." He paused for an enormous yawn. "Craulnober
took bids from both sides. We get the wench and sell her to whoever comes up with the best price."

Sophie had heard enough. She released her informer and fled the great hall. Behind her the thin
man snored contentedly, his scarred cheek pillowed on a half loaf of bread. She hurried behind the
tavern. Once alone, she took a second vial from her sleeve and drained it, then leaned both hands on
the wall for support as the waves of magic swept through her, reversing the illusion and returning her
to herself.

No, not herself. At least, not Sophie the tavern wench. Not that, never again. If the mercenary's tale
was true, Sophie no longer existed—had never existed! And if this was the secret Bentley
Mirrorshade hoarded, his theft was far greater than anything she had managed in her years of honing
her thieving skills. He had stolen her heritage from her, her birthright, her dreams!

She found the gnome in the kitchen, standing over a vast kettle and tasting soup from a large
wooden spoon. "Is it true?" she demanded.

Bentley held her gaze for a moment. He put down the spoon and turned toward the back door,
gesturing for her to follow. He did not ask her what she meant. To Sophie, that was as good as an
admission. With difficulty she held her tongue until they reached the back alley.

"How could you do this?" she said in a low furious voice. "You stole my freedom, my future. My

name!"

The gnome heaved a sigh. "Sophie—"

"Not Sophie! Never that again!" She threw back her shoulders. "I am the daughter of Lucia
Thione, a noblewoman of Tethyr with ties to the exiled royal family. Did my mother give me a
name?"

"Isabeau," the gnome said faintly. "It's a lovely name she gave you. More than that, she gave you
life, not once, but twice. She left you here in safe fosterage in a time when such bloodlines meant
death. In some circles, it still does. The high bidder gets you, and your fate is not something the elf
bothers himself over."

This agreed with the tale Sophie—no, Isabeau, she reminded herself—had already heard. Fury and
terror battled for supremacy in her heart.

"You planned to collect that high bid yourself, I suppose. No wonder you warned me away from
the elf!"

"Mind your tongue, wench! I made an oath to keep you safe, and that I've done for twenty years.
I'd-a done it another twenty if you weren't too mule-headed to listen." Bentley's ire passed quickly,
and he sighed again. "There are maybe three or four treasures worth keeping and never mind the risk.
A baby's life is one. But there's no safety for you here. You'll have to leave."

All her life she had waited for this moment. Why did it seem less a triumph than a banishment?
"You'd send me away, just like that?"

He sent her a reproachful look. "What do you take me for? I'm not turning you out to fend for
yourself. You're to leave the fortress and hide at my fishing camp. When it's safe, I'll send for you and
get you set up in a new place, with a new name."

"But not my name," she said bitterly. "I just learned it, and I have to give it up?"

The gnome folded his arms. "You'll be keeping your skin. Don't look upon that lightly. There's too
many in Tethyr that would be happy to nail it to the wall. If you listen to me, maybe Elaith Craulnober
won't have a chance to peel it off you with that there dagger."

A shiver passed through her. "Tell me what I have to do."

* * * * *

The rest of the night passed swiftly. Excitement and fear carried Sophie along, quickening her
steps as she hurried along the faint path that cut through the forest. Never had she been this far from
the fortress, and the sheer novelty of it thrilled her. By the time the sun rose, however, the thrill was
long gone. Dew moistened the ferns and brush, dampening her skirts until they clung to her legs and
left her shaking with chill. By the time she reached the tiny cabin, she was ready to do precisely what
the gnome had told her to do: rest and wait until he could send for her.

That docile mood lasted for perhaps an hour, while she built a fire from the pile of wood outside
the hut and boiled water for tea. Her anger grew as warmth and strength returned to her limbs.

How dare Bentley Mirrorshade use her as a servant! All those years of waiting tables, enduring the
limp jests and questing hands of the tavern's patrons. She was a lady, not a common wench! The men
she admitted to her bed should have been lords, not the motley assortment of lovers she had taken
over the years. None of them had been worth her time. None! Well, perhaps the minstrel who had
lingered at the Friendly Arms through the waning and waxing of two moons, sharing her bed and
tutoring her in the finer arts of thievery. He was worthwhile—not just for the training, but also for the
collection of picks and knives she had stolen from him on the day of his departure.

The thought of this coup still brought a smile to her lips. But her smile quickly faded as she
considered her loss. Her hidden heritage was the most egregious of thefts! Her dreams of wealth,
position, society—all stolen by a parcel of gnomes.

Not once, but twice stolen. Bentley had sent her away to save her life. But the risk of being Isabeau
Thione was nothing compared to the gain. Sophie gathered up her travel pack and stormed out of the
cabin. She slammed the door shut, and kicked it for good measure.

"I will find a way to reclaim my heritage," she vowed. "And my first act as Lady Thione will be to
avenge my stolen dreams! Bentley Mirrorshade will pay for what he has done to me. I'll kill the little
wretch!"

"Too late," said a low, musical voice behind her.

Sophie whirled, her eyes wide and one hand clutching at her throat. A tall, thin figure slipped into
the small clearing. It was the elfwoman from the stables, and she moved toward Sophie with the
unmistakable grace of a warrior.

The woman took an involuntary step back, and bumped into the cabin. Her gaze darted about the
clearing for escape, and saw none. The only possible weapon was the pile of deadfall wood piled up
for kindling. But Sophie would fight with tooth and nail, if it came to that, to keep her day-old
freedom.

She threw back her head and glared a challenge at her visitor. "You're working for that elf. He sent
you after me. Well, I'm not coming with you."

"Wrong, and wrong twice again." The elfwoman lowered her hood, revealing a tumble of black
curls and a delicate face dominated by large, gold-flecked blue eyes. "My name is Arilyn Moonblade.
I work for the Harpers, who have an interest in Tethyr's future and, therefore, in yours."

Sophie's eyes narrowed. "I don't believe you. You elves always stand together."

"I am half-elven," Arilyn said evenly, "and at the moment, Elaith Craulnober is in no position to
offer any threat to you."

"Lies!" Sophie dived to one side and came up with a stout limb in her hands. Lofting it like a club,
she ran at the half-elf.

Annoyance flickered over her opponent's face. The half-elf dropped one hand to the hilt of her
sword, but otherwise stood her ground.

More fool she. Sophie brought her club down with skull-splitting force and deadly intent.

The stick thudded dully into the packed earth of the clearing floor. Sophie found herself off
balance and bent low by the force of her blow. Before she could regain her balance, the half-elf kicked
her in the rump.

Sophie hit the ground facedown and hard, but she didn't lose her grip on her club. Agile as a cat,
she rolled onto her back and surged to her feet, swinging as she went.

Arilyn sidestepped another blow and caught Sophie's flailing wrist. The woman struggled and
cursed and slapped wildly with her free hand until the half-elf captured that one, as well. Nearly
frantic now, Sophie kicked the half-elf in the shin, hard, and aimed another kick at her knee.

