Realms of Mystery

The Devil and Tertius Wands

There’s a common saying that I have recently taken to heart. It’s normally the type of phrase you hear among adventurers, freebooters, tax collectors, and other individuals of low moral character. The phrase, if you pardon my language, is “a special place in the Hells.”

Normally such a comment would be heard in adventuring dives, usually uttered when a particularly large barbanan, laden heavily with scars, tattoos, and other body modifications, heads for the door. One of the other adventuring types would give a head-nod toward the barbarian’s slouched, fur-covered back and say something like, “There’s a special place in the Hells for that one.” Sometimes they might just say “hell,” or something more exact “the Nine Hells,” or “the Myriad Pits,” or, if they are among the intelligentsia, they would call it “Baator,” home of the baatezu. In any event, said adventurer-type would invoke that lower dimension of lava pits, imps, devils (another name for baatezu) and brimstone. His companion would probably grunt in agreement. Or start a tavern-clearing brawl. Such is the way things are done among professional adventurers, as I understand it.

Never would I imagine that my own name, Tertius Wands, would be connected with that dark domain, nor that I would potentially have my own named parcel of abyssal real estate. But such might have been the case, if not for my ever-present and ever-wise companion, the genie Ampratines.

Let me start at the beginning, which in this case is not in the However-Many Hells but in the city of Iriaebor, crown gem of the upper reaches of the River Chionthar. Iriaebor consists of two cities, an upper city built along a narrow ridge overlooking the river, and a lower city bunched up along the sides of that selfsame ridge. The upper city is a tight jumble of important buildings, all stacked next to each other like children’s blocks. Space is at a premium in the upper city, and none of the various merchant lords wants to move from their lofty (if crowded) perch into the Lower City.

And for good reason. While the Upper City basks in the relatively warm sun of those climes, the Lower City is usually draped in a miasma of morning fog, noonday drear, and afternoon industrial smoke. Down below are the tin foundries and the ironmongers, the steelworks and the lime bakers, the tanners, hide-men, hat-makers, coach-works, stables, and working offices of the various trading costers, with their attendant collection of stables, wagons, warehouses, hostels, festhalls, and all manner of entertainments for the laborers, teamsters, stevedores, and other haulers. The Lower City, in short, operates under a continual cloud, both figuratively and literally, as far as those of the Upper City are concerned.

At the time I was lodging at the Wandering Wyvern, highly-touted in the guide books for its view. Unfortunately the view is mostly of the aforementioned L.C., as it was situated directly above the tanneries. As a result, I kept to the Wyvern’s drawing room for the most part of my stay, and broadened my horizons primarily by reading.

At that time of my life, I was moving eastward, slowly but unyieldingly, seeking to put as much of Faerun as possible between myself and my home city of Waterdeep.

The wondrous City of Splendors has a special place in my heart, and I would choose to reside there, if not for the presence of my assorted relatives in the Wands family. The fact is that the vast bulk of said relatives are mages. Powerful mages. The most powerful of them is my great-uncle Maskar, who is cause enough to make any young man showing no more interest in spellcraft than he does in killing dragons for a living, head eastward. I had earlier thought that Scornubel was far enough, but recent encounters there convinced me that relocating further inland from the Sword Coast would be a wise decision. At the time when all hell (or hells) was about to break loose, I was comfortably ensconced in the drawing room of the Wandering Wyvern, with my nose in a book.

At this point, I can hear the reader saying to him- or herself, “Aha! some fell tome of magic, wrested from some elder crypt.” Actually the book I was reading had been penned the previous spring by an aspiring young author, Allison Rodigar-Glenn, published by Tyme-Waterdeep, and sold by the august offices of Aurora’s mail-order catalog. It was a historical mystery book, or “mysthricals” as they were called, and I must confess I could not get enough of them.

“I say, this Miss Rodigar-Glenn pens an excellent tome,” I commented to Ampratines, my djinni and personal manservant.

“If you say so, sir,” responded the djinni, replacing my expired drink with a fresh one. “I wouldn’t know.”

For a creature as large as Ampratines was he moved with a silence and a grace that were almost as valuable as his drink serving abilities. He was, of course, the tallest being in the room, tipping the yardstick at ten feet and change. However, he was dressed not in the flowing desert robes so common to his kind, but rather a respectable and immaculate servant’s jacket and trousers, with an unfilled shirt beneath. The most remarkable thing about him-other than being a powerful native of the plane of elemental air, which is remarkable enough-is his head. I swear its larger than most others of his breed, if for no other reason than to contain the masterful brains within. There are greater treasures beneath his broad forehead than beneath all the domes in Calimshan, and his visage is more sage than any vizier’s.

However, while Ampratines remains one of the most puissant of the air elementals I have ever met, he has an unfortunate tendency to under appreciate much of the culture of this plane of existence. This marked disdain for the more interesting things in life often creates rifts in our otherwise illustrious relationship.

“No, I’m not jesting,” I said, perhaps a little too loudly, for a few heads in the drawing room turned our way. “These mystoricals are filled with derring-do and secrets revealed and all manner of goodly material. The stuff of adventures and heroes, with a fine eye to the details. This current mystorical centers around ‘Who Put the Galoshes in Madame Milani’s Stew?’”

“Riveting,” said Ampratines, who set the remains of my early-afternoon cocktail down on the tray, “I can understand why they are so popular, with such deep subject material.”

“Joke not,” said I, “This is classic stuff. Miss RodigarGlenn is a master at her craft.”

“It is my understanding,” said Ampi, “that Miss Rodigar-Glenn is really an entire family of halflings living in the basement of the Tyrne-Waterdeep building, churning these books out at a clip of one a week.”

“Churning? Churning?” I said indignantly. “These books are obviously not churned. They are lovingly crafted and carefully scribed. They speak to the heart of the matter, as it were.”

“If you say so, sir,” responded Ampi, with that resigned sigh that never fails to infuriate me. It bothers me greatly that such a big-brained djinni as Ampratines would be so small-minded at times. “These books do have one advantage, sir,” he said.

“And that is?”

“Why you are reading about them,” said the djinni, “You have less of a tendency to go out and do anything dangerous.”

I scowled up at the djinni, looking for some sign of humor. As usual, that response was missing from Ampi’s stony features. Instead I said, again a trifle too loudly, “I believe another shipment of books is coming in today at Aurora’s. You will check this out and retrieve them. Else I might just go out and do something. And don’t think I’m not capable of something adventurous.”

