Realms of Mystery

Darkly, Through A Glass of Ale

The sun sank into a golden haze of clouds and darkness rolled gently from the east over the port of Tharkar on the borders of Ulgarth and the Free Cities of Parsanic. At the gates that breached a thick wall dividing the two states, guards yawned sleepily in the evening heat. Steam rose from the softly waving fronds that bordered the Free Cities, northernmost kingdom of the Utter East. On the Ulgarthan side, a horse-drawn cart kicked up a thick cloud of dust that obscured both driver and passenger. The guards bestirred themselves and raised hands.

“Who seeks entry into the Free City of Tharkar?” inquired one in a bored tone, as he grounded his halberd by his side.

The driver of the cart coughed and shook his head, clearing the dust from his eyes and throat. “I am Necht of the Free City of Whitevale. This,” he said, gesturing to his companion, “is Avarilous, a merchant of Ulgarth, with goods to sell.”

“What nature of goods?” The guard yawned.

“Fifty kegs of ale for the Tavern of the Tall Tankard,” said the driver.

The guard, coming more awake than he had been all day, stepped back a pace and whistled loudly. From the long evening shadows of the gate behind him emerged the chief guard, a rotund fellow barely contained in his stretching chainmail. The chief glanced at his fellows and chuckled, turning his attention to the passenger.

“Well, Avarilous of Ulgarth, as you’re doubtless aware, none pass into Tharkar without paying tax.”

“Tax?” The merchant stared angrily at the guard. The driver put a hand on his companion’s shoulder and whispered urgently, but Avarilous shrugged him off. “There’s no entry tax. I paid for an import permit and for a scroll of sales submission. They cost me enough.”

The fat guard stepped a pace nearer. Sweat streamed down his face, dripping onto the rolls of flesh that surrounded his neck. From the corner of his mouth came a tiny dribble of dark juice; he had been chewing kalava leaves, a mild narcotic that, while technically illegal, were nonetheless widely available in the Free Cities. He rested a hand casually on his sword.

“This is a new tax,” he grunted. “A special tax on Ulgarthan slime-dogs. It comes to exactly two kegs of ale. And since you’re so anxious to pay it”-he glanced back at the other guards and grinned-”you can get down from there and unload the kegs yourself.”

Avarilous stared at the dirty faces of the gate watch and snorted contemptuously. The driver descended into the roadway and smiled ingratiatingly at the guard. “You’ll forgive my employer, sir,” he said. “He’s new to the Five Kingdoms, and our ways.”

Without moving his eyes from Avarilous, the guard brought his fist around in a smashing blow that knocked the driver on his back five feet away. Blood spilled from his lips and ran down his chin. The guard smiled at Avarilous, showing all his teeth. “Well, slime-dog?”

The merchant hesitated and glanced at the driver, who sat up in the white dust of the road, wiping his mouth. A subtle signal seemed to pass between the two men. Avarilous climbed from his seat and, going around the wagon, unhitched the back flap. He quickly rolled out two of the barrels, setting them upright on the ground, and refastened the wooden flap. He began to walk back to the front of the wagon, but the guard hadn’t finished his game.

“Just a minute,” he growled. “Let’s see if you’re paying this tax in good coin. Leethron, get a spout to tap this keg.”

One of the other watchmen disappeared into a narrow recess in the wall, then reemerged a moment later with a tap and mallet. Swiftly, with the air of one well accustomed to such duty, he tapped the keg and, taking a dirty tin cup from one of the other guardsmen, filled it full of the frothy ale and passed it to his chief.

The head of the watch took a long draught, then looked at the merchant and smiled soapily.

“Pig’s piss. That’s what this is. But what do you expect from the hogs of Ulgarth? They’ve nothing to do all day but brew foul-smelling rot-gut like this.” He chuckled. “Here, merchant, you try some of this swill.”

He held the glass toward Avarilous, but as the latter reached for it, the captain suddenly upended it and poured the ale onto the ground while his other hand, holding a blade, came up to Avarilous’s throat. “Well, merchant, go on. Drink up.”

Avarilous gave him a disbelieving look and stared at the muddy spot on the ground. The driver, who had regained his feet, started forward with a cry, choked off as one of the other guards clamped a hand round his throat. Another, coming up behind the merchant, gave the back of his knees a violent kick, knocking him to all fours. The captain thrust his foot on the smaller man’s neck, pushing his head down. “Drink, Ulgarthan pig!”