But again the warrior was too quick for her. Arilyn accepted the first blow and saw the second,
disabling one coming. A quick twist of her body took her beyond reach of Sophie's vicious kick. She
kept turning, holding Sophie's wrists and forcing her to turn as well. When they were back to back,
Arilyn bent over suddenly.

The world spun as Sophie flipped over. She hit the ground, stumbled, and dropped to her knees.
Overmatched she surely was, but she refused to concede. Dark, furious resolve filled her and she rose
unsteadily to her feet. With one hand she hiked up her skirt, and with the other she snatched the knife
she kept sheathed to her thigh. Holding it high and shrieking like a fiend, she rushed at the half-elf.

Lighting flashed, or so it seemed. The half-elf drew her sword, so fast that the hiss of drawn steel
blended with the clash of weapons. Sophie jolted to a stop, stunned by the impact of the blow. The
two females stood nearly toe to toe, and Sophie saw her own resolve mirrored in those elven eyes.

"What do you want?" she panted out.

"I told you. I'm supposed to take you to safety."

Sophie wretched her knife free and danced back. "Not this time. I've tried to leave the fortress
before, and I've been delivered back to the gnomes by people who need the Friendly Arms and
Bentley Mirrorshade's sufferance. Never again."

As she spoke, she hooked her toe under her fallen club. With a quick kick she tossed it into the air.
To her enormous surprise, she caught it. Clutching it in a two-handed grasp, she began to circle her
opponent.

The half-elf turned with her, sword held in guard position. But there was exasperation on her
face—the expression of a tutor enduring a student's tantrum.

Something snapped in Sophie's heart. She threw herself at the half-elf, shrieking and kicking and
flailing. She was beyond reason, beyond anything but a fury fueled by years of frustration and the
desperation to regain her stolen dreams.

Her frenzy ended quickly, suddenly, in an explosion of pain that filled her mind with sizzles of
crimson fire and then blinding white light. When the light receded and vision returned, Sophie
realized that she was sitting on the ground. Her jaw ached and throbbed. She raised one hand and
wiggled it experimentally, then she cast a baleful look up at her tormentor.

The half-elf glared at her. "Don't move. It would have been a lot easier to kill you than to keep you
alive. You're not worth that much trouble twice."

Sophie acknowledged that this was simple statement of fact. She was alive at the half-elf's
sufferance, of that she had little doubt.

But for what purpose? The gnome's warning came back to Sophie: many were the factions in her
native Tethyr who sought out those with even a drop of royal blood. Few of them wished her well.

"Who are you working for, if not the elf?" she ventured.

"I told you. The Harpers want you alive. Elaith Craulnober is in no position to take action against
you. At the moment he's in the dungeons under the Friendly Arms, being held for the murder of
Bentley Mirrorshade."

"I don't believe it!"

The half-elf folded her arms and gave Sophie a long, speculative look. "I saw the body."

So Bentley had been right about the dagger; the risk of keeping it had been too great. But that
realization brought no remorse to Sophie's heart, and no gratitude. The gnome had stolen her life and
had forfeited with his own. There was a certain justice in his fate, and Sophie celebrated it with a
short, bitter laugh.

This seemed to anger the half-elf. "The gnome was your guardian. You owe him your life many
times over. This is the regard you show him?"

The woman shrugged. "Have you never heard of the Mirrorshade Cipher?"

"You can tell me about it on the way." The half-elf took a step toward her.

Sophie shrunk back. "I'm not returning to the Friendly Arms. I won't!"

"You don't have to. I'm supposed to see you safely to Waterdeep."

She considered the gnome's warnings, and the words of the scarred mercenary. There was danger
in Tethyr. Waterdeep would be safer, certainly, but would it be much of an improvement?

"And what awaits me there?" she said bitterly. "Another tavern, more years of working off my debt
to you and your Harpers?"

Arilyn hissed out an impatient sigh. "You will be introduced into society as the daughter of Lady

Lucia Thione. You will have possession of your mother's estate and fortune. And as long as you stay
out of trouble, you need have nothing more to do with the Harpers. It's the best offer you're likely to
get. I advise you to take it without further argument. There are limits to my patience."

Sophie stared up at the half-elf for a long moment, searching for any sign of deception. Arilyn's
face spoke of distaste for the task, but determination to see her duty through. A smile began to dawn
on Sophie's face. No. Isabeau's face.

She held out her hand and lifted her chin to an imperious angle. "Help me rise," she said haughtily.

This seemed to amuse the half-elf. She nodded approvingly. "Good idea. It'll take a lot of practice
to make a noblewoman out of you. Might as well start now."

Isabeau rose to her feet unaided and brushed off her skirts with as much dignity as she could
muster. "Let's be off," she ordered.

The half-elf shrugged and led the way into the trees, where a pair of horses waited. They rode in
silence until the sun was high. Isabeau passed the time counting her new fortune, picturing herself
living in splendor, thinking about the noblemen she would dazzle with her charm and beauty. She
would start with the man who had ignored her the night before. He had scorned the offer of a tavern
wench, but surely he would not resist Lady Isabeau Thione! Already her life at the Friendly Arms
seemed a distant thing, a rapidly fading dream.

"Well, what is it?'

The words popped Isabeau's glittering fancy and jerked her rudely into the present moment. She
focused with difficulty on the half-elf's face.

"The Mirrorshade Cipher," Arilyn prompted.

"The treasure worth keeping, the risk worth taking. Bentley Mirrorshade said those words often
enough. He lived by them, and it's only fitting that he died of them."

"I'm not following," Arilyn said, in a tone that indicated she didn't expect to like the explanation.

"It's simple enough, wench." Ah, but it felt good to say such words, rather than to hear them! "I am
Lady Isabeau Thione. I have title, wealth, a house of my own. A position in Waterdeep society. This
is the treasure that Bentley kept from me. So great a treasure entails great risk. He took that risk, and
the loss is his. It is right and fitting."

The half-elf studied her for a moment, then she shook her head. "You should do well in
Waterdeep," she said coldly.

"I intend to," Isabeau said with a smile. "I intend to do very well indeed."

Originally published in Realms of the Deep
Edited by Philip Athans, March 2000

FIRE IS FIRE

This is another tale that explores new territory, in that it was the first time I ever wrote a first-
person story. Actually, this one is told in dueling first-person viewpoints: a young wizard and a
sahuagin invader whose paths converge during the siege of Waterdeep. It's one of the darker stories,
and probably my favorite in this collection.

FIRE IS FIRE

30 Ches, the Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)

What did you do when the Sea Devils attacked, Grandsire?