If it were possible for a djinni to deflate in defeat, Ampi would be leaking air at that moment, “As you wish, sir.” And with that he wafted out, as silent as a church patriarch leaving a festhall past midnight.

I don’t remember muttering aloud to myself about Ampi’s lack of good taste, good sense, and a goodly amount of other attributes, but I probably did so. I tried to fling myself back into the book, but was interrupted by another voice, this one soft and sweet and gentle. A sudden ray of light in the darkened drawing room of the Wyvern.

“Did you mean that?” said the voice, in a tone that was halfway between a crystal bell and a silver dinner chime.

I looked up from Madame Milani’s Stew and into wide, open eyes of the purest sky blue. It took a few seconds to recognize that the eyes were set into a heart-shaped face, marked by a button nose hovering above a trembling set of bee-stung lips. The entire assemblage of facial features was framed by curled locks of honey blond hair.

I must have gurgled something along the lines of “excuse me?” though I could not be sure. She repeated, “Did you mean what you said about being a capable adventurer?”

The components of my brain, shattered by her beauty, quickly scrambled to re-combine into a generally operating form. Fortunately, Waterdhavian manners do not require an operating brain, and I was already on my feet, taking the young lady’s offered hand and bowing deeply while I re-gathered my wits. My brain was just catching up with my mouth as I said, “Tertius Wands of Water-deep, capable adventurer and world traveler, at your service.

Actually my brain wanted to say “I said I was capable and adventurous, but not necessarily a capable adventurer.” But brains are like that, coming up with the right thing to say right after you’ve said something completely different.

“Drusilla. Drusilla Vermeer,” she said simply, replying with a perfunctory curtsey and almost stumbling in the process. At once I leaned forward to steady her, and caught the scent of honeysuckle in bloom. She seemed faint and I walked her to the chair facing mine. The ultimate gentleman, I offered her my untouched drink. She sniffed at the mixture (one of Ampi’s specialties), then waved it aside with a delicate hand.

“Sorry, so sorry,” she said, even the wrinkle of concern that lined her eyes making her all the more beautiful. “I shouldn’t bother you, really, but I need a capable adventurer for a matter of some delicacy.”

I returned to my seat and nodded, then half-turned to order Ampi for some hot tea or some other suitable nostrum. But of course the djinni had already left for my new shipment of books, so I turned back to the young and beautiful Drusilla.

“I fear I’ve done a terrible, terrible thing,” she said, “And I need someone to help me.”

“There, there,” said I, unsure of what the terrible thing was, but confident that it would be no more than a lost pet or a misplaced locket.

“My family is one of the investing households that provides capital for the various traders. I was entrusted with a family keepsake, an amber box containing an heirloom belonging to my great, great grandmother.” She pulled out a lace handkerchief at this point and held it to her lips. I wondered if she was going to go to pieces entirely. In a small voice she said, “Its about three inches on a side, like a cube. I’m afraid I’ve lost it.”

I nodded, and realized I was nodding altogether too much, “How did you Jose-”

“I was such a fool!” she sobbed, “I was careless. I shouldn’t have trusted…“ She snuffled again, and even her snuffling was musical and sweet. “The fact remains that I lost it, and it is my responsibility to get the box back. It is very important!” She buried her lovely face in the handkerchief.

“So,” I said, reprising the situation so far. “You’ve lost the family thingummy, an amber box. You need to find the box, and need a capable adventurer to retrieve it.” This was the sort of thing the heroes of Miss RodigarGlenn would say. Repeating exactly what someone has just told you in hopes of gaining more information.

“Then you’ll help?” she said, blinking back the tears at me. Not quite the response I had anticipated.

Despite myself, I fell back on an earlier mannerism and merely nodded. Her face blossomed in a flower of relief and she warbled sweetly, “I knew I had chosen the right man.”

She made to rise, and I fought to regain control of the conversation. “This box, I have to say… if you lost it, we’ll have to spend a long time looking for it.”

“Oh, I know where it is,” she said brightly, canting her head to one side as if to reassure me. “It’s in the hands of a terrible person. I’ll need you to retrieve it from him.”

And then she smiled and gave me his name.

“‘Big Ugly,’” said Ampratines later as I recounted the story to him. “Not the most reassuring of appellations.”

“He’s a crime lord, apparently, in the Lower City,” I countered, trying to determine which set of trousers was appropriate for a meeting with the aforementioned Mr. Ugly. “Crime lords are not supposed to have reassuring names. The truly evil ones put a lot of X’s and Z’s in them.

Sort of like a verbal ‘beware of dragon,’ sign, or ‘no peddlers.’”

“Indeed,” said the djinni, holding out a dependable set of leather riding pants. I shook my head and chose instead my red satin trousers. I would send my own message to the crime lord, I thought, that we Wands are both stylish and not to be trifled with.

I hopped into the trousers while continuing, “Said B.U. operates a tavern as a front for his various nefarious operations, a place called the Burrows. That’s where I’m going to meet him.”

“And this Master Ugly stole the amber box?” said the genie.

“Unclear but likely,” I said, thinking back about what Drusilla had said specifically. “She said that she had lost it and this Ugly fellow had glommed onto it, and she wants it back. Money is no object, but this Ugly has refused to budge. I’m supposed to place the offer on the table and, as they say in the parlance, ‘put the lean’ on him.”

“And a lean fellow you are,” said Ampi without the merest of smiles. “And I suppose you’ll want me to attend you in this madcap mystorical escapade?”

I blinked at the genie and fastened the clasp of my cape (the dark one with the red satin lining that matched the pants). I had not thought about it one way or another, but had merely assumed that Ampratines would be tagging along. Still, there was something in the genie’s tone that bothered me, as if this were some adventure he’d rather watch from a safe but discrete distance.

“If you’re not too busy,” I said simply, the frost in my voice wilting the nearby potted ferns.

Ampratines merely nodded and we set out. Hiring a carriage outside the inn, we started the long descent into the Lower City. Ampi was silent for most of the trip, apparently brooding in thought. Only when we were deposited at the Burrows, a small tavern built into the hillside itself, did he speak up.

“I’m afraid I cannot accompany you,” he said, in a matter-of-fact manner.

“I say,” I responded, “If this is about your not liking my choice of reading materials, I…”

But the genie was already shaking his head, and motioned toward the door of the Burrows. There was an ornate squiggle of pounded brass over the door, surrounded by arcane markings. The markings covered the entire frame of the doorway, and, I noted in the flickering street-lamps, extended along the entire building. It looked like unruly scribes had targeted the tavern’s outer walls as an impromptu scriptorium.

