Shadow witness

CHAPTER TWO

Silently bemoaning his three-and-a-half foot tall halfling body as too damned inefficient for climbing, Jak slid over the cold stone of the inner wall and soundlessly dropped to the snow-dusted flagstones of the courtyard. There he crouched, listening. To his left, he heard the murmur of voices, though a forest of statuary blocked the source. The sounds grew steadily louder with each beat of his heart. Guards approaching, he assumed. But relaxed guards to judge from their easy tone. They hadn't seen him. He bit his lip to swallow a mischievous grin-in the darkness, a flash of teeth could reveal him to an observer as easily as a wave and a shout.

He congratulated himself on his success thus far. The defenses in the outer yard off Stoekandlar Street had presented him with only scant challenge. The lax guards were easily bypassed and the minor alarming wards were easily dispelled. He expected tilings to become more difficult now that he had neared the Soargyl manse proper. To that end, he had cast a spell that allowed him to endure cold so that he could shed his heavy winter cloak. The spell would last for over an hour. Plenty of time.

With the guards drawing nearer, he ducked into the darkness behind a marble sculpture of a rearing manticore and silently waited. His heart raced from excitement, not fear, but he managed to remain perfectly still. Selune had set hours ago. Except for the flaming brands borne by the guards, only the soft gold and red light of glow spells-minor magic used to illuminate and highlight the more impressive statues-dispelled the pitch of night.

When two bobbing torch flames suddenly came into view from across the courtyard and approached his location Jak melted fully into the darkness.

The green and gold liveried guards who held the brands talked casually to one another as they carefully wended their way through the maze of fountains, life-sized sculptures, decorative urns, and ornate topiary. Moving slowly toward the raised, paved walkway that ran along the inner wall and encircled the courtyard, they drew so close to Jak that he could hear the soft chinking of their chain mail, could see the frost clouds blown from their mouths and nostrils, and could make out their conversation. He tried to sink deeper into the darkness as the guards' torchlight illumined a suggestive satyr and nymph fountain five paces to his left.

"… didn't get much sleep yesterday," the younger of the two was saying. A scraggly, frost-covered mustache clung to his upper lip. Dark circles painted the skin beneath his tired eyes.

"Ha," laughed his companion, an older, balding guard. "Larra the cooking girl keeping you up late, I'll wager." He thumped his comrade on the back. "We should all have such problems, Cobb."

Jak mentally targeted each of them-just in case. If they spotted him, he would use a spell to immobilize them. Fleshy statues among the marbles. Then…

Then what? he wondered.

He didn't know for sure what he would do if this went bad, but he did know that he would leave no corpses in his wake. Not tonight. Tonight was a holy night of sorts, not a night for killing.

Watching the guards closely from behind the manticore's hindquarters, he prepared to cast the spell.

"No, no, it's not like that," protested the young man. "She nags, and I mean nags. Constantly."

Though they passed within a short dagger toss of the statue he crouched behind, they barely even looked in his direction. Swords sat idle in scabbards. Cursory glances checked the shadows. Dim torchlight passed over him. They talked so loudly they wouldn't have heard him if he snapped his fingers. Their boots beat a rhythm on the walkway as they marched away.

"With her body," replied the older, "I could tolerate some nagging. As long as…"

Their conversation drifted away. Watching them go, Jak shook his head in astonishment. What incompetence! If he had been the sort, he could easily have killed them both before either knew what had happened. The Soargyls need to hire better guards, he thought, and tried to ward off a flash of disappointment. Perhaps this job wouldn't be as challenging as he had hoped after all. The guards behaved as though they were irrelevThe realization hit him like a slap on the cheek. A knowing grin split his face and he patted the manticore on the rump. That's because they are irrelevant.

Excitedly, he removed from his belt pouch his current holy symbol-a bejeweled snuffbox taken from a Red Wizard of Thay exactly one year ago tonight. Intoning in a whisper, he cast a spell that enabled him to see enchantments and magical dweomers. The stronger the enchantment, the brighter it glowed in his eyes. When he completed the spell, he looked around the eourtyard and let out a low whistle. Trickster's hairy toes!

So many spells glowed in the courtyard that they looked like the campfires of an orc horde. Enchantments littered the grounds from end to end-this statue, this fountain, this seemingly empty patch of ground. No wonder the guards restricted their patrols to the outer walkway. It would be impossible for them to remember where all the spells lay. If they patrolled the inner courtyard, the Soargyls would have magical pyrotechnics and dead house guards nearly every night.