Oh, how I savored that question! I could hear it in my mind even as I ran toward the battle. The
words were as real to me as the stench of smoke that writhed in the sky above the West Gate, and they
rang as loudly in my mind's ear as the boom and crash of wooden beams giving way under wizard
fire. No matter that the question would be many, many years in coming. A wizard's apprentice learns
that all things must first be conjured in the mind.

As I ran, I conjured apace. Wouldn't the little lad's face be expectant, his eyes bright with the pride
that comes of a hero's bloodline? Wouldn't the bards leave off their strumming and gather near, eager
to hear once again the tale of the great wizard—that would be me—who'd fought at Khelben
Arunsun's side?

That's what it would come down to, of course. That would be the first question to come to
everyone's lips: What did Khelben Arunsun do during the battle? How many monsters fell to the
Blackstaff's might? What spells were employed?

I must admit, I myself was most anxious to know the end of this tale.

"Above you, Sydon!"

Panic infused my companion's voice, lifting it into the range normally reserved for frightened
maidens and small, yapping dogs. Without breaking pace, I followed the line indicated by Hughmont's
pointing finger.

The threat was naught but a goodwife at the upper window of the building ahead. She was about to
empty a basin of night water out into the back street—a minor hazard of city life that did not abate
even during times of conflict. Hughmont was at best a nervous sort. Clearly, he was not at his best,
but he was my training partner nonetheless, so I snagged his arm and spun him out of the way. He
tripped over a pile of wooden crates and sprawled, but if his landing was hard at least it brought him
beyond reach of the fetid splash.

A word from me sent the tumbled crates jostling into line like soldiers who'd overslept reveille.
They hustled into formation, then leaped and stacked until a four-step staircase was born. I whispered
the trigger word of a cantrip as I raced up the stairs, then I leaped into the air, flinging out my arms as
I floated free. My exuberant laughter rang through the clamor of the city's rising panic, and why
should it not? What a day this was, and what a tale it would make!

Hughmont hauled himself upright and trotted doggedly westward, coming abreast of me just as my
boots touched cobblestone. The look he sent me was sour enough to curdle new cream.

"You'd best not waste spells on fripperies and foolishness. You'll be needing all you've got, and
more."

"Spoken like the archmage himself!" I scoffed lightly. "That bit of excitement is more danger than
you'll face at the West Gate, I'll warrant."

Hugh's only response was to cast another worried glance toward the harbor. Smoke rose into the
sky over southern Waterdeep, visible even in the darkness, and it carried with it the unsavory scent of
charred meat and burning sailcloth. "How many ships fuel that blaze?" he wondered aloud. "The
harbor itself must be aboil!"

"A dismal caldron to be sure, but no doubt many sahuagin flavored the chowder," I retorted.

Not even Hughmont could dispute this excellent logic, and we hurried along in mutual silence—
his no doubt filled with dire contemplation, but mine as joyfully expectant as a child on midwinterfest
morn.

I will confess that I am vastly fond of magic. My lord father paid good coin to secure me a position
at Blackstaff Tower, and I have learned much under the tutelage of the archmage and his lady consort,
the wondrous Laeral Silverhand. But not until this night did I fully understand how impatient I'd
become with Lord Arunsun's cautions and lectures and endless small diplomacies. By all reports, the
archmage hoarded enough power in his staff alone to drop the entire city of Luskan into the sea, yet I
knew few men who could bear witness to any significant casting. The spells Khelben Arunsun used in
the daily course of things were nothing more than any competent but uninspired mage might
command. Mystra forgive me, I was beginning to view the archmage's famed power in the same light

as I might a courtesan of reputed beauty and unassailable virtue: of what practical use was either one?

Then we rounded the last corner before West Wall Street, and the sight before me swept away any
disgruntled thoughts. The Walking Statue was at long last making good on its name!

Each footfall shook the ground as the behemoth strode down the northernmost slope of Mount
Waterdeep. My spirits soared. No one but Khelben could create a stone golem ninety feet tall,
fashioned of solid granite with an expression as stolidly impassive as that of the archmage himself.

But the statue faltered at Jultoon Street, stopping in the back courtyard of a low-lying carriage
house as if made uncertain by the swirling chaos of the panicked crowd. After a moment the great
statue crouched, arms flung back and knees bent for the spring. People fled shrieking as the golem
launched itself into the air. It cleared house and street and landed with a thunderous crack on the far
side of Jultoon. Shattered cobblestone flew like grapeshot, and more than a few people fell to the
ground, bloody and screaming, or worse, silent.

A flash of blue light darted from the gate tower, and the Walking Statue jolted to a stop. The golem
glanced up at the tower and shuffled its massive feet like an enormous, chastened urchin. In apparent
response to an order only it could perceive, the statue turned toward the sea. Its stone eyes gazed
fixedly upon the cliffs below.

"I wonder what it sees," murmured Hughmont.

I had no such thoughts, nor eyes for anything but the source of that arcane lighting. It came from
the West Gate, a massive wooden barricade that soared fully three stories high, surrounded on three
sides by a stone lintel fancifully carved into the face of an enormous, snarling stone dragon. Atop this
gate was a walkway with crenellations and towers contrived to look like a crown upon the dragon
king's head. Wizards lined the walkway, flaming like torches with magical fire. Brightest of all burned
my master, the great archmage.

I broke into a run, no longer caring whether Hughmont kept pace or not. My only thought was to
take my place with the other battle wizards, and in the tales that would be written of this night.

* * * * *

These shores stank of magic. I could smell it even before I broke clear of the water. The scent of it
was bitter, and the taste so metallic and harsh that my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. I did not
remark on this to any of my sahuagin brothers. Though I called the source of my discomfort "magic,"
they might name my response by another, even more despised word: fear. To me, the two were one.

I broke the surface. My inner eyelids slid closed, but not before a bright light burst against the
endless dome of sky. Half blinded, I waded toward the shore.

Hundreds of sahuagin were on the sand, and scores of them already lay in smoking piles. We
expected this. We had trained for it. Ignore the dead, storm the gate, breach the walls.

Good words, bravely spoken. They had sounded plausible when spoken under the waves, but what
was not easier underwater? I felt heavy on land, dangerously slow and awkward. Even as the thought
formed, my foot claws caught on a fallen sahuagin's harness and I tripped and fell to my knees.

It was a most fortunate error, for just then a bolt of magic fire sizzled over my head and seared
along my back fin. I threw back my head and shrieked in agony, and none of my dying brothers
seemed to think the less of me. Perhaps no one noticed. In the thin air sound lingered close and then
dissipated into silence. How, then, could there be so much noise? If a hundred sharks and twice a
hundred sahuagin entered blood frenzy amidst a pod of shrieking whales, the clamor might rival the
din of this battle.