There was a roar of laughter from the rest of the watch. Avarilous twisted away and came to his feet, mud splashed around his mouth, streaking his cheeks. With as much dignity as he could muster he remounted his wagon and sat still, waiting for his driver. The man from Whitevale hastily climbed into his place and shook the reins. They drove down the winding street and out of sight. The guards laughed scornfully, then the captain thrust his glass at his lieutenant. “Here, lad. I’m off for the evening. Where did that fool say he was going?”

“The Tall Tankard?”

“Aye. Well, maybe I’ll seek him out there and make him pay another tax.”

Avarilous and his companion proceeded through the streets of Tharkar in silence for some moments. Silent groups of heavily armed men glared suspiciously at the wagon from arched doorways. Avarilous took no notice of them; he was well aware of the tense stalemate that existed between the Five Kingdoms, whose rulers jealously guarded their most powerful magical items. The bloodforges allowed them to conjure armies to defend against attacks from fiends and from each other. In the Utter East, temporary, armed truce was the status quo.

The oncoming evening was hot, and steam rose from the horses’ flanks. After passing a few streets, the merchant cleared his throat. “How is your mouth, Necht?”

The driver shrugged and touched the blood crusted on his lip. “Could be worse.” He turned to Avarilous. “But you really must be more careful, sir. This isn’t Ulgarth, and our ways aren’t yours. The gate watch almost always steals from goods wagons, especially those from Ulgarth.”

The merchant nodded humbly. “I see. I’ll try to do better in future.”

He sank into a thoughtful silence, broken by Necht asking him, “Just what are you selling, sir?” Avarilous glanced at him, surprised. Necht, looking resolutely ahead, continued, “Mind, it’s really none of my business, but if you’re planning to get me into any more fights, I think I should know what’s going on.” He turned from the road and looked his employer full in the face. “So what’s really in the barrels?”

Avarilous gave him a look of astonishing blandness. “Why, ale, of course. Just what we told those louts at the gate.”

Necht shrugged and shook the reins again. “Whatever you say, sir. Ale’s as good a story as anything else.”

There was a moment of silence between the two men. Avarilous glanced sideways at his companion, then cleared his throat. “Just in case something does happen, though, I’d much appreciate a pair of eyes at my back.” He stared hard at Necht, who grinned back cheerfully.

Necht swung his wagon into the courtyard of the Tavern of the Tall Tankard and leaped easily from his seat. The merchant descended more slowly, as befitted his greater age and weight. In the dark beneath the stars, his eyes glittered. From the open door of the tavern came light, music, and a blast of beery air. A figure emerged, observed the wagon, and approached Avarilous.

“Ahoy, good sir. Have you goods for my master?”

“Aye, boy, fetch him and some stout fellows to unload these casks.”

In a few moments, the landlord came out of the door, a fat, oily man with the air of being constructed of badly pressed butter. Behind him were four helpers who, without a word, set to removing the barrels from the wagon and carrying them through a small side door into the tavern while the landlord directed their work. When they were done and his helpers had gathered behind him, he turned to Avarilous.

“Now, sir, how much for the kegs, then?”

Avarilous and Necht had watched the proceedings without saying a word or moving a muscle. Now the merchant spoke in a soft voice. “As you well know, Daltrice, the amount we agreed upon was five crowns per barrel. Forty-eight barrels makes two hundred and forty crowns.”

Daltrice shook his head, smiling and rubbing his greasy hands. “Now, sir, you are mistaken!” the landlord exclaimed. “Why, I was right here all the time, and I’ll swear by Umberlee I counted only thirty-eight barrels carried into my establishment. I believe that brings your total to, let me see, one hundred and ninety crowns.”

Avarilous shuffled his feet impatiently. “Come, Master Daltrice, stop this fooling. Two hundred and forty crowns is the sum owed, and two hundred and forty crowns I’ll take.”

Necht tugged nervously at Avarilous’s sleeve. “Remember,” the driver hissed. “Discretion in all things. We don’t want trouble.”

Avarilous snorted. “There won’t be trouble if Daltrice pays what he owes.”

Daltrice laughed, a giggle of pure delight. “Oh, my dear Avarilous,” he said, “such a foolish man. But perhaps they don’t educate you Ulgarthans in the complex ways of commerce, as do we of Parsanic. Very well. One hundred and fifty it is, then.” He motioned to the largest of his helpers. “Sirc’al, pay the merchant.”