“Mystic wards,” he said simply, “Magical symbols that keep creatures from other dimensions at bay. Master Ugly must be very worried about such beings, from the looks of things. With these wards in place, the tavern is proof against all manner of demons, devils, devae, archons, undead, elementals, efreet…”

“…and djinn,” I finished.

The tall genie gave a small shrug which he turned into a bow of admission. “I cannot enter. Indeed, I must confess that this many wards in one place give me a rather intense headache.”

“Very well,” I said, trying to imagine Ampi with a ripper of a hangover, “You’ll just have to keep an eye out on the street then. That happens in the books all the time, anyway. One of the investigators goes in, while the other one stays outside ‘riding crossbow,’ as it were. Do you have a crossbow on you?”

“I neglected to pack one,” said the djinni, “But I could scare one up if you thought it necessary.”

I waved off the suggestion, “It matters little. Stay out here and keep your orbs glued to the building. If anyone suddenly leaves I want you to be ready.”

“As you wish,” said Ampi, again with a small bow. He took two steps backward and disappeared among the shadows of the buildings directly across from the tavern.

I straightened my cape and climbed the six low stairs leading to the door in two large strides. I took a deep breath and plunged into the bar.

Now I had been in taverns from Waterdeep to Iriaebor, oftimes wearing something similar to my red satin cape and trousers. Usually, upon entering, there is a brief lull in the conversation as some of the resident bar flies check out the newcomer, and, once ascertaining that the new individual meant no immediate threat, turn back to their ales.

Not this time. The noise level dropped to an imperceptible level. One moment it was a typical tavern noise, the next it was dead silence. The last time I had witnessed something like this was when cousin Halian did his impression of grand-uncle Maskar while the old goat had suddenly appeared, unseen, behind him.

In this case, however, it was my own arrival that had squelched the conversations. I took the opportunity to look around. If the outer walls were decked with mystical wards, the inner walls were positively festooned with arcane designs. No wonder Ampi was getting headaches, I thought. The crisscrossing lines and whirls were enough to give anyone without sufficient alcohol in their system a splitting migraine, and was probably an inducement for those within to keep drinking.

But it was the patrons that were the clue to the sudden silence. There were about thirty of them altogether-a trio of halflings on high stools alongside the bar, a gaggle of gnomes plotting in a booth, a morose-looking dark elf (male) at the end of the bar, and a clutch of dwarves playing cards in the far corner. A pair of large, scaly ogres who apparently did the heavy lifting, and who were converging on my location at flank speed.

I put my finger on the problem at once. There were no humans present. Or to be more correct, there were no humans other than myself.

“You’re in the wrong place,” said the slightly taller of the two ogres, his words lisping around his oversized lower fangs.

I looked the ogres up and down (more up than down), and thought what the mystorical heroes would do in such a situation. I decided to grab the conversational bull by the horns and responded, “This is the Burrows, is it not?”

The ogre blinked, apparently unused to such a direct approach. He nodded.

“And there is someone named Big Ugly in charge around here?” I continued, arching an eyebrow most archly.

Another nod.

“Then I am in the right place,” I said, stepping down toward the bar. “Please inform Mr. Ugly that Master Tertius Wands, of the Wands of Waterdeep, is present and wishes to converse with him.”

All thirty sets of nonhuman eyes followed me as I strode to the bar (at the far end from the drow), pulled out a stool, and sat down. Or at least tried to sit down.

The stool disappeared beneath me, snatched by one of the ogres. The other one, the slightly taller one, simultaneously grabbed me by the collar and breathed hotly in my ear, “this way.” He propelled me toward a door in the back of the tavern, keeping me slightly above the ground so could only graze the floorboards with my flailing toes.

Beyond the door lay darkness. Most nonhumans have some form of ultra-, infra-, or arcano-vision that allows them to see in the dark. Unfortunately that gift was not extended to the human race, so I merely strained my eyes against the ebon blackness. I was set down and found a chair in the darkness.

There was movement about me in the dark, followed by a sharp clicking noise. Then there was light, all of it funneled in my direction. I held up a hand against the brightness, and was vaguely aware that the two ogres were now flanking me.

“Who are you?” said a voice behind the light. I could not see anything other that a blaze of whiteness, but the voice came from above the light source.

“Ter-” I said, my voice breaking, “Tertius Wands of Waterdeep. I’m looking for the one called Big Ugly.”

“Why do you seek him?” said the voice.

I shifted in my seat. I was the one supposed to be asking the tough questions. “Ugly, er, Mister Ugly has something in his possession that I am interested in.” I shut up at this point. In the mystoricals, the hero would always give away as much as he had to, but no more.

I was rewarded with another sound I had not heard before, a sound of soft whispers behind the light. Big Ugly had advisors, it seemed. The voice said aloud, “What is the item in question?”

“A box. Amber. About so big by so big,” I motioned with my hands and immediately the ogres on either side of me tensed. “Belongs to a woman. She wants it back. She’ll pay a finder’s fee for it. Very generous one, indeed.”

I pulled out a slip of paper, on which I had written Drusilla’s offer. It seemed high to me for even an heirloom, but people are funny that way about family possessions. One of the ogres snatched the paper out of my grasp and took it to behind the light.

More silence and whispering. Then the voice said, “Come again in two nights time. Now go.”

“Now wait just a moment,” I said, trying to rise as I spoke. Two large ogrish paws clamped down, one per shoulder, and I was lifted again from my perch. The light was doused again and I was suddenly moving quickly through the main room of the tavern as fast as ogres could run.

A gnome at the front door flung it open as our party approached it. The ogres stopped but I did not. They released their grips and I was flung out into the night air.

Or rather, flung through the night air and into the arms of Ampratines, who manifested himself while I was mere inches from the cobblestones.

“Unsuccessful?” he said simply, helping me to my feet.

“A small setback,” I responded, readjusting my tunic where the ogres had left small claw tears. “They as good as admitted they had it, and that I should come back in two days time. The lovely Drusilla should be pleased when I give her that news. At least its a start.”

“This is horrible,” said the lovely Drusilla when I gave her the news. She had been waiting for us at the Wyvern. She seemed a little nervous around Ampi, which was odd because the djinni normally had the ability to remain unobtrusive. “Two days is far too late.”

“I don’t see why,” I said simply, “It will probably take a few days for them to pull it out of whatever file drawer they’ve parked it away in.”