It took all the strength in my four arms to push myself to my feet. I stumbled toward the place
where the baron, our warleader, stood tall with his trident defiantly planted as if to lay claim to this
shore. Two paces more, and I saw the truth of the matter. A large, smoking hole had opened and
emptied the baron's chest, and through this window I could see the writhing bodies of three more of
my dying clan. One of them clutched at my leg as I passed. His mouth moved, and the sound that
came forth was thin and weak without water to carry it.

"Meat is meat," he pleaded, obviously fearing that his body would be left unused on this shore, his
spirit trapped in his uneaten body.

I was hungry after the relentless journey to this city—desperately so—but the stench of burning
flesh stole any thought of feeding. Meat is meat, but even good sahuagin flesh is rendered inedible by

the touch of fire.

I kicked aside his clinging hand and looked around for my patrol. None had survived. All around
me lay carrion that had been sahuagin. Their once proud fins were tattered and their beautiful scales
were already turning dull and soft. Meat is meat, but there were not enough sahuagin in the north seas
to eat this feast. Our leaders had promised a great conquest, but there was nothing to be gained from
this, not even the strength to be had from the bodies of our fallen kin.

Anger rose in me like a dark tide. Orders were orders, but instinct prompted me to turn back to the
sea, to flee to the relative safety of the waves. As my eyes focused upon the black waters, what I saw
drew another shriek from me. This time, the sound was triumphant.

The pounding waves stopped short of the sand, piling upon each other and building up into a
massive creature born of the cold sea and magic new to Sekolah's priestesses. A water elemental, they
called it. Like a great watery sahuagin it rose, and as it waded to shore each pace of its legs sent waves
surging onto the black and crimson sand.

The sahuagin yet in the water took heart from this. Some of them rode the waves to shore and hit
the sand running. They, too, died in fire and smoke.

The water elemental came steadily on. Blue light—endless, punishing, hellish light—poured from
the flaming wizards. A searing hiss filled the air as the elemental began to melt into steam. The magic
that bound it faltered, and the watery body fell apart with a great splash. It sank back into the waves,
and where it had stood the waters churned with heat.

For a moment I was again tempted by retreat, but there was no safety in the sea, not when steam
rose from it. So I lifted one of my hands to shield my eyes from the blinding light, and I studied the
gate tower.

There were many, many wizards—far more than our barons had led us to expect. In the very center
stood a dark-bearded human, tall by the measure of humankind and strongly built even to my eyes. If
he were a sahuagin, he would be a leader, and so he seemed to be among the humans. All the wizards
threw fire, and the dark circles on the smoking sand were all about the same size—ten feet or so, the
length of a sahuagin prince from head fin to tail tip. All fire killed, but the fire thrown by the tall
wizard turned sahuagin into fetid steam, and melted the sand beneath them into oil-slicked glass.

I turned tail and padded northward toward those wizards who merely killed. Great piles of
stinking, smoking corpses were beginning to rise. Soon they would reach the top of the wall, and
those who survived would swarm over the pile and into the city beyond. That part of the plan, at least,
was going as expected.

As planned, no sahuagin approached the great gate. No corpses added their weight to the wall of
wood. As I began to climb the mountain of carrion, I prayed to almighty Sekolah that none of the
humans would fathom the reason for this.

Just then a new wizard took his place along the wall and hurried northward toward the spot I
planned to breach. Judging from his size he was young. He was as small and thin as a hatchling and
lacked hair that so disfigured the other humans. I was close enough now to see his face, his eyes.
Despite the strangeness of his appearance, his eagerness was apparent to me. This one regarded battle
with the joy of a hungry shark. A worthy foe, if any human could be so named.

Ignoring the searing pain of my burned fins, I readied myself for battle.

* * * * *

I raced up the winding stairs and onto the ramparts, smoothing my hand over my head to tame the
curly red locks before I remembered that my head was newly shaved—I had grown tired of the taunts
that had dogged me since childhood. A bald pate, which I contemplated decorating with tattoos as did
the infamous Red Wizards, was more befitting a man of magic.

But the sight before me drove such trivial thoughts from my mind, freezing me in place as surely
and as suddenly as an ice dragon's breath.

The sea roiled, the sand steamed, and enormous green-scaled creatures advanced relentlessly
through a scene of incredible horror.

"Sydon, to me!"

Khelben Arunsun's terse command snapped my attention back to the task at hand. I edged along
behind the spell-casting wizards to the archmage's side.

Before he could speak, the largest elemental I have ever seen burst from the waves like a breaching
whale. Up, up it rose, until it was taller by half than even the great Walking Statue. Its shape was
vaguely human in such matters as the number and placement of limbs, but never have I seen so
terrifying a creature. Its wide, shark-toothed mouth was big enough to swallow a frigate. Translucent,
watery fins unfurled along its arms, back, and head like great sails.

"Sweet Mystra," I breathed in awe. "Wondrous mystery, that mortals can wield such power!"

"Save it for your journal," Khelben snapped. "Hugh, mind the gate."

Hughmont hurried to the center of the dragon head rampart. He was not an accomplished mage,
and his fire spells were as limited as festival fireworks—all flash and sparkle, but little substance.
Even so, I had to admit that the effects he achieved were quite good. His first spell burst in the sky
with rose-colored light—a titanic meadow flower budding, blooming, and casting off sparkling seed,
all in the blink of an eye. It was most impressive. A few of the sea devils hesitated, and I took the
opportunity to pick several of them off with small fireballs.

A spear hissed through the air. Instinctively I ducked, though it would not have hit me regardless,
nor the man next to me. The man next to him was less fortunate. He jolted as the spear took him
through the chest. The blow spun him around, and he lost his footing and toppled over the guard wall.
He was falling still when the sea devils began tearing at him with ravenous hands.

Khelben pointed his staff at the grim tableau and shouted a phrase I'd never heard used in any
magical context—though it was no doubt often heard during tavern brawls. Before I recovered from
this surprise, a second, greater wonder rocked me back on my heels. The dead man's wizardly robes
turned crimson—no longer were they spun of silk, but fire. The flames did not seem to touch the
fallen wizard, but they seared the creatures that dared lay hand on him. The sea devils blackened and
almost melted, like hideous candles tossed into a smithy's forge.

The archmage seized my arm and pointed to the burning robe. "Cast fire arrows on that," he
commanded, then he turned his attention to the next attack.

This was my moment, my spell—a new spell I had painstakingly committed to memory but had
never had occasion to cast. I dipped into my spell bag for a handful of sand and flint pebbles, spat into
it, and blew the mixture toward the sea. Excitement raced through my veins and mingled with the
gathering magic—so potent a brew!—as I rushed through the chant and gestures.

The fire that enrobed the unfortunate mage exploded into a myriad of gleaming arrows, each as
orange as an autumn moon and many times as bright. These flaming darts streaked out it all
directions. Sea devils shrieked and writhed and died. It was quite wonderful to behold. This, then, was
how my grandson's tale would start, with a partnership between the great archmage and me, a
devastating double attack.