The big man stepped forward and tossed a small sack on the pavement. Avarilous, hesitating a moment, picked it up and counted the money it contained. He looked sourly at Daltrice.

“There’s one hundred here.”

“That’s right. Payment in full.” Daltrice laughed again. “Come now, my good fellow. Come into the tavern and have a drink on the house.” Turning his back on the merchant, he squeezed through the doorway.

Avarilous glared after him, then at the landlord’s employees, who eyed him stolidly. He shrugged his shoulders and snorted under his breath. “Thank you very much,” he muttered to no one in particular.

Passing through the door of the inn, Avarilous and Necht emerged in an arched passageway with doors penetrating the walls on either side and torches flickering in iron sconces. At the far end of the tunnel was a pair of wooden doors, paneled and intricately carved. These swung open as Avarilous and Necht approached them, and they passed into the main area of the Tall Tankard.

Of all the ports along the Utter East, Tharkar was the most popular with traders, travelers, and pirates. Ships put into its docks carrying goods to Doegan, slaves to Konigheim, and mead and battle-axes to the far-off halls of the northmen. Because of its position, the city was also the first port of call for the infrequent ships from Ulgarth, Chult, and even more faraway places in Faerun. The taverns of the city were famous throughout the Five Kingdoms for their food, ale, dancing girls, and other, less explicitly defined forms of entertainment. Among these houses, the Tavern of the Tall Tankard was the most well-known.

Smoke from a hundred pipes rose to the night sky, sparkling with stars, above the open courtyard that was typical of Parsanic inns. Palms waved, and hrashaka- tiny lizardlike creatures-ran to and fro beneath the feet of the patrons snatching scraps of food from the unwary and disappearing down holes and into cracks. A chorus of raucous voices continuously called for ale, wine, brandy, and tareetha-giris, whose services could be purchased for a few coins. Serving wenches moved about bearing platters of steaming elephant and zebra meat and tall tankards of ale with which to wash it down. Snatches of broken song resounded from the room’s corners and escaped through the open windows.

Avarilous cast a swift eye over the courtyard. He gestured to a raucous group of drinkers in one corner, away from the light of the torches. “Who are those people?”

Necht narrowed his eyes, squinting at the group. “Those are the inquisitors from Whitevale, sir. The ones I told you about.”

“Ah, yes. Looking for adherents of the Fallen Temple.” Avarilous apparently lost interest in them and glanced at the other side of the courtyard, where a collection of tough-looking bearded men were swiftly and silently downing tankard after tankard of ale. “And those?”

“Northmen. Daltrice had better watch them closely, or they’ll drink up his entire cellar in one night.” Necht sniggered at his own wit.

Avarilous gave a perfunctory chuckle. “And that group?” He gestured at a long table near the fountain at the center of the courtyard. A fine spray came from somewhere in its center, and rivulets of silver ran down the figure of a coiling python in its midst.

Necht smoothed out the lines in his face and looked properly serious. “Those are the trade delegates from Konigheim and Doegan. They’ve been here almost six months, negotiating a pact.”

The merchant stared thoughtfully at the crowd. His eyes traveled slowly across the courtyard, pausing once at the sight of a stout back and dark hair hanging greasily over a rumpled collar. Necht followed his gaze, started, and began to speak, but the merchant’s hand on his arm stilled him. “All right,” Avarilous murmured to Necht, “Be careful… and remember what I asked of you.”

White teeth flashed in Necht’s dark face. “Yes, sir. Don’t worry.” And he was gone.

Avarilous cautiously edged his way closer to the bar, behind which stood the fat landlord contentedly surveying the anarchic scene before him. At the merchant’s sharp rap on the counter, he glanced around, smiled unctuously, and slid across a tankard drawn from a barrel of the ale Avarilous himself had brought to the inn.

A balcony ran around the four sides of the courtyard. Vines hung down from its banisters. Avarilous, admiring the lush greenery, was startled to see within the foliage the undulating forms of serpents sliding smoothly over the soft leaves. He shuddered involuntarily, then remembered the special regard in which the people of the Free Cities of Parsanic held snakes. It was even rumored that somewhere in the kingdom, in a cold underground room kept secret from all but a chosen few were evil men with hooded eyes and shaven scalps. These priests of Talona sat amid wriggling mounds of serpents and, as the snakes wove beneath their ragged robes, spoke prophecies in hissing voices that were not their own. Avarilous glanced at the python statue in the sparkling fountain and shivered once more.