“Or to appraise the item and solicit competing bids,” said Ampi softly. Drusilla started at the sound of his voice. Then she nodded and put the kerchief to her soft lips again.

I looked up at the genie, “How do you figure that?”

“While I was outside watching the tavern, I noticed that a number of individuals entered by the front door. Elves, dwarves, and gnomes, with an occasional orc or two.”

“No humans,” I said, agreeing, “The Burrows does not cater to that clientele.”

“No halflings, either,” said the genie, “even though there were apparently halflings within the bar. I noticed that they used another entrance.”

“So they used a shorter door,” I said, then stopped. “No, then dwarves and gnomes would use that other door as well. Let’s say that this ‘other door’ was the employees entrance, correct?”

Drusilla looked from one of us to the other, totally out of the loop.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” she squeaked. It was a very sweet squeak.

“Halflings run the Burrows, which makes sense,” I said. “Big Ugly is a shadowy figure whose face is unseen. Indeed, there was a lot of whispering going on while I talked to him. Therefore, Big Ugly is probably a halfling. Or a group of halflings.”

“Much like Miss Rodigar-Glenn of Waterdeep,” said Ampi. I generously ignored the dig.

“But if this Big Ugly is a halfling,” she said. “Why is that a problem?”

“Consider,” said the genie, “A halfling has something you want. You tell them you want it. What do they do?”

I thought for a moment, then leaned forward and put my head in my hands, “They’ll try to get as much as possible for it.”

“They know its valuable?” said Drusilla, her voice rising a half-octave as she said it.

“They know it is valuable to you,” said Ampi levelly, “That is all they need to know. The next day will be occupied with them sending out the word and soliciting other bids. Only if they do not get a better offer will they sell it to you in two days time.”

“Oh.” hiccupped Drusilla, “Oh, its going to be horrible. Daddy will find out I lost the box and that will be the end of everything.”

“Perhaps if you could tell us what is in the box…” began Ampratines, but just the thought of Daddy’s disappointment set the lovely Drusilla on a longer crying jag. I shot the genie a fell look and he merely nodded and retreated to the hallway. After about five minutes of assuring the girl that everything would be all right and promising to help her recover the box, I sent her out as well. The genie reappeared as she vanished down the hallway.

“If I might suggest-” he began.

“You may not,” I snapped, “I think you’ve worried that poor girl enough.”

“Sir, that poor girl is not being entirely honest with you,” said the djinni.

“Anything in particular?” I asked. Drusila had left her kerchief on the drawing table. I picked it up and it smelled of salt and honeysuckle.

“She has a nasty tendency to break down in tears whenever asked a direct question,” said the genie. “The smartest move in this particular situation would be to retire from the field in good order and leave her and her family to recover the amber box on their own. Perhaps we might suggest they hire a halfling or gnome to place a bid on her behalf.”

I waved the genie’s suggestions down. “Objections duly noted and ignored,” I said. “No mystorical hero would abandon a woman in need.”

Ampi sighed, one of those great genie sighs that threatened to suck all the air out of the room. “As you wish,” he said at last, “What will you be doing next?”

“I’m thinking about keeping a watch on the place,” I said. “See who goes in and out. Then we’ll know who we’re bidding against. Yes, that’s it.”

We returned once more to the Burrows, after I had changed clothes. This time I chose sturdy leather trousers and a dark shirt. I abandoned the cape for a dark cloak and an oversized black hat with a huge brim to mask my features.

We found a bench across the street from the Burrows, and set up shop there. Ampi took first watch while I retreated under my oversized hat to catch a few winks.

The few winks turned into a full night’s sleep, during which nothing much happened. When I awoke the morning sun was making its best attempt to pierce the smoky haze of the Lower City, and Ampi was still standing beside the bench.

“Anything?” I said.

“A lot of non-humans,” said Ampi briefly, as if I had picked up a conversational thread abandoned only a few moments before. “Mostly drinkers and revelers. A lot of haiflings through the side door. Three wizards, all of whom were elves. A half-orc barbarian. A couple human merchants, who were turned away at the door. A priest of Gond with three gnomes. Only the gnomes were admitted, then left a few minutes later. A dwarf dressed up as a pasha of Calimshan. A dark elf that might have been a priestess of Loviatar. I could not be sure. All stayed a few moments, then left.”

“Interesting,” I said, “Conclusions?”

“They are the rival bidders solicited by Big Ugly,” said the genie. “The word is being. spread and these are early buyers. They are being shown the merchandise, then they leave. Some will undoubtedly be back.”

“No humans,” I noted.

“No humans,” agreed Ampi.

“Right then,” I said. “We keep an eye on the place at least until noon. Then we meet the fair Drusila for lunch and figure out what she wants to bid for her heirloom.”

Ampratines was silent at the suggestion, so I prompted, “Yes?”

“With your permission,” said the genie, “I would like to investigate in another direction. I know a marid, another genie, in contact with a local sage named Prespos, and I would like to seek that sage’s advice as to this situation. Discretely, of course.”

I thought about the request for a moment, then nodded. Ampi faded from view immediately, and I sat down again on the bench, waiting for the world to unfold before me.

Morning in the Lower City is a clamorous affair, and the first of the coster caravans were already clattering through the streets. The last of the night wagons were long gone at this hour, replaced by cargo haulers and teamsters, sprinkled with carts of the hand-, dog-, and pony- varieties. And of course all manner of luggers, toters, handlers, and haulers and various day laborers. I thought from my perch I would be able to observe without being observed.

I was wrong. After about half an hour a shadow moved alongside my left. I did not turn my head toward it, but instead dipped my head forward, trying to keep as much of the broad-brimmed hat between me and the new arrival as possible. For all I knew it could be one of the city guard, seeking to roust a malingerer from the main thoroughfares. Or worse yet, a particularly strong ogre. The Burrows was closed at this hour, and there was no sign of life either from the front door or the haifling door to the side. Perhaps, I thought at the time, it would be best to move back to the Wyvern for an early start at lunch.

The shadow’s owner, in a wheezing, nasal voice, said, “So, you’ve seen anything interesting?”

Despite myself, I raised my head slightly, and was rewarded with a nasal laugh that sounded like migrating geese. My cheeks reddening with embarrassment, I looked at the individual addressing me.

He wasn’t much to look at. A neat set of leggings and a nondescript tunic, topped with a vest of moderately valuable brocade. A trim, balding head. His eyes, however, were overlarge, made almost monstrous when viewed through his thick spectacles. The latter were like sheets of block crystal and continually slid down his nose. When he talked they would slide further down, necessitating he push them back with a finger. He seemed human, but at best would reach up to my shoulder.