Before I could fully celebrate this victory, an enormous tentacle rose from the waves and slapped
down on the beach. My eyes widened as my disbelieving mind tried to guess the measure of the
creature heralded by that writhing limb.

Such mental feats were not required of me. Before I could expel the air gathered by my gasp of
astonishment, another tentacle followed, then a third and a fourth. With heart-numbing speed the
entire creature worked its way from the water. I had never seen such a thing, but I knew what it must
be: a kraken, a titanic, squid-like creature reputed to possess more cunning than a gem merchant and
thrice the intelligence.

The creature humped and slithered its way toward the gate. Khelben thrust his staff into my hands
and began a series of rapid, fluid gestures I did not recognize and could not begin to duplicate. Silver
motes sparkled in the air before us, then shot out in either direction and formed into a long, slim, solid
column.

I could not keep the grin from my face. This was the Silver Lance—one of Lady Laeral's fanciful
spells.

Khelben reached out and closed his fist on empty air. He drew back his hand and pantomimed a
toss. The enormous weapon followed each movement, as if it were in fact grasped by the great
wizard's hand. He proved to be a credible marksman, for the lance hurtled forward with great force
and all but disappeared into one of the kraken's bulbous eyes.

The creature let out a silent scream that tore through my mind in a white-hot swath of pain. Dimly
I heard the shrieks of my fellow wizards, saw them fall to their knees with their hands clasped to their
ears. Dimly I realized that I, too, had fallen.

Not so the archmage. Khelben snatched the Blackstaff from my slack hand and whistled it through
the air as if writing runes. I could see the pattern twice—once, as my eyes perceived it, then again in
the cool dark easing of the pain that gripped my mind.

The silent scream stopped, and the pain was gone. Where it had gone was apparent. The kraken
thrashed wildly in an agony I understood all too well. Somehow Khelben had gathered the force of
that foul mind spell and turned it back upon the creature.

The kraken seemed confused by its great pain. It began to drag itself along the sand in a hasty
retreat to the sea, yet one of its flailing tentacles probed about as if seeking something important. The
tentacle suddenly reared up high, then slammed straight toward the gate. I caught a glimpse of
thousands of suction cups, most at least the size of a dinner plate and some larger than a northman's
battle targe, and then a great length of that sinuous limb slammed against the wooden door and held
firm. The kraken did not seem to notice this impediment to its own escape. It sank into the sea, still
holding its grip on the door. Wood shrieked as the gate bulged outward.

I took this as happenstance, but my master was more versed in the ways of battle. His brow knit in
consternation as he divined the invaders' strategy.

"Brilliant," muttered Lord Arunsun. "The gate is thick and well barred—no ram or fuselage could
shatter it. But perhaps it can be pulled outward."

He gestured toward the Walking Statue. The golem vaulted over the city wall, and its feet sank
deep into a pile of sea devil corpses. Lady Mystra grant that someday the sound of that landing will
fade from my ears!

With a noise distressingly like a thousand boots pulling free of mud, the golem extricated itself and
strode to the shore. Huge stone fingers dug into the kraken's stretched and straining tentacle. The
golem set its feet wide and began to pull, trying to rip the tentacle free of the gate, or, perhaps, free of
the kraken. Terrible popping sounds filled the air as one by one the suction cups tore free of the
wooden door. Then the flesh of the tentacle itself began to tear, and enormous bubbles churned the
water in explosive bursts as the submerged and possibly dying kraken struggled to complete its task.
The gate bulged and pulsed in time with the creature's frantic efforts. I did not know which would
yield first: the gate or the kraken.

A splintering crash thrummed out, blanketing the sounds of battle much as a dragon's roar might
diminish birdsong. Great, jagged fissures snaked up the massive wooden planks of the gate. The
statue redoubled its efforts. Stone arms corded as the golem strove to either break the creature's hold
or rend it in twain.

Finally the kraken could bear no more. The tentacle came loose suddenly, abandoning the gate to
wrap snakelike around the golem's stone face. The Walking Statue struggled mightily and dug in its
heels, but it was slowly dragged into the water, leaving deep furrows behind in the sand. The water
roiled and heaved as their battle raged. Great stone arms tangled with thrashing kraken limbs for many
long moments before both sank beneath the silent waves.

Lord Arunsun did not look pleased by this victory. "We are winning," I ventured.

"When there is so much death no one wins," he muttered. "Too much corruption in the harbor.
This sort of victory could destroy the city."

A terrible scream sliced through the air. Somehow I knew the voice, though I had never heard it
raised in such fear and pain. I spun toward the sound. Finella Chandler, a lovely wench who was
nearly my equal in the art of creating fire, had apparently grown too tired to control her own magic. A
fireball had exploded in her hand, and she flamed like a candle. She rolled wildly down the slope of
the inner wall and ran shrieking through the streets, too maddened by pain to realize that her best hope
was among her fellow wizards.

A second shriek, equally impassioned, rang out from a young fellow I knew only as Tomas. He
was a shy lad, and I had not known that he loved Finella. There was no doubting it now. The youth
spent his magic hurling quenching spells after his dying love, but her frantic haste and his made a
poor match. I shuddered as I watched Finella's last light fade from sight.

Khelben gave me an ungentle push. "To the north! The sahuagin have nearly broken through."

For a moment I stood amazed. This possibility had not once occurred to me. I had no idea how I
would fight sea devils in the streets of Waterdeep. The gods had gifted me with a nimble mind and a
talent for the Art, but I was not a large man and I was unskilled in weapons. My fire spells would not
serve in the city. Old timbers and thatched roofs blazed like seasoned kindling, and as Finella had

learned to her sorrow, fires were far easier to start than to quench.

New urgency quickened my steps, and with new seriousness I reviewed the spells remaining to me.
I prayed they would suffice. The sea devils had to be stopped now, here.

I ran past Hughmont and seized his arm. "Come with me," I said. "Frighten them with your
sparkles and purchase me time."

He came along, but his hand went to his sword belt rather than his spell bag. I was alone in the
possession of magic, and I spent my spells freely as we pushed northward. I tried not to contemplate
what I might do when my magical store was emptied.

When we reached my assigned post two dire things occurred in one breath. Just as exhaustion
dwindled my last fireball into harmless smoke, two enormous, webbed, green-black hands slapped
onto the rim of the guard wall directly before me.

Six fingers, I thought numbly. The sea devils have six fingers. The malformed hands flexed, and
the creature hoisted itself up to eye level.

I forgot everything else as I stared into the blackness of those hideous eyes. They were empty,
merciless, and darker than a moonless night.

So this is what death looks like, I mused, then all thought melted as mindless screams tore from
my throat.

* * * * *

The hairless wizard began the ululating chant of a spell. It was a fearsome noise—more ringingly
powerful than I would have thought possible without water to carry it. For a moment fear froze me.