Beneath the balcony, he spotted a seat at a table set in the shadows, away from the torchlight that illumined the courtyard. The table was already inhabited by two men who looked up in irritation as Avarilous joined them.

“This table’s occupied, friend,” snapped one, a tall, grim-looking man with a scar disfiguring his cheek.

Avarilous smiled ingratiatingly. “Surely you’ll not begrudge me a place to sit in peace? I’ve been traveling the whole day, and I long for an entertaining evening away from the dusty road.”

The men looked at each other for a moment; then the blond one shrugged. A colorful scarf slanted over his forehead, concealing one eye and giving him a rakish, careless appearance. “Suit yourself,” he growled ungraciously, turning back to his drink.

Avarilous pulled up a chair and slowly lowered his aching body into it. Before his bottom touched the well-worn seat, though, there was a crash. The chair spun away and the merchant fell sprawling on the floor. The scarred man who had kicked away the chair at the last minute gave a shout of laughter. “Next time, Ulgarthan scum, don’t presume to sit at the same table with Tharkarmen.” He gestured toward a dark nook nearby. “Get over in the corner and slurp your swill there, out of my sight.”

Avarilous’s shoulders tensed for a moment; then he shrugged, rose, and with as much dignity as he could muster, made his way to the place indicated. Tharkar natives sitting nearby, who had witnessed the incident with amusement, turned back to their drinks.

The merchant relaxed, leaning his chair against the wall, and observed the scene. After a time he drew a small pipe from within the recesses of his cloak and lit it.

The two men who had humiliated him drank steadily. Every now and then, one would rise and go to the bar for a fresh round of ales. They spoke little, but Avarilous overheard enough to learn that the tall, scar-faced man was named Kreelan, while his companion, shorter and blond, was Spielt.

From where he sat, Avarilous had plenty of leisure for observation. The crowd appeared at first to be a typical gathering of sailors, soldiers, and rogues from the Utter East. As he watched, though, he became increasingly aware of a subtly different dynamic in the courtyard, a tension that seemed to grow quietly among the various groups.

Avarilous’s attention was gradually drawn to the boisterous group of well-dressed men gathered at the table near the fountain. It was a large party, and their penetrating voices rose above the clamor.

“Slaver scum! Traders in human flesh. The men of Konigheim! Who knows from what port they’ll draw slaves next. Citizens of Tharkar, look to your children!”

“Fool of a Doeganer! We of the Mighty Kingdom of Konigheim, Beacon of the Utter East, Favored of the Five Kingdoms, take slaves only from the kingdoms we conquer. And yours will be next, unless I miss my guess. The fish-people at last caught in a net.” The speaker chuckled heavily and belched. “We’ve all seen the neck gills you Doeganers sport. What’s next for you? Will you grow fins? A kingdom of codfish? We’ll serve you up in a lemon sauce. Or perhaps you’d prefer to be fried in batter!” He roared with laughter at his own poor wit, as his companions sycophantically echoed him. Avarilous noted with interest the patch of wrinkled skin in the middle of his forehead, a patch surrounded by a multitude of complicated designs executed in dark ink.

Near the center of the table a man rose, evidently with some authority. As he spoke, the men at the table fell grudgingly silent.

“Now then, citizens! Peace among us all! Put aside those differences that divide us, and together, united as one powerful force, we can confront the fiendish enemy, while improving our mutual wealth and power!” The speaker lifted his glass. “A toast! A toast to our success in these negotiations. Neither shall be the loser in the pact we conclude.”

There was an embarrassed scraping of chairs, and both sides in the dispute halfheartedly lifted their glasses in assent. Once again, talk at the table sank into the general babble of inn voices.

Avarilous listened with apparent indifference to this dispute and its conclusion. The men at his table seemed at first equally unaware of it. But as he observed them closely, the merchant saw that this was not so.

As Kreelan went to the bar he spoke a word in passing to one of the Doeganers. As Spielt, a colorful scarf slanting over his forehead so that it concealed one eye, passed near the delegation he seemed to stumble and murmur something to the Konigheimers. The men at the large table drew together in a tighter circle, their voices hushed, suspicious looks passing between them like summer lightning.

Avanlous watched this with growing interest, waiting for the spark that would set off open conflict. It was not long in coming.