“I said,” repeated the little man with the thick lenses. “See anything interesting?”

“Sorry,” I tried. “Not from around here.”

“Indeed you aren’t,” said the short man. “Otherwise you’d know that while that outfit was suitable for nighttime surveillance, you stick out like a sore thumb with the light of day.”

I scowled at him. In the mystoricals this would have the effect of melting him where he stood, and forcing him to leave me alone. Instead the short human smiled.

“You were watching the Burrows,” he said. “I was watching you. Oh, and your tall companion as well, but he’s gone. Word has already gone out that the place will be closed for tonight. Private business with Big Ugly. And I think we both know what that means.”

I tried scowling again, but the short human remained unmeltable. “Who are you?” I said at last.

“Ah,” he said, as if rewarded with my attention, “a response. The first step to a conversation, and from that a lasting relationship. Its always so horrible when no one wants to talk to you.”

“Who…?“ I began again, but the man waved me silent.

“I heard you the first time,” he said with a smile. “I was just enjoying the moment. Call me a collector. A hunter of rare and unique items. Let’s say that it has reached my ears that there is a certain item, such as an amber box, that is currently in the possession of the owner of that establishment. And let’s say that the owner does not like to deal with individuals such as I.”

He meant human. Ampi had mentioned that several humans had been turned away. They were not welcome. I waved for him to continue.

“As a collector,” he said, “I would be more than eager to lay my hands on that box and its contents. And I thought that you might be willing to help me.”

“I'm not…“ I started, but then paused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hmmmm, yes,” said the little collector, “I don’t think you do, at that. I assumed that you were working for some accumulator of curios or an enterprising hedge mage. But I think you’re involved deeper. You want the amber box as well, for what it is.”

“Only to return it to its true owner,” I said hotly.

“Ah!” the small man spread his hands wide. “And here I am before you, the true owner.”

“No, you’re not,” I exclaimed, feeling my face burn from more than embarrassment. “The true owner never mentioned you. I don’t think she ever would.”

The collector put a finger to his lips and hummed. “A ‘she,’ is it? Well, I can think of one ‘she’ in particular, and your answer is, while she was an owner, she is not the true owner. The rightful owner. The legal owner. She traded it away, long ago. You understand that?”

I said nothing, and the small man continued, “Its good to know she’s in the hunt, at least. Do me a favor, young man. You look like a reasonable individual. And when this is all over and done with you might find an offer I have to be very appealing. But for the moment…”

He fished around inside his tunic for a moment, then pulled out a thin black wand. “I suspect you’ll want to get in for the bidding tonight, without being noticed, and without the price being driven up for your human appearance. This will let you get past the bouncers. Here, take it. I offer it free and without strings.”

Despite myself, I reached out and took the wand. It had an oily touch to it, and almost seemed to want to squirm out of my grasp.

The collector smiled, “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” and touched his forehead by way of salutation, turned smartly on his heels, and headed off. I watched him until he disappeared from sight. Then, regarding the cold, empty building of the Burrows, I walked two blocks over, hailed a carriage, and returned to the Wyvern.

Drusilla did not show up for lunch as promised, which added to my consternation. I wanted to ask her who the little man was and exactly what the box was all about. As it was, the luncheon hour arrived and passed without so much as a note from her. After spending most of the previous evening on a cold bench, I was in no mood to wait any longer than I had to. I was halfway through the shellfish course-Prawns du Chionthar-when there was the slightest waft of air over my left shoulder. Long experience told me who had arrived and I did not even look up from my crustacean.

“She has not shown up,” I said simply.

“I did not think she would,” said Ampi calmly. “The idea that a simple acquisition would turn into an auction has probably upset her. She is probably making other plans to acquire the box even as we speak.”

I frowned at my prawn. I didn’t want to believe that Drusilla would abandon me so easily. “Perhaps she is in trouble herself. Waylaid by bandits or short collectors or something.”

Ampi drifted slowly into my line of sight. His face was drawn with concern. Say whatever else you want about genies, when they are concerned you know they are concerned. Still, he would not voice them until I asked. “How was your research?”

The djinni nodded slightly and said, “Productive, but I fear expensive. The sage Prespos could teach the dao something about hard negotiations. What I discovered was of interest, however.”

“And that is?”

“The Vermeers were an Iriaebor household,” said the djinni. “But their forte was more magic than money. They were a household of spellcasters.”

I nearly choked on my shellfish. “Like the Wands?” I managed, suddenly having visions of the patriarch of the Vermeer clan showing up in my bedroom late in the evening.

“Similar, but not exact,” said the genie. “The biggest difference being that the last of the line died out almost a hundred years ago. If the girl Drusilla is a member of that clan…”

“‘Daddy’ must be very ancient indeed.”

“You do not seem surprised.”

“Hardly,” said I. “If one thing these mystoricals prepare you for it’s that the heroine rarely tells the truth the first time out. Indeed, most of the heroes ignore whatever the heroine says until after the third attempt on his life. Most likely some far flung fragment of the family trying to regain its insignia and ancestral lands. Or perhaps Vermeer was a name she pulled out of an old book, as a cover.”

My logic was irrefutable, for Ampratines remained silent, if only for a moment, before resuming the argument “If you say so, sir. However, in the light of this, I would recommend we reconsider the situation and our employment with the mysterious lady.”

I shook my head and motioned with a prawn claw, “No. In the stories, whenever a hero gives his word, he lives by it. It doesn’t matter if the heroine is not what she says she is. Often, she’s better.”

“I cannot dissuade you?” said the djinni.

“Not a whit.” I pulled out the black wand, “What do you make of this?”

The genie took the thin black rod from my hand. He had a look on his face akin to revulsion. “Unpleasant material. Not from around here, as you would say.” He held it up to a light, then handed it back. “It is a spell rod. Arcane device, sometimes used in the south. You break it to release the spell within. The runes say that the spell can alter your appearance. The illusion would last until you were struck or choose to drop the charade. Where did you get it?”

“Someone with a mutual interest,” I replied, “Someone who thinks I should get into the auction tonight. And yes, there will be an auction tonight.”

The genie’s face creased with concern again. “Someone?”

“A collector, who argues a separate claim on the box,” I said, holding up the claw again. “I know, I should not trust him either, but I think the first order of business is to get a hold of the box. Then we can sort everything out.”

A deep sigh, again. “As you wish, sir.”