A moment of weakness, no more, but the wizards were quick to exploit it. A second wizard, this
one pale as a fish's underbelly, ran forward with upraised sword. This was a battle I could understand.

My first impulse was to spring onto the parapet, but I remembered that none of the humans seemed
to carry my particular mutation. They all had but a single pair of arms. I held my place until the
fighting wizard was almost upon me, but with my unseen hands I reached for two small weapons
hooked to my harness.

He came in hard, confident. I lifted a knife to catch his descending blade. The appearance of a third
arm startled him and stole some of the force from his attack. It was an easy thing to throw his sword
arm high, so simple to slash in with a small, curved sickle and open his belly.

The sweet, heavy, enticing scent of blood washed over me in waves. I heaved myself up and
lunged for the proffered meal. Strictly speaking, this was still an enemy and not food, but that was
easily resolved. I thrust one hand deep into the human's body and tore loose a handful of entrails. Life
left him instantly, and I tossed the food into my mouth.

"Meat is meat," I grunted between gulps. Wizard or seal pup, in the end all flesh was food.

Blessed silence fell as the hairless wizard ceased his keening chant. He began to back slowly away.
His eyes bulged and ripples undulated through his chest and throat. A moment passed before I
recognized this strange spellcasting for what it was: sickness, horror, fear. In that moment, my
personal battle was as good as won.

Nor was I alone. Other sahuagin had breached the walls and were fighting hand-to-hand with the
humans on the wall. Some wizards still hurled weapons of magic and flame, but most of them seemed
to have emptied their quivers.

Triumph turned my fear into a shameful memory. I gulped air and forced it into my air bladder to
fuel speech. "Where is your magic fire, little wizard? It is gone, and soon you will be meat."

The wizard—now nothing but a human—turned and fled like a startled minnow. For a moment I
hesitated, frozen with surprise that any warrior would turn tail in so craven a fashion. This was what
their magic-wielders came down to in the end. They were as weak and as soft as any other human.
This pathetic coward was the monster I had feared?

The irony of it bubbled up into laughter. Great, gulping, hissing laughter rolled up across my belly
in waves and shook my shoulders. I chuckled still as I followed the cowardly not-wizard as he half
ran, half fell down a winding flight of stairs.

Despite my mirth, my purpose was set. I would eat that which I had feared, and thus regain my
honor.

* * * * *

Sweet Mystra, what a sound! Next to that hideous laughter, everything else about the battle
cacophony was as sweet music. I ran from that sound, ran from the death in the sea devil's soulless
black eyes, and from the memory of brave Hughmont's heart impaled upon a sea devil's fangs.

In the end, all who fought and fell at West Gate would find the same end, the same grim and lowly
fate. Be he shopkeeper or nobleman wizard, human or sahuagin, in the end there was little difference.

Behind me the sounds of booming thunder rolled across the sands. I sensed the flash of arcane
lighting, the distinctive shriek of a fire elemental, but I no longer cared what magical wonders
Khelben Arunsun might conjure. I no longer thought. I was animal, meat still living, and I was
following animal instinct and running from death.

Death followed me through the city, running as swiftly as the sea devil behind me. The cataclysm
of defensive spells had sparked more than one blaze. To my right a corduroy street caught fire, and
flames licked swiftly down the row of tightly-packed logs. On the other side of the street a mansion
blazed. There would be nothing of it come morning but a blackened shell, and the charred bones of
the aged noblewoman who leaned out of the upper floor window, her face frantic and her hands
stretched out imploringly. These things I saw, and more—more horrors than I could fit into a hundred
grim tales. I noted them with the sort of wordless, mindless awareness that a rabbit might use to guide
its path through a thicket as it flees the fox. Screams filled the city streets, and the scent of death, and
the crackle of fire.

Fire.

For some reason, a measure of reason returned to me as my benumbed mind took note of the rising
flames. I remembered all I knew of sea devils, and how it was said that they feared fire and magic
above all things. That was why I had been chosen for the West Gate, why I had been summoned to the
walls to fight beside the archmage. I possessed a number of fire spells. There was still one remaining
to me, encased in a magic ring I always wore but had in my fear forgotten.

The building beside me already blazed—I could not harm it more. I tore up a set of stairs that led
to a roof garden, and I could feel the heat through my boots as I ran. The sea devil followed me, its
breath coming in labored, panting little hisses.

When I reached the roof I whirled to face the sahuagin. It came at me, mindlessly kicking aside
blackened stone pots draped with heat-withered flowers. All four of its massive green hands curved
into grasping claws. Its jaws were parted, and blood-tinged drool dripped from its expectant fangs.

I would not run. Hughmont—the man whom I had regarded so smugly and falsely—had stood and
fought when he had no magic at all remaining. I tore the small ring from my finger and hurled it at the
sea devil.

A circle of green fire burst from the ring, surrounding the creature and casting a hellish sheen over
its scales. From now until the day I die, I will always picture the creatures of the Abyss bathed in
verdant light. The sea devil let out a fearful, sibilant cry and dropped, rolling frantically in an attempt
to put out the arcane flames.

I looked about for a weapon to finish the task. There was a fire pit on the roof, and beside it several
long iron skewers for roasting gobbets of meat.

Never had I attacked a living creature with weapons of steel or iron. That is another tale that will
remain untold, but by the third skewer the task seemed easier. With the fourth I was nearly frantic in
my haste to kill. The sahuagin still lived, but the green fire encasing it was dying.

Suddenly I was aware of a rumbling beneath my feet, of a dull roar growing louder. The roof
began to sink and I instinctively leaped away—

Right into the sahuagin's waiting arms.

The sea devil rolled again, first tumbling me over it and then crushing me beneath it as it went, but
never letting go. Frantic as the sahuagin was to escape the fire, it clearly intended that I should end my
days as Hughmont had.

Though the creature was quick, the crumbling building outpaced its escape. The roof gave way and
fell with an enormous crash to the floor far below. I felt the sudden blaze of heat, the sickening fall...
and the painful jerk as we came to a stop.

Two of the sea devil's hands clasped me tightly, but the other two clung to the edge of the gaping
hole. The creature's vast muscles flexed—in a moment it would haul us both away from the blaze.

It was over. No magic remained to me. I was no longer a wizard—I was meat.

My hands fell in limp surrender to my sides, and one of them brushed hard metal. It was the sickle
blade that had torn Hughmont.

I grasped it, and it did not feel as strange in my hands as I'd expected. The sahuagin saw the blade
too late. I thought I saw a flicker of something like respect in its black eyes as I twisted in its grasp
and slashed with all my strength at the hands that grasped the ledge. I had no more fire spells, but it
mattered not.

"Fire is fire," I screamed as we plunged together into the waiting flames.

Somehow, I survived that fall, those flames. The terrible pain of the days and months that followed
is also something that will never be told to my admiring descendants. The man Sydon survived, but
the great wizard I meant to be died in that fire. Even my passion for magic is gone.