Kreelan leaned his chair back and stretched. As he did so, Avarilous saw him, with a flick of his wrist, toss a small rock, so accurately that it upset a full tankard of ale on the Konigheimers’ side of the table. A hulking, dark-haired Konigheimer with the white skin and tall build of the Ffolk, instantly leaped to his feet with a curse. He turned angrily to one of the Doeganers sitting across from him.

“Clumsy fool! Watch what you’re about!”

“Slaver dog!”-the Doegarier was on his feet now-”The curse of the mage-king upon you!”

Rather than reply, the slaver picked up his chair and bashed it across his opponent’s head. Other denizens of the tavern sprang up, and the brawl was on.

Avarilous slid further into his nook, avoiding flying furniture and bits of broken glass. To his right he could see his table companions watching the battle with evident satisfaction. The conflict was conducted with broken chairs and tables. Fists flew. Bottles crashed. The smell of spilled ale was overwhelming. Then, as one fighter staggered back into the dark nook in which Avarilous was standing, the merchant was plucked forth and swept into the midst of the battle.

He found himself parrying a myriad of blows, slashes, and flying cups. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Spielt and Kreelan had entered the fray. He worked his way into the middle of the courtyard, now jammed with thrashing bodies, most of them held upright by the press of people. Then, just as the fighting was heaviest, the crowd drew apart to reveal a man’s body sprawled facedown, floating in the waters of the fountain. Crimson ripples spread in a ghastly halo around his head.

“Murder!” The cry came from a hundred throats. The crowd poured into the street, and in five minutes the only ones left in the tavern besides the owner were the two men from Avarilous’s table, the merchant, and the dead man. A second later, the landlord and his band of helpers emerged from behind the bar and ranged themselves before the door. Avarilous sank back into his nook, watching the scene with glittering, attentive eyes.

The two drinkers would have followed the rest of the crowd, but their way was barred by the landlord, who came at them in a furious rush.

“You fools! What have you been doing? This fight will bring the watch down on this house for sure!” The landlord’s voice ended in a shriek as Spielt seized him by the throat and pinned him against the wall with one hand, while his other drew a wickedly curved sword from beneath his robes. His friend stared grimly at the landlord’s henchmen as they started forward.

“Call off your dogs,” he growled, “unless you’d care to end the evening as a corpse.” The landlord gestured frantically with one hand, and the large guard, Sirc’al, stepped back a pace. His hand was on his own sword, and his eyes looked death at the scarred man.

The ruffian nodded to his companion, who loosened his hold on the landlord. The fat innkeeper choked and gasped for a moment, then sank into a chair. Kreelan gave his friend a ghastly smile and the two stepped confidently toward the door.

Light flashed suddenly from a blade, as one of the innkeeper’s men drew a broadsword and pressed it against Spielt’s throat. “Halt! Or your friend dies!”

Kreelan stopped, his mouth slipping sideways in anger. He glanced down, making a visible effort to regain his temper. Then he looked up again. “Go ahead! He’s less than nothing to me. I can pick up a better helper than him in any dockside brothel.” He took another step.

Spielt’s face had turned ashy, but his voice, when he spoke, was surprisingly calm. “Death’s waiting that way, Kreelan. Another step and you’ll be food for the Fallen Temple.” He flicked his eyes upward, toward a shadowed balcony that ran around the second story of the room. “Right now there’s a crossbow aimed straight at your head. Raeglaran was keeping an alternate escape route open for us. Well, that’s what he’s doing for me, all right.”

Kreelan began to look upward, then thought better of it. “You’re bluffing, Spielt.”

Spielt’s laughter had a touch of hysteria about it. “Am I? Then walk ahead. You’ll find out soon enough.”

Sirc’al’s stance appeared to relax slightly. He laughed deep in his throat and brushed a hand over his balding head, the skin mottled and scaly. “So you’ve betrayed each other. What more could I expect from such slime? Well, I’ll have you first, Kreelan.”

Kreelan grinned tightly. “Not quite.” Slowly he brought up the hand that until now had stayed clenched in a fist by his side. It held a small glass sphere that the others could see was divided in half by a thin partition. One half held a black powder; the other contained a clear liquid. “Know what this is?”

The smile froze on Sirc’al’s face. “What?”

“Smoke powder,” Kreelan crowed. “And next to it, oil of phosphorus. You know what happens if the sphere breaks, don’t you? The oil will ignite, and the smoke powder will explode.”