The two guards that had just passed him must follow a predetermined route from the manse to reach the wall perimeter, where, he saw, there were no spells. He reprimanded himself for not paying closer attention to their path. He could have followed in their footsteps and saved himself some trouble.

Ah, well, he thought with a grin, saving yourself trouble is not how you work. "Or you either," he whispered to Brandobaris the Trickster.

Many of the enchantments revealed by his spell must have served only harmless utilitarian purposes-the glow spells, for example, or spells that protected a sculpture from the weather, or made an iced-over fountain shimmer in the moonlight. But at least some of them had to be alarms or wards, and his spell was not sensitive enough to tell the difference. Fortunately, his spell did allow him to discern the really dangerous enchantments. They glowed with a bright, red-orange intensity that indicated powerful magic and promised an ugly end to anyone who triggered.them. No mere alarm spells, those. Most had been cast on the valuable pieces, so that anyone moving a sculpture without uttering the safety word would trigger the spell and find himself aflame, paralyzed, or electrocuted. One such spell protected the satyr fountain beside him, he saw. It had been pure luck that he had hidden behind the unprotected manticore and not the fountain.

He grinned, blew out a cloud of breath, and tapped the agate luck stone that hung from a silver chain at his belt. The Lady favors the reckless," he whispered, to invoke Tymora's blessing, and followed it quickly with, "and the Trickster favors the short and reckless." He stifled a giggle, gave his holy symbol a squeeze, and replaced it in his belt pouch. As he did, he muttered, "This is your last dance, old friend." After tonight, he would make an offering of the snuffbox to Brandobaris and use an item taken from tonight's job as a new holy symbol.

Worshiping the Trickster makes for some interesting evenings, he thought wryly. Each year, Brandobaris required him to sacrifice his current holy symbol and acquire a new one with feats of derring-do. The nature of the item itself did not matter much-though protocol and Jak's pride demanded that it be valuable-so long as he acquired it through a risky endeavor undertaken on this night.

Before tonight, he had hoped that lifting a snuffbox from the pocket of a Thayan Red Wizard in the midst of spellcasting would have earned him a year off from this divine silliness, but to no avail.

So here he was, at the Soargyl manse-Sarntrumpet Towers. He had decided to hit Sarntrumpet because of the reputed brutality of Lord Boarim Soargyl. If he were caught stealing here, he knew he would not be turned over to the city authorities-in the city of Selgaunt, the nobles wielded their own authority. No, if he were caught here, he knew Lord Soargyl would have him tortured and executed. His body would be dumped into the frozen water of Selgaunt Bay and some fisherman would find his corpse days later, if the sharks didn't get to it first.

"That risky enough for you?" he whispered into the air. He waited, but the Trickster made no answer. He sniffed in good-natured derision, gracefully climbed atop the head of the manticore he had used for cover, and studied the courtyard from above.

Though winter, only a light coating of snow dusted the flagstones. A labyrinth of fountains, statues, pillars, and decorative urns dotted the stone yard, some aglow with magic, some not. From above, the courtyard looked even more a forest of stone than it did from ground level. All of the sculptures and urns were of the finest workmanship and materials-the abundance of jade, ivory, and precious metals had Jak fairly slavering. The haphazard placement of the artwork left him with the impression that the pieces had been tossed randomly about in a snowstorm and left where they landed.

An artist with style buys for the Soargyls, he thought, but a tasteless clod does the decorating. Probably Lady Soargyl herself, he speculated. Mora Soargyl was a big woman reputed to be a bit like a dwarf when it came to fashion-lots of wealth, little grace, and even less taste.

Still, the price of any one of these urns would have kept Jak in coin for a month. But that's not why I'm here, he reminded himself.

Surrounded on all sides by the tasteless artistic trappings of Soargyl wealth, Sarntrumpet's squat towers jutted out of the center of the courtyard like five thick stone fingers. Crimson tiles shingled the roofs of each spire, blood red in the starlight. As with everything in the courtyard, the manse was built entirely of stone-marble, granite, and limestone mostly-with wood used only as necessary and evergreen shrubbery absent altogether. The few windows cut into the stark exterior were dark-bottomless mouths screaming from the stone. Hideous gargoyles chiseled from granite perched atop the roof eaves and stared ominously down on the courtyard.