No, that is not strictly true. Not gone, but tempered. A healing potion fanned the tiny spark of life
in me, and gave a measure of movement back to my charred hands. Khelben Arunsun visited me often
in my convalescence, and I learned more of the truth behind the great archmage in those quiet talks
than I witnessed upon the flaming ramparts of the West Gate. With his encouragement, now I work at
the making of potions and simples—magic meant to undo the ravages of magic. While there are
wizards, where there is war, there will always be need for such men as I. Fire is fire, and it burns all
that it touches.

Grandsire, please—what did you do when the sea devils attacked?

Someday I might have sons, and their sons will ask me for the story. Their eyes will be bright with
expectation of heroic deeds and wondrous feats of magic. They will be children of this land, born of
blood and magic, and such tales are their birthright.

But Lady Mystra, I know not what I should tell them.

Originally published in Dragon #282, April 2002
Edited by Dave Gross

POSSESSIONS

This is the first and, as yet, the only ghost story I've written. It tells a little about the background of
Farah Noor, a minor character in the Counselors & Kings trilogy. Again, this tale offers a familiar
scene through another pair of eyes, as Noor witnesses events related in the novel The Floodgate—
events that led to Kiva's madness and her hatred of Halruaa's wizards.

It is such a dark tale that some people have had difficulty equating it with the mild-mannered
soccer mom I appear to be. When Dave Gross, the editor of Dragon at the time, asked for a tidbit of
personal information to include in a two-sentence author bio, I mentioning that I'd just been asked to
fill in for the PTA president of the local elementary school. While this factoid was true enough, the
suggestion was entirely tongue-in-cheek. But Dave gleefully seized this notion, and it took some
persuading to convince him to let it go. Apparently I'm not the only one who's really fond of irony.

POSSESSIONS

Noor could hear someone chanting. The sound was distant, dreamlike, as if filtered through deep
mist. Yet the power in the chant was undeniable; each word pushed at the darkness that had inexplicably
engulfed her.

She struggled toward awareness, like a dreamer who knows herself a player in some unpleasant
drama of her own making. Finally she shook off slumber, only to find herself floating over a slender,
raven-haired girl who lay, face down and arms outstretched, before a shining alter.

A sharp stab of fear sent Noor reeling back, flailing at the empty air and kicking wildly in a vain
attempt to gain a footing. She hit the wall behind her, hard enough to bounce away. None of this
shattered the oddly lingering dream. Disoriented and deeply puzzled, Noor gazed about in search of
clues to her present state.

The girl on the floor was young and willowy, with hair the glorious shining ebony common to
Ghalagar nobles. She was clad in scarlet and black—a necromancer's colors, colors Noor had recently
taken to wearing despite her father's objections. So this girl, this supplicant, must be her. Noor
accepted that. But why was she floating here, looking down at her own body?

Her gaze swept the room. The walls and alcoves and altar were fashioned of a rare blue-veined
marble that resembled fine opals. Silver chalices stood on marble pedestals, and an elusive hint of
incense filled the room like moonlight. A tall priest stood over Noor's body, chanting as he waved a
wand that leaked shining blue smoke. He was robed in white vestments, and the silver circlet on his
brow marked him as a high priest. Noor expected no less, for this was the chapel on her family's
ancestral lands.

Understanding came to her in a sudden, bright flood. The chanting was a prayer, requesting a
vision from Mystra, Lady of Magic. Family custom demanded a mystic journey, a threshold that must
be passed before a wizardly apprenticeship. This detachment from herself, this strange, floating
experience, must be part of her vision.

It was odd, though, that she remembered so little of what had come before. Odd, too, that she and
the priest were alone. The Ghalagar clan always gathered to see fledgling wizards on their way.

Noor studied her prostrate form. She was dressed for rough roads, and her feet were shod with
boots rather than her customary jeweled slippers. Most of the rings on her outstretched hands looked
unfamiliar to her, but that was not so surprising. Gifts from her indulgent father and numerous suitors
were so plentiful that she had chests full of jewels never yet worn. She did, however, recognize the
large black and red circlet on her left thumb. Carved from obsidian and set with a giant ruby, it was a
deathwizard ring.

So that was why her father had not come!

Anger, black and bitter, welled up in Noor's heart. She embraced it, for it was less painful than the
sting of rejection. Granted, necromancy was the least regarded of Halruaa's nine Arts, but she could
not understand her father's aversion to her chosen path. Wealth, lineage, and beauty were already hers:
Noor aspired to power. Toying with the hearts and pride and honor of her suitors was a fine diversion,
but as a necromancer, she could possess their very souls, and hold life and death in her jeweled hands!

The chanting grew louder as it gathered magic from the Weave that sustained and connected all.
Noor's heart pounded in cadence with the quickening power. She threw back her head and laughed
with anticipation, not caring that her astral form made no sound.

She could not have been heard, regardless. The priest's chant had risen in power until it engulfed
the room, until it became too large for a human voice to contain. The chant tore free of the priest and
bore down on her like a hundred thundering hooves.

The magical onslaught swept her away. For a moment Noor was a leaf in a monsoon gale—utterly,
terrifyingly adrift. Then unseen hands caught her, and pulled her with a single wrenching tug back
into her prostrate body.

Noor came to with a gasp. She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees, feeling dizzy and
unaccountably heavy.

The priest knelt before her. Gentle fingers cupped her chin and raised her face to his. "Lady
Noor?" he inquired.

Dark eyes, kind and concerned, searched her face. The priest used her given name, and his touch

held the familiarity of long acquaintance, but his face was that of a stranger.

Panic fluttered through Noor, filling her belly like the baiting wings of caged birds. She turned her
head sharply aside to remove her chin from the priest's grasp and rose unsteadily to her feet.

"Lady Ghalagar," she corrected in cold, regal tones—a voice that one of her suitors had likened to
an ice sculpture honed by generations of wealth and privilege. "I am ready for my journey."

A small, sad smile ghosted across the priest's face. "Yes, I can see that you are. Welcome back.
Your boat has been prepared and provisioned."

She darted a quizzical look at him. "Boat?"

"Your journey will take you to the Confluence," he explained. "It is a place of great power, where
the warp and weft of Mystra's Weave—"

Noor cut him off with a single imperious gesture. "Who are you, to instruct me on my family's
history? I know my destination, priest. I also know that the paths to the Confluence have been dry
throughout my lifetime and yours."

He averted his eyes. "The River Ghalagar overflowed its banks."

This news set her back on her heels. The river that rioted down from the Lhairghal peaks was a
slow and sedate thing by the time it reached her family estates. It brooded its way through ancient
woodlands and emerald-green horse pastures with an air of middle-aged resignation, finally to
disappear into the Swamp of Ghalagar. Never in her life had the river overflowed! How could such a
thing happen, and she not remember?