That evening, after breaking open the wand, I turned to Ampi and said, “How do I look?”

The genie frowned, canted his head to one side, and asked, “Something’s wrong.”

“Wrong? How can anything be wrong?” I turned back to the mirror. Looking out was a rather dapper-looking dark elf in my clothes. My hair was ghost white, and my skin the color of night, a purple verging on ultraviolet. I smiled and primped for a moment.

“I think its the smile,” said the genie at last.

“Too flashy?” I asked.

“Too present,” replied Ampratines. “I can’t think of any drow smiling, unless the situation dealt with accidental dismemberment. Try to frown.”

I attempted a scowl.

“Better, but not quite,” said Ampi. “You don’t look angry, only petulant. Try to look more tragic. More angst-ridden.”

I scowled harder.

Ampi let out a sigh, “I suppose that’s the best we can do. Here, take these.” He handed me several long strips of white cloth.

I gave the genie a quizzical look and he explained, “The drow often communicate by a language of signs. Should you be challenged on the matter, you can complain you have been wounded and unable to respond.”

I looked at the bandages, and took them from him. At least he had stopped trying to convince me to abandon Drusilla and was trying to be constructive. As I wound the bandages around my wrists and palms, he continued. “I’ll summon a carriage. I would keep the hood of my cloak up while in the Wyvern, though. I don’t think the Upper City gets much in the way of underground conqueror races and might not appreciate your continence, and I will not be there to aid you.”

I blinked at the genie. “You aren’t coming? I was looking for someone to ride crossbow on this adventure. Just in case things go wrong.”

“I will be along presently,” said the genie. “I asked the sage Prespos for a particular item, and will be along myself as soon as I retrieve it.”

And with that I was off for the L.C. again, bundled in the back of the carriage, my face hidden beneath a voluminous cloak. The illusion had provided the cloak, along with a pair of ridiculously curved long swords. The latter were extremely dashing, but made sitting properly impossible. I ended up sprawling across the back of carriage, wondering if this inability to sit was what made dark elves so surly.

Night had fallen in the Lower City, which meant the gray of the day had surrendered at last to the smoky blackness of the evening. There was a haifling guard posted outside the Burrows this time, vetting the various individuals. Traditional revelers and regulars were being turned away at the door, along with a few angry humans. I waited my turn in the queue, practicing my scowling. Being made to wait helped my acting immeasurably.

Finally the party ahead of me was turned aside, a group of dwarf laborers bitterly disappointed that their evening game of “toss-the-darts-at-the-elves” had been interrupted. The halfling at the door scowled at me and said, “Private party tonight.”

“I know,” I said, trying to out scowl him. “There is an item up for sale. I wish to be included in that bidding.”

“Name?”

My mind went, for a tragic moment, blank.

“Ziixxxita” I snarled at last, trying to string as many Z’s and X’s together as possible.

“How do you spell that?” he asked.

“You spell it how it sounds,” I said, spreading my cloak and resting my hands on the hilts of the blades.

The halfling looked at the curved blades, then at my face again. Then he nodded toward the door. I gave the small humanoid a sullen snarl and passed within.

I was a late arrival. The half-orc barbarian was there, along with the fancy-dressed southern dwarf and a drow woman dressed in a low-cut gown that denied gravity, morality, and several local zoning ordinances. There were no less than seven mages of various nonhuman types in the room, and a few creatures that were wrapped in thick cloaks, species unknown.

Most of the tables had been cleared to the sides of the room and the chairs organized in a rough line facing the bar. A buffet table had been thoughtfully set up at the opposite end. As I entered one of the halflings was standing on the bar, thundering a large stave against the top and calling for order.

As I scanned the room my eyes locked on those of the drow woman. She looked as imperious as drow women were reported to be, but was not fully a drow matriarch. A drow debutante, then, but still one that could expose my masquerade.

She raised a hand, and her fingers drew intricate patterns in the air. I froze for a moment, suspecting a spell, but realized immediately that she was greeting me in her unknown language. I raised my bandaged flippers and gave the best dourful look I could manage. She in turn gave me a frosty glare, but nodded.

I exhaled slowly, mentally thanking both the gods and Ampi, and took a seat on the far side of the room from the drow woman. I did not trust my disguise against a true native of the Underdark, and did not wish to press my luck. I ended up next to the half-orc.

“Whaddya bid onnit?” said the half-orc, without preamble or greeting.

I thought for a moment. Actually, if the bidding brushed the crystal sphere, I was planning on just noting who had bought the box and approaching them later. Would be better than dealing with halflings. Still, a reply was called for. “Whatever it takes,” I said, and scowled deeper.

The half-orc gave a deep chuckle. “Yagreed. Whativer i’takes,” He pulled a barbed dagger. “Just don’ git’n m’way, eh?”

“Take your seats,” said the halfling. As our motley mob took our places, he thumped his staff thrice more and the show got on the road.

The back door swung open and a procession emerged: one of the ogres, a pair of halfling guards with spears, a well-dressed halfling with a serving dish, two more halfling guards, and the last ogre. Any of the halflings could be Big Ugly. Or all of them.

The well-dressed halfling climbed up behind the bar and set the serving dish on it. The two ogres took up positions on either side, also behind the bar. The halflings guarded the doors. The halfling with the staff said, “We are the representatives of the owner of this establishment, known to the humans as Big Ugly. We thank you for coming on short notice. A foolish fop of a human has approached us in regards to an item that we have in our possession. While we wish to be rid of it, we want to give our non-human brethren”-and with this he waved a small paw at the assemblage-”the opportunity to bid on it first. Many of you have had the chance to examine the item in question, though not all. Therefore, there will be a brief examination session before we begin to accept bids.”

The halfling with the serving dish lifted the lid and the assembled group milled forward in roughly two adjacent lines down the center of the room. I could not see the box itself from the back of the pack, but the group was generally orderly, like mourners at a funeral. Each paid their respects and then returned to their seats.

I let the half-orc pass ahead of me, but ended up alongside the drow woman. “Where are you from?” she said with a cold smile. She was looking ahead, but her question was obviously for me.

I mumbled something indistinct, then said, “Water-deep,” at last.

“Skullport, you mean, the city beneath the city?” she nodded, “I’ve heard of it but I’ve never been. Who are you?”

“I’ll tell if you will,” It was almost our turn up to the box.

The drow looked at me, and it was a curious look. Apparently drow males were not so forward, but she said “Fair enough. I am Marinanta, loyal follower of the Demiurge of Despair, faithful to the Maiden of Pain. And you?”