To Jak, the grounds evoked the image of a grand cemetery surrounding a great mausoleum, or one of the cities of the dead built around an emperor's tomb like those he had heard about in tales of distant Mulhorand.

He had approached the manse from the back, so he could not see the main entrance. A few outbuildings stood in a cluster in the northwest corner-a stable and servants' quarters, he assumed.

From atop the manticore, he had a full view of the perimeter walkway that surrounded the courtyard and saw that not one, but three pairs of torch-bearing guards patrolled it. Not only that, but a full squad of guards in heavy cloaks patrolled around the manse itself. The Trickster only knew how many more men were within.

Could be worse, he thought with a grin, and jumped down from his marble perch.

Still using the magical vision granted him by his spell, he determined a safe path through the enchantments. Always alert to the location of the guards, he darted from shadow to shadow, from pillar to fountain, until he stood amidst a tight cluster of tall statues within fifty paces of the manse. Close enough that Sarntrumpet itself stood within the range of his spell, he saw that the high windows also shone with enchantments, though the actual tower walls did not. He nodded knowingly, having expected as much. There was too much wall space to protect it all with spells, but windows provided access for flying wizards and climbing thieves. Only a fool left them unprotected.

He focused his attention on the central tower, the tallest of the bunch by over two stories. The great spire was windowless on this side except for three expansive, closely packed panes near its top. All three glowed with the bright, red-orange light of powerful magic. That has to be the place, he thought, while he eyed the sheer walls critically.

He had not come into this job unprepared. Though he worshiped Brandobaris-the halfling god of rogues who ran pell-mell into the Abyss itself and still managed to escape with his hide-he nevertheless made it a habit to plan carefully before taking risks.

Because you're a god, and I'm a man, he thought, and hoped his oft-repeated phrase justified his habitual caution in the Trickster's eyes.

Since he wanted his new holy symbol to be an item taken from the very bedchamber of the brutal Lord Soargyl himself-a bedchamber whose location within Sarntrumpet Towers was hardly public knowledge-he had for the previous two tendays sprinkled coins and discreet inquiries among the city's architects. When that idea had failed to produce any useful information, he had ruefully decided to rely on the unpredictable humor of the Trickster. Before setting out this evening,

he had cast a divination spell and requested the location of the bedchamber. The response from Brandobaris that popped into his head had been surprisingly frank, if a bit overwrought:

Through darkness thick, and dire-filled gloom, Where danger lurks, and shadows loom, In tallest spire that stabs the sky, within is where the treasures lie.

He smiled and sat back on his haunches under the watchful eyes of a marble swordsman. The Trickster had given him the location, but it was up to Jak to get in. And out, he reminded himself.

He sat casually under the statue, eyed the guard patrols as they circled the manse, and tried to tune their routes. While he watched, he took the time to relish the moment and congratulate himself on his skills. The Trickster had set him a hard task, but he had proven himself up to the challenge, as usual.

While waiting for the guard patrol to complete its circuit around the manse, he studied Sarntrumpet and tried to guess at its internal layout from its external features. It did not surprise him that Lord Soargyl had chosen the highest spire in the manse for his bedroom. Nobles in Selgaunt were notoriously arrogant, and Lord Soargyl was reputedly worse than most. Only a room that looked down on the rest of the city's citizens would satisfy his ego.

Strangely enough, Selgaunt's rogues typically respected the city's strict social hierarchy. Thieves only rarely tried to infiltrate a noble's home. Not only was such a thing likely to fail and result in an ugly death for the thief-at least for those less lucky and skille than Jak-it simply wasn't done. The manses of the nobility were treated as sacrosanct. There were exceptions, of course-the Night Masks under the Righteous Man, for example. And me, he thought with a smile.

Unlike most native Sembians, Jak resolutely refused to play by Selgaunt's unwritten rules-he ran as an independent rogue in a gang-dominated underworld. He prided himself on his halfling blood in a city that held halflings in barely concealed contempt. He thought that respecting nobles simply because of their titles and bloodlines was among the silliest things he had ever heard;

Feeling self-satisfied and pining for his pipe, he leaned back against the pedestal of a statue and blew out imaginary smoke rings. Sandwiched between the guards stationed at the manse and the guards on the walkway, the inner courtyard provided a kind of thieves' sanctuary, if one could avoid the alarm spells-which he had.

