The Jewel of Turmish

CHAPTER THREE

"Do you think he has something worth taking, Cerril?"

Angry and paranoid, Cerril turned to the speaker, a small boy of about twelve-a year younger than Cerril. Before the other boy could move, Cerril cuffed his head.

"Ow!" the other boy complained, wrapping his fingers and palms around his head in case Cerril decided to try his luck again. He ducked and took a step back. All of them knew to expect violence when Cerril got upset.

"Whyn't you just announce to the world what we're after here?"

"I'm sorry," the younger boy said ruefully.

"If one of these sailors overhears a question like that," Cerril promised in a harsh whisper, "you're going to have to learn to breathe through your ears because he'll cut your throat for you."

"Not if we cut his throat first." The young boy took a handmade knife from his ragged breeches and dragged the ball of his thumb along the uneven blade's edge. Blood dotted his flesh and he licked at it with his pink tongue.

"Oh, yeah, Hekkel," one of the other boys sneered in a harsh whisper, "and how many throats have you cut this tenday? Or any other tenday? You still ain't killed that man your mama's taken up with this last month."

"Shut up!" Hekkel ordered, taking a small, defiant step forward.

Cerril cuffed the small boy on the head again, eliciting a cry of pain this time.

"Gods' blood, Cerril!" Hekkel cried out. "Stop hitting me."

A passing sailor from one of the ships docked in Alagh?n's harbor glanced over at them. He carried his duffel over his shoulder, a jug of wine in one hand, and had his other arm wrapped around the ample waist of a serving wench Cerril recognized from Elkor's Brazen Trumpet.

"Hey," the sailor grunted, coming to a halt and staring into the shadows of the alley where the seven boys took shelter from scrutiny. "What the Nine Hells are ye children doing out here at this time of night?"

"We're not damned children!" Cerril snapped.

He turned to confront the sailor. Anger burned along the back of his neck. His own mother, like Hekkel's, oft times lived with sailing men on leave from one ship or another that put up prolonged anchorage in Alagh?n's port. He'd never known his father.

The sailor laughed, already three sheets to the wind. The serving wench wasn't in much better shape.

"Ye're children," the sailor argued. "Maybe ye're mean, nasty, Cyric-blasted children, but ye're still children."

Cerril's knife leaped to his hand and he started forward. He was big for his age, almost as tall as the sailor and easily as heavy with the broad shoulders and thick chest he'd gotten from the man who'd sired him. He'd also gotten the terrible temper that filled him now. At least, that was what his mother told him when she yelled at him.

"Ye going to come at me with that little tooth, boy?" the sailor taunted. He released the woman and stepped away from her, then drew the cutlass at his side. Moonlight silvered the blade. "If'n ye do, it'll be the last thing ye do this night, I'll warrant ye that."

Cerril stared at the thick blade and felt cold fear twist through his bowels. In stories he told the others in his pack, he'd confronted grown men with weapons before and bested them. Of course, in reality he'd only dealt with men too drunk to defend themselves.

"Oh, leave off these children, Wilf," the serving wench said. "They're just out for a bit of fun. Boys playing at being fierce men, that's all."

The sailor treated Cerril and his mates to another black scowl. He cursed and spat, and the spittle splashed against the cobblestones near enough to Cerril's feet to make him take an involuntary step back.

Cerril bumped into Two-Fingers, who was called that because he'd lost two fingers in a fishing accident. Two-Fingers's sour stench filled Cerril's nose for a moment. Two-Fingers was the only one of them who lived on the streets and truly had no place to go.

"Well, I've got some words for boys playin' at bein' men," the sailor warned. "I've dealt with a few cutpurses an' other assorted rabble in other ports, an' I'm not a man to trouble over trouble for long. An' from the looks of this pack of wild apes, trouble is all they're after."

"Come on," the serving wench urged, pulling at the sailor's arm and setting him to weaving slightly. "Do you really want to spend tonight explaining to the Watch how you came to kill a few of these boys over some unkind words? Or do you want to come up to my room and amuse me for a few hours?"