Noor quickly moved past the shock of this revelation to consider the implications. If she needed a
boat to reach the Confluence, it was entirely possible that swamp creatures had made their way
through the floodwaters to that magical place.

Her lips curved in a feline smile. The swamp was a cauldron into which life disappeared, and
simmered, and rose again in unexpected ways. Few travelers were equal to the swamp. Noor could
think of no better place to test her fledgling powers.

Suddenly the priest's concern took on new meaning. Noor's chin went up, and her cheeks burned
with insulted pride. "You think I will fail," she stated coldly. "You consider the challenges ahead
beyond my skills and courage."

She thrust out her hand so that the ruby in the Deathwizard ring caught the torchlight and glowed
like a malevolent eye. "I earned the right to wear this ring, and to wield the powers it holds!"

Noor glared at him, silently daring him to curse her, as her father had done. Deathwizard rings
were rare and precious. The price was always high, always paid in blood. This ring had cost Noor her
virtue, her father's favor, and the lives of three good men. Even so, she counted it a bargain.

The priest's gaze faltered before her furious challenge, and he bowed his head. "This is your
threshold, Lady Noor. The decision to pass through or turn aside belongs to you, and no other."

She gave a curt nod and strode purposefully from the chapel. The door swung open as she
approached, creaking, as she had never remembered it doing, as if its magic were somehow tainted by
the priest's reluctance. Then Noor's gaze fell on the garden, and all other thoughts fled. She stopped so
abruptly that she had to seize the doorframe for support.

The chapel garden had been all but swallowed by the floods. Trees that had provided fruit and
shade were hunched over like broken old men, and the courtyard's bright mosaic paving had been
reduced to an indecipherable jumble of cracked and faded tiles. Once a broad sweep of marble stairs
had led to sunken gardens that were the pride of her family and the envy of their neighbors. Now, the
steps disappeared into murky water, and their marble was cracked and begrimed with green scum. A
servant stood in knee deep water, holding the rope that secured a low, shallow skiff.

Noor's gaze slid over the small craft. The prow rose in a graceful curve, but the boat itself was
broad and low-sided and nearly as flat as a barge. It skimmed like a water bug, barely dimpling the
surface. She let out a small sigh of relief. At least one thing was as it should be! Such boats were
commonly used during monsoon season to travel through swamplands and flooded fields, moved by
spells so simple that nearly any Halruaan child could cast them.

She allowed the servant to hand her into the boat. After settling down, she fixed in mind her
desired destination and began the easy, singsong chant of the spell. The boat glided steadily toward
the Confluence. Noor held her head high, determined to ignore the blighted landscape and focus on
the task ahead.

Her resolve soon faltered. She turned this way and that, gazing in open horror at the changes

wrought by storms she could not remember. Ancient, barren trees loomed overhead, moss draping the
skeletal branches like a moldy shroud. The air became heavier, fetid. Large bubbles simmered free of
the murky water, and the deep, grumbling calls of swamp creatures came from all around her.

A giant dragonfly darted past, so close that wings of rainbow gossamer brushed Noor's face. She
shied violently away, shoving her fist into her mouth to muffle her startled scream. Showing fear
could be deadly, for the dragonfly's touch was far from accidental. The creatures fed upon carrion and
soon-to-be carrion. It had "tasted" her, and decided that she was not yet near enough to death to be of
interest. Or perhaps it had recently feasted on the storm-provided bounty.

Noor closed her eyes, trying not to imagine the bloated bodies of drowned horses. Her father's
breeding farms lay near the chapel. She did not wish to see what had become of those sleek, fleet
animals, or watch the dragonflies gather in feeding frenzy. She had seen such a thing once. They had
gathered as thick as flies, their brilliant colors shimmering like obscene flowers in a breeze as they
reduced a rothe cow to bone.

A frustrated sigh escaped her. The monsoons that fueled such flooding must have been fierce, yet
she could remember nothing. No doubt the ritual left her confused. Her memory would surely return
once the threshold journey was complete. If it did not, she would have that wretched priest flayed
alive, and his hide tanned for boot leather!

Suddenly the boat lurched to the port side. Noor slapped her hands against the low sides to keep
from tumbling off her seat. But the boat continued to tip, the starboard side moving slowly, heavily
up. Noor threw herself onto the boat's floor and braced her feet against the port wall. The boat rose
until it stood upright on its side, then continued its path until it leaned ominously over the dark,
hungry water. Finally the boat stopped, quivering like two strong wrestlers locked in combat, too
evenly matched to prevail and too stubborn to cede victory.

Noor clung desperately to the seat to keep from falling. "You'll never capsize me!" she shrieked at
her unseen foe. "My father's magic protects the boat!"

"And you, as well?" inquired a dry, mocking voice. "I don't think so, little deathwizard."

Shock numbed her, silenced her. Noor had spoken out of fear and bravado, never expecting a
response!

"Speak up, girl! A well-bred lady does not stand about gaping like a carp."

A second wave of dread shivered through Noor. She had heard these words before, many times,
scolding and prodding her throughout her childhood and toward "proper behavior." The voice had
been leeched of tone or pitch, but there was no mistaking the crisp, exaggerated precision of the
words. Well-bred ladies were, above all, articulate.

"Grandmother?" she whispered.

"Give me the ring, little deathwizard, and go home."

"No!" The word tore from Noor in a rising scream, fueled by terror and fury and denial.

The boat slammed back down. Fetid water splashed over Noor, and the jarring impact sang down
her spine like a banshee's wail. She gritted her teeth against the pain and rolled aside.

Just in time. A skeletal hand lurched over the side and drove down hard. Bony fingers screeched
against wood as the hand groped about for its prey.

Noor scuttled back, crab-walking away from her attacker. But oddly enough, curiosity outweighed
fear. If this undead thing had indeed been her grandmother, why could it speak? Her grandmother had
been an imposing matriarch, but not much of a wizard. The spells that transformed a dying wizard
into an undead lich were far, far beyond the woman's meager skills.

"Who gave you this power?" Noor demanded.

A second hand grasped the edge of the boat. Bony fingers flexed, and then a skull rose above the
side of the boat. The famous Ghalagar hair was gone, replaced by lank strands of seaweed. Empty
eyes regarded Noor above sharp, aristocratic bones.

"Deathwizard," the skeletal moaned. There was an eternity of sorrow in that word, yet the
jawbones still moved in a manner than ensured ladylike annunciation. And then, they shattered into a
thousand pieces as crimson lightning flashed from the ring on Noor's hand.

Noor stared at the wisp of fetid smoke, all that remained of the skeletal wizard. She glanced down
at her left hand. Still clenched in a fist, it was thrust out, twisted so her thumb pointed toward the
attacker. Crimson fire still smoldered in the deathwizard ring.