Sirc’al laughed. “Go ahead, fool! There’s barely enough powder there to blow yourself up.”

Kreelan said calmly, “Ah, but there you’re mistaken, my friend. This is just one sphere. In my pack, I have two more. True, there will be only one small explosion from this one, but it will be followed by a somewhat larger explosion. I shouldn’t care to be standing next to me.”

Sirc’al snorted. “You’re bluffing.”

“Am I? If your friend over there kills Spielt, Raeglaran will shoot me. I’ll fall. And with me will fall this little sphere. This little glass sphere.” He smiled nastily. “Spielt, if Raeglaran kills me, and the sphere breaks, I and our friend here will be dead. But his other friends will have no reason not to attack you. Five against two? Not good odds. And that assumes you won’t be taken down when I fall.”

Kreelan shifted his eyes upward. “Raeglaran,” he called. “In case you’re getting some bright ideas, shooting me now will only get your boss killed. And do you think you’d make it out of the tavern with these fellows, not to mention the watch, on your trail?”

Sirc’al grunted contemptuously. “You needn’t worry about the watch.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re already here.”

Kreelan started, and the hand holding the sphere wavered visibly. The guard tensed.

The scarred man’s voice was brittle as fine crystal. “How did you come here tonight?”

“Ask your friend.” Sirc’al made a minute nod toward Spielt, who smirked at his former comrade.

Kreelan’s voice rose to an outraged shriek. “You? You bastard! You planned to betray me all along.”

“No more than you were planning for me,” Spielt snarled. “You’d sell your mother for a handful of copper pieces if the opportunity came along. But now the tables have turned, thank Umberlee.”

Spielt’s mercenary companion had recovered his aplomb and managed to give the impression of shrugging his shoulders without actually doing so. “Well, well. Perhaps I would have. I’ve always admired initiative, Spielt. Possibly you have a bit more than I was willing to give you credit for, though any would be more than that. And now you’re caught in your own trap, tightly as a Tharkaran lobster.”

“Ah, but what about you?” Spielt’s voice was poisoned with hatred. “How are you going to get out of here, pray tell?”

Kreelan rolled his eyes. “I don’t know. At present the situation’s a bit of a standoff.”

“And a remarkably entertaining one, I might add,” observed Avarilous, stepping out of the shadows.

Kreelan’s hand jerked, and the sphere nearly slipped from his fingers, bringing forth an anguished cry from Sirc’al. The other watchman’s fingers whitened on his sword hilt.

Kreelan was the first of the group to recover fully. “By all the foul beings of the Abyss, who are you, and what are you doing here?”

For the merest instant, Spielt’s eyes flicked toward Avarilous. “I know him. I thought there was something odd about him from the moment he sat down at our table.” His hysterical giggle pierced the damp air. “I knew we should have taken care of him earlier.”

Avarilous smiled agreeably, taking care to keep his hands in plain sight and make no sudden movements. “Gentlemen, a word from an impartial observer seems as if it would not come amiss just now.” He picked up his ale from the window ledge where he had set it.

Kreelan spoke before the others. “Perhaps it would, but I don’t know exactly what game you’re playing. Are you an agent of one of the other cities?”

Avarilous permitted himself a small shrug. “My concerns in this affair are my own. For all you know, I could be an innocent bystander. But I know enough of what’s occurring in the Five Kingdoms these days to understand something about who you’re all working for.”

Spielt sneered openly, the veins in his neck turning purple. The watchman’s sword rested closely against the largest of these, and Avarilous could see the tip of the blade denting the dirty skin. “If you know so much about it, Whoeveryouare, tell us about it.” The blond mercenary glared at Kreelan. “I’d love to know who this tanar’rispawned bastard is working for.”

Avarilous cleared his throat perfunctorily and, righting a chair, sat down. “Well, then. To begin, the political situation between the Five Kingdoms is, as usual, at a stalemate. But some people would like to change that, and here’s where things get interesting. Who gains if the trade pact is signed between Konigheim and Doegan?”

There was a minute stir, as if both Kreelan and Spielt had shifted positions slightly. Spielt’s hands, held stiffly up to his chest, caught a thread from his robe and began to twist it back and forth. Sirc’al shrugged. “They both gain. That’s why they want to sign it.”