He smiled and pushed his hair back from his face. Thirsty, he took out a leather skin and had a gulp of water. Around him loomed the towering marble figures. All stood upon stocky square pedestals and had a nameplate inset. Unable to read, Jak could not tell what they said. Not for the first time, he reminded himself to ask Cale to teach him. That bald giant reads nine languages, he thought, marveling. Nine! He shook his head in disbelief.

He ran his fingers along the nameplates and imagined what they might say. Most of the statues were of armored men holding swords aloft in victory, though some seemed posed in the midst of ferocious combat with an unseen foe. Jak assumed them to be representations of past Soargyl patriarchs.

He eyed the statues critically. Judging from their heroic proportions, the Soargyls of old had been impressively built men; either that, or the sculptor had been paid to take some creative, and flattering, liberties. More likely the latter.

The green cloaked squad of twelve house guards again trooped around the corner of the manse, mail clinking, boots thumping. The moment they appeared, Jak began a mental count. Then he waited, counting all the while. By the time they had retraced their route and again come around the same corner, he had reached one hundred and forty-seven, and his seeing spell had expired. He had plenty of time.

He waited for the guards to vanish around the far side of the manse again before making his move. As soon as the last of the men disappeared around the far corner, he began his count. One, two…he bade the dead Soargyls farewell, darted from the shadows, and raced to the base of the central tower. Seventeen, eighteen… there he crouched low, peering into the darkness behind him. No one. Sarntrumpet Towers was as lifeless as a tomb.

Why would people surround themselves with nothing but dead stone? he wondered, followed immediately by a whispered oath. "Dark." He had lost his count.

He grinned sheepishly. His Harper colleagues would not have been surprised. A worldwide organization of diverse operators, the Harpers worked behind the scenes to thwart the schemes of various evil-minded factions. Though he had worn the Harper pin for over six winters, Jak still had a reputation among them as a bit of a stray quarrel. If they had known of it, they would not have appreciated his burglary tonight. It was too risky.

Ah well, he thought, and gazed up the face of the sheer central tower. The Harpers could afford to take some more risks.

Jak had joined the organization because they tried to do good, and because he approved of their methods. Where possible, the Harpers tried to influence events using only political pressure. They resorted to killing only when deemed necessary and justified. Someday he hoped to sponsor his friend Erevis Cale for membership, but for now, he knew Cale was not ready. The big man turned too readily to blood. The Harpers would not approve of that. Cale would fit into the organization even less well than Jak.

For years Jak had felt torn between his friendship with Cale and his membership in the Harpers. He thought Cale a good man, but a man who killed at the slightest provocation. He disliked that about his friend. Yet he knew that Cale would always stand by him, and that he liked. He wasn't so sure he could say the same about the Harpers. Especially if they had known about tonight's little job.

Over one hundred feet up, the trio of windows beckoned.

Jak grimaced. He would not make that climb without magical assistance-risk taking was one thing, stupidity another. Hurriedly, he pulled off his boots, took from his belt pouch the snuffbox holy symbol, and began to incant. Though it seemed to take an eternity, the guards did not reappear before he finished the casting. Upon completion, his hands and furry bare feet became sticky, as though he had dunked them in cobbler's glue. "This should make things easier," he whispered, and planted his hands on the granite wall.

With his extremities now adhering to the stone, he began to rapidly ascend. Twenty feet up, he heard the boot tramp of the approaching guards below him.

One forty seven, he thought in dismay, and flattened himself against the tower. The squad rounded the corner and marched nearer.

Uncomfortably, he recalled the last time he had been caught hanging along the face of a building-he and Cale had been dangling from a rope with Zhent crossbow quarrels and lightning bolts buzzing past their ears. He hoped this time turned out better.

The guards walked right below him, the clank of their armor and an occasional spoken command loud in his ears. He held his breath and sent a silent prayer winging to the Trickster: Don't let them look up and no more wise-ass comments, I promise.

Though the face of the tower was unlit, he knew he could not be hard to see. A single keen-eyed guard glancing up the tower…

They walked directly under him and he felt every thump of his heart like a drumbeat. They would see him. They had to.

They didn't! They walked under and passed him by!

He held his breath until they rounded the far corner of the manse then blew it out in a frosty, relieved sigh. Not bothering to keep another count, he sped spiderlike up the face of the tower until he reached the cluster of windows near the top. The wind ruffled his shirt and pants but his spell prevented a fall.