“Ziixxxita,” I muttered, keeping to my original story. Then the mage and the half-orc in front of us parted and I got my first look at the box.

It made me think of Drusilla immediately. It had that same sort of purity, a radiance that seemed to embody the young woman. It was a cube of translucent yellow gold, only about three inches on a side. The faces were incised with numerous carvings and mystic wards, simitar to the walls of the Burrows themselves. I daresay that this little number would give Ampi a nasty head-pain as well. There was no obvious latch or hinges. Within the translucent box, something indeterminate seemed to glow of its own power.

In a moment I knew why Drusilla wanted the box, or at least thought I knew. It was one of the most splendid things I had seen in my life. I also knew in a moment that I could not afford what the others would bid on this.

I looked up at the drow in the low-cut gown next to me, expecting to see in her eyes the same look of wonder and appreciation. Instead, I saw a set of narrowed eyes that pierced me to the core.

“Ziixxxita is a woman’s name,” she hissed, “Who are you, really?”

Had I been thinking about my mystoricals I could have toughed it out, have thought of some glib explanation, but in truth I had been wowsered by the beauty of the box. I did the one thing a drow never should do. I smiled.

Her eyes flew open in recognition immediately. “You’re not a drow,” she snarled. Louder, she shouted, “We have an impostor among us!”

I spun on my heel immediately, looking at the shocked faces of the others. “We have an impostor!” I agreed loudly, “And that’s him!” I pointed at the back of the half-ore barbarian, who was at the moment ensconced at the buffet table.

I had chosen a perfect target, if only because the barbarian had at the moment a mouth full of roast beef and could not defend himself verbally. Instead he dropped his plate and reached for his blades, which was as good as an admission of guilt. Both ogres vaulted the bar, while around the room there was the sudden, deadly whisper of blades, wands, and spellcasting materials being pulled from sheaths, holders, and pockets.

The drow woman shouted, “No, not him, the other drow!” But by that time I made my move. As everyone was turning toward the half-ore, I lunged forward and grabbed the amber box. The artifact felt warm to the touch, and that warmth comforted me to the core. I felt a need to protect it, to take it back to Drusilla.

There was an explosion from the side of the buffet table as one of the mages decided that the half-ore was guilty of something, if not of being an impostor. That half of the room was bathed in a shining radiance, followed by the smell of singed ore-flesh and the cries of temporarily blinded non-human mages. By the time the drow woman had shouted her correction, I was already halfway to the door. I intended to vault the two halfling guards and make my escape into the night.

That was the intention. Instead I found an overturned chair and got tangled in its legs. With a shout I pitched forward and downward, still clutching the box in my bandaged hands.

The fall probably saved my life. Over my head there were a scattering of lightning shards, fire bolts, and other magical missiles. The ward-covered walls glowed as they were infused by the energies, then began to smoke as the mystic wards themselves were overloaded by the assault.

I picked myself up as everyone was reloading and charged for the door. The two now slightly-singed ogres had reversed direction and were bearing down on me, hammerlike fists raised in assault.

The first time I fell was by accident. Now I did it on purpose, tossing myself behind an overturned table. The ogre fists slammed into the wall behind me. Then I was up again, making for the door as ogre curses berated my back.

The haft-end of a spear swung upward from out of nowhere and caught me in the face. My brain would have recognized it as belonging to one of the halfling guards, and would have realized that was why halflings would carry spears. The better to swat tall thieves with. Instead my brain was concentrating on getting back off the floor. If it had any spare room from that task, said brain would note that I had regained my true Tertius form.

My spinning sight came to rest to reveal an ugly tableaux. Five angry halflings. Two ogres with broken hands. An enraged female dark elf. A badly burned but still standing half-ore. And all manner of non-human mages. None of whom seemed particularly happy with me at the moment.

I was dimly aware of the fact that I still held the box, and stumbled to my feet. I held the box high, intending to threaten to smash it unless they let me leave.

I intended to make the threat, really, but that was when the wall collapsed.

The wall had been spell-smashed and ogre-bashed, and now was crumbling of its own accord. Long cracks crawled up the remains of the masonry, and the plaster began to give way under the damage it had suffered. There was a moment of silence, then the entire west half of the building collapsed with a roar, and the night wind blew the dust into the Burrows.

Something else came in with the dust. Something tall and proud and very, very dangerous. At first I thought I recognized the form, but convinced myself I was just confused by the sudden disappearance of the wall. Then I cleared the dust from my eyes and saw that it was indeed Drusilla who glided into the room.

Indeed it was Drusilla, if Drusilla had grown another foot, had her back stiffened, and lived through several bad wars. Her clear eyes were now filled with fire, and her button nose and bee-stung lips were twisted in a snarl. Her golden locks of hair extended in all directions, as if she had just shaken hands with a lightning bolt.

Her voice was no longer quiet, but still in perfect pitch as she said, “I have come for my property. Your wards no longer protect you. Give me what is mine!”

One of the elven mages choked out the first two words of a spell. Drusilla barked out a few unhuman words and the entire assemblage was treated to the sight of an elven skeleton, standing for a moment after the flesh had been blasted off. I thought of Ampi’s warning about the Vermeers being magicians and inwardly groaned. Drusilla might be of that family after all. I noted that she was not taller, but rather floated a foot above the debris.

The disintegration of the elven mage was enough to convince most of the other guests, and the haiflings as well, to abandon the entire business. They fled through both doors and the new aperture in the wall. Drusilla was more than willing to let them go. Instead she turned to me and snarled, “Fool!”

Not the best of greetings, I must admit. I said, “We missed you for lunch. We were worried. Well, I was, anyway.”

Sparks seemed to glow from Drusila’s eyes, and flames danced from her fingertips. “If you had not bumbled so badly, I would have regained the amber box quietly. Now I must take it. Give it to me.”

I nodded and was about to hold it out. “Don’t do it!” said a nasal voice from the doorway. “You are protected from her as long as you hold it. Give it up and she will kill you.”

The small human, the collector from earlier in the day, stepped through the gap in the wall as well. Drusilla gasped and stepped backward, toward the remains of the buffet table, “Go away!” She snarled. “This isn’t for you.”

“I’m afraid it is,” said the short, balding human. “And we both know it.”

“Hold on,” I said, fed up with the smoke, noise, and danger. I held the box out. “What’s in here that’s so important?” I reached to try to pry the box open.