“Correction.” Avarilous picked up an unbroken plate from the table nearest him and, placing the center on his forefinger, spun it. “The two kingdoms want to negotiate about it. Neither wants to sign anything.”

Spielt wet his lips. “That’s ridiculous.”

Avarilous’s eyes followed the spinning plate. “The Konigheim slave lords see negotiations over the pact as a chance to gain breathing space for their accumulation of naval resources, preparatory to an invasion of Doegan. The mage-king, on the other hand, sees an opportunity for a small step toward his eventual goal of unifying the Five Kingdoms under his rule. I suspect he planned to use the period of negotiation about the pact to infiltrate more spies and agents into Konigheim to undermine the council’s power.”

Abruptly he tossed the plate from his finger and caught it skillfully. “Edenvale, the Northrnen, and the Free Cities of Parsanic opposed the pact to different degrees. From their point of view, it’s essential to maintain the balance.”

Sirc’al spoke. “I see. So these two were working as agents of one of the other three kingdoms to sabotage negotiations and prevent the pact.”

Avarilous smiled tolerantly. “Not quite. It’s a bit more involved.” His eyes moved slowly from Ereelan to Spielt to the watch commander. “I’ve developed something of a nose for sniffing out treachery. And there’s a good deal of it here tonight.”

The Watch commander gave a short bark of laughter. “Yes, by Tempus, I should say so. These two soldiers of fortune were willing to cut each others’ throats simply in order to earn their pay.”

Avarilous shook his head. “Not quite. It’s true they were prepared to trade each others’ lives, but the motive was stronger than mere money. In fact, neither intended the other should leave the tavern alive.”

“Explain!” Sirc’al’s voice was sharp.

“Well, our friend Kreelan here, judging by his clothing, has passed himself off as a native of Tharkar. But if you look just where his neck meets his robe, you’ll see something else.

The Watch commander craned his head and stared in the flickering lamplight. “Gods be damned! Gills!”

“Yes, gills. The man’s from Doegan. On the other hand, looking at Spielt, we find something else a bit curious.”

With both hands raised, he stepped closer to the blond man. Then, with extreme delicacy, he plucked the scarf from the mercenary’s head. Light gleamed on a complex array of tattooed lines and swirls, surrounding a perfectly formed, lidless, golden eye set in the middle of the man’s forehead. It stared angrily at the rest of the room.

There was an audible gasp from the others. Sirc’al was the first to recover and gave vent to a burst of foul oaths invoking Umberlee and the blackest inhabitants of the deep. “A Konigheimer, by all the fiends!”

Avarilous smiled and mopped the sweat from his brow, using the scarf he had wrenched away from the disguised slaver.

The watch commander’s eyebrows were wrinkled in thought. “But wait a minute! Why in the name of the gods would Komgheim and Doegan want to break up the pact. They were the ones signing it.”

“Not signing it,” patiently corrected Avarilous. “Negotiating about signing it.” He sighed. “As long as discussions dragged on, both the Konigheim Council and the mageking benefited. Meanwhile both secretly planned to sabotage negotiations at the last minute. Each planned a murder of a member of its own delegation in a public place on neutral ground, so the other could be accused not only of murdering an innocent delegate, but so that the Free Cities could be drawn into the conflict on the side of whichever party’s delegate was killed.

“For that reason I’m quite sure Kreelan, as an agent of the mage-king, had orders to murder a Doegan delegate. Spielt, working for the Konigheim Council, was supposed to kill one of their representatives.” He sighed again. “It seems a bit ironic, really.”

He paused and the stillness seemed to grow thicker in the heavy night air. The landlord, long forgotten where he lay against the wall, stirred and bumped against a metal cup, knocking it over. The dull metal thump sounded loud.

Sirc’al, looking thoroughly confused, broke the silence. “So who was murdered? A Doeganer, or a Konigheimer?”

Avarilous turned and regarded the corpse with a touch of regret. “Well, now, that’s the odd thing. Neither.”

“Neither?” The overwrought commander was practically screaming. “How can you possibly say that? Both these scum provoked the fight in order to gain cover for their planned assassinations-I can work that out, thank you very much! One of them was successful before the other, both prepared to flee. Now you say neither completed his mission?”

Avarilous walked over to the fountain. Setting down his tankard, he reached in and, with an expression of distaste, grasped the corpse by the scruff of its jerkin. With a sudden heave he brought it out, dripping, onto the flag-stones. He cautiously turned it over with his foot so they could all see the face. Water ran from the fat seams, from the mouth and nose, and merged with the smeared blood on his cut throat. From the inside of his sodden clothing a small scarlet viper emerged, hissed angrily at the merchant, and wriggled quickly into the bushes.