Unable to touch the windows for fear of triggering the protective spells, he moved from one to the other, held his nose a finger width from the thick glass, and tried to peer through. Only nobles could afford glass windows instead of shutters-and Jak cursed Lord Soargyl for it. Through the smoky glass of each he could see only darkness beyond. Any one of them could be Lord Soargyl's bedroom, or the guards' mess hall.

I'll just have to pick one and trust to Lady Fortune, he thought. At that, he fancied he heard the Trickster's laughter tinkling on the night breeze. Grinning despite himself, he skirted wide of the windows and climbed up to the red-tiled roof. From there, he had a panoramic view of the city, and it astounded him.

Selgaunt stretched before him as though a giant had unrolled a great carpet made of stone blocks. Row after row of night shrouded, snow-dusted buildings extended to the limits of his vision. Braziers and street torches dotted the avenues even at this late hour, motionless orange fireflies suspended in a sea of black. He turned to see starlight glistening off the whitecaps in Selgaunt Bay. Cargo ships and icebreakers crowded the docks, their masts a forest of timber framed against the night sky and dark water. The cold breeze carried the salt tang of the Inner Sea. Again he found himself wishing for a smoke. Next time, he vowed. Prom now on, I bring my pipe on all jobs.

He allowed himself another moment of enjoyment before recalling his business. He willed his sticky spell to expire, freeing his extremities from the awkward magical adhesive, and again removed his holy symbol from his pouch. Intoning in a whisper, he recast the spell that allowed him to see dweomers. He lay flat on his stomach and carefully crept headfirst down the sloped roof until he had his head and neck extended beyond the overhang. The precipitous drop dizzied him momentarily, but he bore it, remaining perfectly still until his body regained its equilibrium.

"This dangerous enough for you?" he mouthed through gritted teeth. Oops, he reprimanded himself, I promised no more wise-ass comments. He muttered an apology to the Trickster and studied the windows.

Up close with the seeing spell, he saw now that all three glowed orange-red with numerous dweomers. There's something important in there, he thought, excited.

He dug his toes into the roof tiles for stability, freed his hands for casting, and recited the incantation for yet another spell, this one a powerful magic that attempted to unravel and dispel the magic of other spellcasters. When he completed his spell, he felt a surge of energy burst from his body and attack the spells on the windows. He watched as his own power warred with that of the caster of the protective spells, whoever that was. Jak witnessed his power triumph and the red-orange glow around the windows winked out.

"Gotcha," he chuckled. Before righting himself, he cast another spell on the now unprotected windows to create a globe of silence centered on the ornate stone sills. No sound would pass in, out, or through the area affected by the spell.

He awkwardly backed up, stood, and shook the stiffness from his arms and legs. He looked down over the roof edge to see the house guard patrol making another round of the grounds. From this height they looked like a single organism snaking around the manse. He waited for them to pass. Ready, he pulled a dagger from his belt and gripped it in his teeth. Now, for the really hard part. With a light touch on his luckstone and a final whispered prayer to Brandobaris, he lay flat on his belly and backed feet first toward the roof edge. His heart began to race when his feet slid off the roof and hung loose over open air, but he continued to back up, slow and easy. He bent at the waist and felt around the tower's face with his foot-again cursing his small stature-until his toes found a secure hold in the craggy wall. Carefully, he placed his weight upon it- now praising his small stature and scant weight- then did the same with his other foot. Bracing himself with his feet, he eased his upper body over the roof overhang. His fingers reached for and found cracks in the granite blocks as he went. His heart leaped in his chest when he finally hung suspended from the wall- no rope, no spell, no anything. A strong wind off the bay could blow him off. He didn't dare look to the earth below.

Burn me, he thought to the Trickster, but if this doesn't satisfy you, I quit. He suppressed a giggle-it wouldn't do to shake with laughter with a hundred-odd foot drop below him-and inched down and leftward toward the center windowsill. When he got close to it, he came within the effect of the silence spell. The whistle of the wind suddenly fell silent, his rasping breath and occasional grunt made no sound, and the struggle of his callused feet gripping stone became noiseless.

He lowered himself to the wide sill and steadied himself atop it. A sudden gust of wind ruffled his hair and rocked him. He reached for the stone, caught himself, and tried to steady his racing heart. "Dark," he oathed. "Dark."