Drusilla screamed and flung herself at me. I had the good sense not to drop the box, but instead clutched it to my breast like a precious talisman and stood my ground. Drusilla hovered before me, her face slightly above mine. “You promised to recover it,” she said, “to give it to me. What about your promise?”

“A promise made under false pretenses is not binding,” said the small human calmly, as if he conducted all his business dealings in a ruined bar with a floating, frightening looking woman. “Don’t hide behind that.”

“You’re the one hiding, Collector,” snapped Drusilla, floating a few paces back and turning toward to the short human. “Why not show your true self?”

The small man stared at the floating woman for a moment, then gave a thin smile and nodded. “As you wish,” he said, and as he spoke the words he began to grow.

The Collector’s skin turned reddish and erupted with ridges of black. His hands and arms elongated, ending in yellowish talons. The nondescript face grew fangs, and horns sprouted from his forehead. There was a tearing noise as ebon bat wings sprouted from his back. Ridiculously, the thin glasses remained perched on his broad nose, making his eyes look like great yellowish platters.

“Look at him!” cried Drusilla, “Look at what wants the box!”

“A Baatezu!” I shouted, aware that my voice cracked as I spoke, and for the moment not caring.

“A Devil, if you please,” said the creature in the same nasal tone as before, “I don’t stand on ceremony, and its a much clearer, simpler, and concise word. And speaking of hiding, you haven’t told your minion here what was in the box, have you, Drusilla?”

The floating woman hissed and retreated a few paces. The devil pulled up the wreckage of a chair and sat down. “You see, young mortal, ‘Collector’ is not a hobby, or even much of a name. Its more ofajob description. It is my task to collect on old debts, regardless of age. This one has been outstanding for over a hundred years.”

I clutched the box to my chest and could only nod, A hundred years? Then Drusilla was more than the descendant of magicians. She was probably one of the original Vermeers herself.

“Feel the warmth of the box, mortal?” said the Collector. “That is Drusilla Vermeer’s soul. She traded it away years and years ago, but hid it before we could collect. She studied necromancy in order to keep herself alive until such a time she thought we would forget. But we,”- he pushed his glasses back up on his nose-”never forget.”

Drusilla said “He’s lying. He’s a devil. They’re evil creatures. They’ll do anything to get what they want. You know that. You know me.” As she spoke she drifted slowly to the ground. Her face, contorted with anger moments before, now smoothed itself back into pouting lips and wide, angelic eyes. “You know he’s lying. If it were not mine, why would I ask for your help? I didn’t want to get you in so much trouble. You know he’s not telling the truth.”

The fact was I did not know. I scanned my memory for every one of Miss Rodigar-Glenn’s mystoricals and nowhere did I find a situation anything like the one I now faced. Miss Rodigar-Glenn was woefully mute about the subject of devils and necromancers.

Yet it was Drusilla who made the request, and she did ask me first, regardless of her true appearance. I had promised, even if the devil was correct about the promise not being binding. Slowly, I took the amber box from my chest and held it out to her. With a shy smile she reached out for it.

“Master Tertius, no!” shouted Ampi, appearing suddenly at the hole in the wall. Despite myself, I jerked the box back away from Drusilla’s fingertips. The sound of Ampi’s voice was ingrained in my bones, and a sharp command was enough to change my mind.

Drusilla spun on her heels toward the genie and the snarl returned to her face. “What do you want, servant of the ring?”

“I want a resolution,” said Ampi calmly, and produced a small scroll. “A just resolution. Do you know what this is, Drusilla Vermeer?”

Drusilla’s face turned ash white. It seemed to me to be the natural color for her. Her hair, once golden, was bleached out as well, the ringlets looking like smoke instead. “No,” she said simply. “No.”

“May I?” said the Collector, and Ampi turned the scroll over to the devil. The infernal creature scanned the scroll quickly. “Yes, its what I thought it was. The original agreement between you, Drusilla Vermeer, and the Infernal Court. Power in exchange for your immortal soul. Power enough to destroy the rest of your family, if I remember right. And you’ve almost gotten your soul back. Not bad work, for a ghost.”

A ghost, I thought. Yes, that was what Drusilla was looking like at the moment. She had turned almost immaterial, fading almost entirely from view as the devil spoke. Her face had become bone white and skeletal. With one last cry she launched herself against the devil and genie. The pair ducked, but they were not the targets of her attack. She floated over the top of both and out into the town, bellowing like a banshee as she fled into the night.

“Hmmm,” said the Collector. “I believe that takes care of that. Now for the last matter. The box, if you please.”

I looked at the box, then at Ampi.

“It is his legally,” said the genie with a resigned tone. “The right thing is to return him his property.”

“There is another way, of course,” said the devil. “I could see fit to let Drusilla’s soul go, if one was able to find a replacement.” The devil took a step forward, continuing, “Another soul, noble and innocent this time, in return for hers. Perhaps if you would care to offer your own immortal spirit…?“ The devil reached out to me and Ampi’s hand closed tightly on the devil’s ann.

“You have your deal,” said the djinni sharply. “Ask for no more, or you will have to deal with me.”

The devil hesitated for a moment, and I saw a feral gleam in its bespectacled eyes. Then it retreated and Ampi let go of its arm. The devil rubbed the arm and said, “Well put. No need to get greedy here.”

I looked at the box, then at the Collector, then I held the box out “Take it, then,” I told the devil. “But know that this truly sticks in my craw. I don’t like dealing with devils, even if they are in the right.”

The devil smiled and took the amber box, “I know,” he said, “That’s what makes it so wonderful doing business with you.”

And with that the infernal creature laughed and disappeared in a puff of pungent smoke. In the distance there were the signs that our battle had roused the city, and there was already in the distance a hue and cry of the town guard.

I looked around. We were the only ones left in the Burrows, and it seemed like a bad idea to be present when the guards finally arrived. “I think its time to leave,” I noted.

“Agreed, sir,” replied Ampi. “I took the liberty to have a horse stocked and provisioned at a stables not more than two blocks from here.”

“Always thinking, aren’t you?” said I. “Well, one thing you should not pack is those dratted mystoricals. Completely unrealistic, as it turns out, and a danger as well to follow them. We’ll toss them down the first well we reach.”

“Already taken care of,” said the genie with a straight face.

I looked at Ainpratines with an amazed look.

“I told you Prespos charged dear for his aid,” said the genie, “It turns out he is a fan of those mystoricals as well, and was extremely interested in finding out who put the galoshes in Madame Milani’s stew. He is now the proud owner of your entire collection.”