One of the watch behind Sirc’al started and cried out, “Sir, that’s Sergeant Vilyous. Him that’s on the north gate. I spoke to him there yesterday.”

The commander’s eyes widened..“Vilyous! Whoever helped him out of this world did us all a favor. He’ll not be missed.” He chuckled and spoke to Spielt and Kreelan. “A fine pair of assassins you turned out to be! Couldn’t even kill one of the men you were aiming for.”

Spielt giggled. “Yes, Kreelan. I imagine if you get out of this, you’ll have a pretty time trying to explain things to the squid-master of Eldrinparr. He’ll turn you into fish bait.”

Kreelan scowled. “Come off it, Spielt! You bungled this completely. I wonder to what slave pit they send assassins who kill the wrong man.”

There was a moment of painful silence. The watchman holding the blade to Spielt’s throat gave a slight murmur of one whose arm muscles are beginning to ache intolerably. The sword in his hand shook, drawing a thin line of blood on Spielt’s neck muscles.

Sirc’al broke the pause. “Do you two mean to tell me,” he said ominously, “that neither of you killed this lout?”

Spielt said cautiously, “I mean to tell you that I didn’t.”

“Liar,” snarled Kreelan. “I never touched the fellow. I saw him fall while you were near him. Since I thought you were working for Doegan as well, I assumed you’d completed the mission and we should get out.”

“Wait a minute,” sputtered Spielt. “I thought you were employed by Konigheim.”

There was another silence while everyone digested the import of these words. It was broken by Avarilous casually moving toward the wooden doors that led outside, still holding a nearly full tankard of ale. Spielt’s eyes followed him. “There!” he shrieked. “There, commander! There’s the murderer!”

Slowly Sirc’al’s eyes swung toward Avarilous. “Who in the nine hells are you?

The merchant looked at him apologetically. “The Ulgarthan government rather prefers to see the political situation in the Five Kingdoms remain the same,” he observed. “I came here to make sure the balance was preserved. And the man was extremely rude to me when I entered the city.”

He turned to go.

“Hoy!” cried a half-dozen voices simultaneously.

Avarilous turned back toward the yard. At the same instant, his left foot kicked back against one of the doors, slamming it as hard as he could.

The terrific crash precipitated a flurry of action within the courtyard. The watchman’s sword arm jerked violently, and his blade slid into Spielt’s neck. The blond man fell to the ground, writhing in his death throes. Almost at the same instant there was a dull twang, and a crossbow quarrel suddenly protruded from the back of Kreelan’s head. He staggered forward against the commander. Two of the watchmen whipped crossbows from beneath their dark robes and fired at the balcony where Raeglaran was standing. There was a cry and a crash of rending wood as Raeglaran’s lifeless body plummeted to the floor of the inn.

Kreelan’s nerveless fingers jerked in a dying reflex, flipping the glass baIl upward. The commander snatched it out of the air. “Thank the-” he started to say, then watched in horror as the ball slipped from his sweaty grasp.

Sirc’al screamed in frustration and anguish. Then he felt a sudden blow to the back of his knees and unexpectedly sat down in the chair thrust beneath him. The glass ball landed on his lap, unbroken, and his hands clasped round it. He could feel his heart thudding against his ribs.

There was a quiet cough behind him, and he looked around to see who had saved him.

Necht, Avarilous’s driver, stared at him with his hands still outthrust. Avarilous himself stood before the door watching calmly the havoc he had wrought. In the silence that followed, the merchant stepped carefully back into the courtyard and strolled over to the still recumbent landlord.

“Daltrice,” he observed calmly, “I do have time for one short drink. And I think you owe me something.” He picked up a tankard and drained it. At the same time, he bent and effortlessly jerked a heavy purse from the landlord’s belt. He scattered its coins on the polished bar top and, swiftly flicking his forefinger, counted out one hundred and forty pieces. No one moved as he scooped them up and dropped them in his own pocket. Jingling slightly, he put down his drink and moved toward the door.

“I forgot to tell you,” he said to the landlord. “I won’t be back again. Urgent business elsewhere. New accounts to service. You know how it is.” He grinned, beckoned to Necht, and was gone.