He waited, perfectly still, until his heartbeat slowed. Calm now, he crouched, gripped the sill with one hand, took the dagger from his mouth, and smashed the hilt into the window. Soundlessly, the thick glass veined with a spider web of cracks but remained otherwise intact. Come on, dammit, he cursed.

He hit it again, harder this time, and the pane silently shattered. He leaped through the opening as quickly as he dared, careful to avoid cutting his feet on the broken glass.

Still smiling on the foolish, Lady, he thought upon landing, and tapped his luckstone. I appreciate that.

The window he had chosen didn't open into a mess hall or a bedroom, where the sudden gust of winter air would have awakened sleepers, but into a sitting room. A single closed oak door stood opposite the window, while a double door beckoned to his left. Soft firelight spilled through the half-open double doors from the room beyond.

In contrast to the stark exterior of the manse, the sitting room fairly stank of soft opulence. A thick red carpet covered most of the floor. On it stood two richly upholstered divans and a leather covered sofa surrounding a carved teakwood table with a leaded glass top. Bronze candelabra taller than Jak stood in each corner, their beeswax candles unlit. A hearth with a masterfully crafted mantle of carved marble sat in the east wall, its coals still aglow. Valuable gold and silver knickknacks were piled atop both table and mantle but Jak admired them only with his eyes-he had come for just one item, a personal token stolen from under the very nose of Lord Soargyl.

Clashing linen throws lay scattered haphazardly about the furniture and floor as though thrown about by a strong wind. Jak grinned and shook his head, again stunned by Lady Soargyl's garish taste. He may have been a thief, but he was a thief who prided himself on style.

He lightly tapped his knuckle on the table to determine whether he still stood within the effect of his silence spell. He did. Careful to disturb nothing, he walked across the carpet to the far wall of the room. He enjoyed the feel of the thick fibers on his bare toes.

He knew the moment he emerged from the silence spell because snores as loud as a boar's snorts assaulted his ears from behind the double doors. He covered his mouth to stifle the laugh that rose in his throat. I can only hope that those are from Lord, and not Lady Soargyl, he thought mischievously.

After composing himself, he glided to the open door and peeked through. Light from a low burning fire illuminated the large Soargyl bedroom. Jak allowed himself a moment of self-satisfaction for having read

Brandobaris's augury correctly. Within is where the treasures lie.

A bronze-framed canopy bed sat in the center of the room. Through the hanging linens and piles of blankets, Jak could see the vague outlines of two sleeping forms. A cushion topped-chest sat at the bed's foot. To his right, a wardrobe and dressing screen. To his left, the dressing tables.

Though he knew he could have stomped across the floor and not awakened anyone who could sleep through that snoring, he nevertheless squeezed through the door and prowled silently around the room. Keeping his ears attuned to any change in the snoring that might indicate a sleeper beginning to awaken, he quietly hopped onto the top of the dressing table, kneeled, and moved methodically through the items he found there.

He discarded as unsuitable a silver buckle and a pair of engraved gold bracers. The item he chose had to be just right. He finally settled on a silver cloak pin shaped like an eagle's talon inset with a single tourmaline. Perfect, he thought, and dropped it in his belt pouch. Now for the final touch. He whispered the words to an incantation and the image of a long-stemmed pipe, with its embers softly aglow and smoke wisps rising gently from the ivory bowl, took shape on the dressing table-the calling card Jak left behind at all his jobs.

Style, good Lady, he thought, with a nod and smile at the bed. Style. Still grinning, he hopped to the floor-and froze in his tracks.

A feeling of stark terror stopped him. His breath caught in his lungs. Weak-kneed, he stumbled backward and bumped into the dressing table. Resisting the urge to hide his face behind his hands, he watched as an emptiness, a darkness blacker than pitch, boiled through the same bedroom door he had just entered.

His heart hammered painfully in his chest. The darkness roiled like a living thing, coalesced, and finally solidified into the shape of a tall, featureless, black humanoid. Waves of palpable hate radiated from it like heat from the hearth. Batlike wings sprouted from its back, the span as wide as half the room. Two dagger points of light formed in its face, yellow beads filled with malice.

Jak recoiled into the shadows, sinking slowly to the floor, his eyes involuntarily glued to the creature-not a creature, a demon! A demon! His breath came in short, fearful heaves that he struggled desperately to control. He tried to meld with the wood of the dresser and prayed that those evil yellow eyes did not spy him. 'Please, please. Some distant part of his consciousness yelled at him to do something, anything-a Harper should do something!-but his body seemed made of lead.

The demon hovered in the doorway and considered the Soargyl bed. Though it flew, its great wings flapped only occasionally and without wind. Lord Soargyl's snores continued unabated.

Shut up! Jak thought irrationally. Shut up! It'll hear you. But the demon had already noticed the sleeping couple, and it went for them.

With terrifying speed, the shadowy horror darted to the foot of the bed. It hovered outside the transparent canopy for a moment with its head cocked curiously to the side, as though studying the Soargyls. Its yellow eyes flared eagerly. Jak could sense it slavering, could sense the killer allowing its anticipation to build before the satisfaction of the slaughter. He wanted to scream but could not find his breath. He could only watch, transfixed by horror.

Two overlong black arms, each corded with shadowy muscle, formed from the demon's body. The arms ended

in vicious claws as long as a man's fingers. With a gentle grace horrible to witness-for Jak knew the butchery that would surely follow-the demon extended a thin arm and parted the linens that shielded the Soargyl bed. Silent tears formed in Jak's eyes and began to run down his face.

Do something, he ordered himself. Do something, dammit! But he could not. He loathed himself for doing nothing, but fear of attracting the demon's attention froze him to inaction. He gripped his holy symbol cloak-clasp so tightly the metal dug painfully into his palm. Don't wake up, he prayed for the Soargyls. Please don't wake up. Silent prayer was all he could bring himself to do for them.

The demon glided under the canopy and hovered over the bed, looking down on the sleepers. It held its wings and clawed arms outstretched, as though to embrace the Soargyls, to envelop them in emptiness. Lord Soargyl snorted, mumbled something, and rolled toward his wife. His snores quickly renewed, an almost comical funeral liturgy.

As the demon stared down at the Soargyls, Jak could literally feel its tension building, its hate growing. Stay sleeping, he prayed. Please gods, let them stay asleep. No one should have to die staring into the face of a nightmare.

The demon reached down and extended a claw toward the sleepers. Jak sensed its insatiable hunger. The shadowy claw seemed to tremble in eager anticipation as it neared their flesh. It will finish them quickly, he thought. His guts roiled at the thought of the slaughter. They'll be dead before they ever wake up. He took some small solace in that.

The demon reared back and raised its claw high to slayAnd suddenly stopped, thoughtful.

No! No! Do it! Do it, godsdammit! He almost said the words aloud.

As though sensing Jak's silent pleas, the demon lowered its claw and turned its baleful yellow eyes in his direction. His heart stopped. He tried to sink farther into the shadows. Them first, he thought, hating himself for a coward but unable to stop the thought. Them first.

The demon turned back to the Soargyls and Jak's heart began again to beat. Cold sweat now mixed with silent tears. You're a coward, he accused himself. A damned coward.

Rather than raising a claw to strike, the demon instead reached down and gently caressed the cheek of Lord Soargyl.

Bastard, Jak cursed it through his fear. He realized then that it fed on terror as much as blood. It wanted its prey awake.

The demon's dire touch jerked Lord Soargyl from sleep. Lady Soargyl, too, began to stir. The burly lord sat bolt upright in bed to find himself face to face with hungry yellow eyes and a darkness as empty as the Void. "Huh? What the-"He reached instinctively for a nonexistent sword but found only nightclothes.

His first thought was to fight, Jak cursed himself. Mine was to hide Tears poured unabated down his face now, for he saw terror take shape in Lord Soargyl's wide eyes. "Hel-" Lord Soargyl started to shout.

Casually, the demon flashed its claw and tore open a gash in his throat, a ragged hole so wide that it nearly severed his head. The bed should have been awash in a fountain of blood, but inexplicably the wound did not bleed. Wide-eyed with terror, Lord Soargyl gurgled and pawed futilely at the tear in his throat, trying desperately to keep his head attached to his neck. His body began to convulse.

"Ahg, arg, agh." Foam flecked his mouth and a gray vapor gushed from the wound. Eagerly, the demon devoured it. As it feasted on the vapor, it seemed to grow larger, more substantial.

It's his soul, Jak thought in terror. It eats souls.

Lord Soargyl's body began to shrink then, to implode until it was little more than an unrecogniz* able mass of wrinkled flesh. No sounds emerged from his open, screaming mouth.

Lady Soargyl at last came fully awake, sat up, saw the leering eyes-of the demon, and began to scream. Her terrified wail pierced Jak's soul and freed him from his paralysis.

"Boarim, Boarim!" She shook the shrunken remains of her husband and Boarim Soargyl's body crumbled into dried hunks. She pulled back as though burned, screaming and crying the desperate keen of the hopeless. Before Jak could move to intervene, the demon picked her up from the bed and drew her near. A big woman, she kicked and shouted in protest, but the thing held her body aloft.

"No! Please! Please!" The demon ended her screams by tearing her open from navel to sternum and devouring the vapor of her soul, filling its emptiness with the life it had stolen.

While it fed, Jak found his wits enough to whisper the words to a spell that rendered him invisible.

The guards have to be coming, he told himself. They heard her and now they're coming. But they hadn't come yet, and the demon finished with Lady Soargyl all too soon. It playfully squeezed the husk of her body and the corpse exploded into a rain of dried pieces that fell to the bed, intermixing with the pieces of her husband. Without a backward glance, it flowed toward the doorIt stopped.

Jak's heart stopped too. It senses me, he realized. Dark, but it senses me!

The living shadow turned and raised its head, sniffing the air like a hound. Its eyes narrowed thoughtfully and it looked back toward the dressing table. Silently, holding his breath, Jak tried to back away toward the far corner of the room, near the hearth. He froze when the demon darted toward him, quick as a cat. Though it could not see him, it knew he was there. It prowled around the corner of the room, holding its arms and wings out, feeling for its prey. Jak fought off tears as the demon's claws swept through space and drove him inexorably backward. The thump of his back against the wall made him squeak in terror. With nowhere to run, he held his holy symbol to his chest, tight.

The demon continued to sniff for him, drew nearer. Sweat poured from him by the bucketful. Surely the thing could hear his heart! It stood right before him now and he could do nothing but wait for death. Fear washed over him. He watched it sniffing, sniffing, its evil eyes searching. Jak's hair stood on end and he felt so cold that his teeth nearly chattered.

Suddenly, the demon looked down on him with eyes that bored into his soul like daggers. There you are, said a soft voice in his head, and he shuddered uncontrollably. Gently, the demon reached out a claw, a soft caress that brushed his shoulder.

At that touch, Jak felt his soul-that essential thing that made him himself-come loose from its moorings and flow toward the empty shadow before him. Terrified, he wet himself.

I'm going to die stinking of piss, he thought, and would have laughed but for the tears. The demon reared back and raised its claw high for the kill. A scream raced up Jak's throatThe door to the sitting room burst open with a crash.

"Lord! Lord!" Boots stomped toward the bedroom. The startled demon halted in midkill, whirled, and then streaked toward the door. Jak sensed it hiss in frustration. Barely coherent, Jak sagged to the floor.

The demon blew past the startled house guards as they charged into the bedroom.

"There! Get it!" But the shadow flew past them before they could bring their blades to bear-if blades could even harm such a creature. Three men in the green and gold of House Soargyl hurried to the bed and stopped cold. One turned away, covering his mouth. Horrified, the other two poked with their swords at the remains scattered across the bed.

"Gods," the taller guard oathed. "Call the priests," he ordered over his shoulder, "and get a mage in here. And send for Master-make that, Lord Rorsin."

Still invisible, Jak rose unsteadily to his feet. He had to get out. A thief caught in a murdered nobleman's bedroom would not be treated mercifully. Dazed and wracked with shame, he picked his way through the milling guards and into the sitting room. Shouted orders and frightened conversations sounded all around him but he couldn't make out the words. Everything blurred into an inchoate roar. Two stout guards stood near the broken window he had entered through, talking and pointing-his silence spell had expired.

He waited for them to step away, then squirmed past and jumped through the window. With a whispered magical word, his fall turned into the gentle descent of a feather. As he floated earthward, he felt his soul clinging to his body by only the merest of threads, a tattered cloak that the cold winter breeze threatened to tear from his being. A vision of living darkness, boundless emptiness, and hate-filled yellow eyes haunted his mind's eye. Again, he relived a portion of his soul being jerked from his body; relived his essence being torn in two. Halfway to the earth below he began to scream. When he hit the ground of the courtyard, he ran pell-mell from the grounds, unmindful of guards or spells, still screaming.