The sailor grinned. "Since I got me druthers, we'll seek out the amusement, fair flower." He took a faltering step and rejoined the woman, slipping his arm with the wine jug around her. Then he turned a baleful eye on Cerril and the other boys. "But mark me words, ye scurvy lot. If'n ye cause me any more grief this night, why I'll slice ye and dice ye from wind to water, an' I'll use what's left of ye for chum to catch me breakfast."

Cerril swallowed hard, but he made himself put on a brave front. If he ever showed how scared he sometimes got, he knew the other boys would desert him or find a new leader. While he held that position, he'd not always treated them fairly or well.

A young boy with a lamp he'd probably stolen from a ship or a lax harbor resident called out an offer to guide the sailor and the serving wench through the shadows to their destination. The sailor turned the boy's offer down with a snarling bit of vituperation as the serving wench led him away.

"Good sirs," the boy with the lantern said again, approaching Cerril and his group, "mayhap you'd like a lantern to light your way home this night. For only-"

Then the lantern's cheery glow washed over Cerril and the others, drawing their pale, wan features from the alley's shadows. Cerril grinned and took a threatening step forward, his knife glinting in the lantern light.

"By the pits!" the boy exclaimed, backpedaling a short distance before turning around and running away. The lantern swung wildly at the end of his arm, threading shadows across the two- and three-story buildings fronting the harbor.

"Well," Two-Fingers drawled, "at least you can still scare the local peasants."

Cerril turned to face the other boy. Even large as he was, Two-Fingers still towered over him. Cerril had always disliked that about the other boy, but Two-Fingers's size had allowed him to step into some of the seamier dives around Alagh?n and purchase the occasional bucket of ale the group sometimes shared.

"I can scare more than that," Cerril warned, still holding the knife.

A hint of worry crossed Two-Fingers's face.

"You'd better say it, Two-Fingers," Cerril ordered, the back of his neck burning at the anger that swirled inside him. "You'd better say I can scare more than that. Otherwise I'm going to make sure you only got two fingers on the other hand as well."

That threat of further crippling made Two-Fingers step back into the shadows. After he'd lost the half of his hand while working with his fisherman father, Two-Fingers had been thrown out of the house. There were eight other kids in the household to feed, and having a cripple around wasn't going to improve the family's lot any.

Cerril took a step, going after the other boy. "Say it, Two-Fingers," he ordered again. "Say it or I'll make you sorry."

Two-Fingers backed up against the wall, trapped between a pile of refuse and a nearly full slop bucket from the bathhouse on one side of the alley. He swallowed hard.

"You can," Two-Fingers whispered hoarsely. "You can scare more than that."

His eyes flicked nervously from Cerril's face to the knife in his hand.

Cerril knew the other boys gazed on in naked excitement. Nothing held their interest more than violence, especially when it was directed at someone else.

"Cerril," Kerrin called out in an anxious whisper. "There's your sister."

The other boy's words drew Cerril's attention. He gave Two-Fingers a quick, cold smile.

"Just you mark my words, Two-Fingers. I'm not going to put up with being questioned."

"I won't question you again, Cerril. I swear."

Two-Fingers touched his maimed hand to his chest. Most of his pride and spirit had gone with those missing fingers, and his father kicking him out of the house had robbed the tall boy of whatever hadn't been taken by the accident.

"If you do," Cerril said, unable to leave it alone, "you'll be back to hiring yourself out to them old sailors."

Two-Fingers's face flushed with rage and shame. All that had been a year ago, before Cerril had accepted him into their group. No one ever spoke of that time again. At least, not to Two-Fingers's face. Cerril didn't allow it.

In the beginning, Two-Fingers had been deathly loyal to Cerril for letting him join the gang. It meant he got to eat without selling himself. The other boys stole food from their own homes and brought it to him in the streets. Cerril had established that routine as well. As hard as he was on them, Cerril also took care of them.

"Cerril," Kerrin called again. He waved frantically. "It's your sister."

Blowing out an irritated breath, Cerril turned from Two-Fingers and quickly joined Kerrin at the front of the alley again. He pressed himself against the wall and hid in the shadows.

"So do you think this man has gold?" Hekkel asked again.

Cerril resisted the impulse to cuff the younger boy again. Hekkel's thoughts invariably turned to gold. Before he'd been slain by a thief, Hekkel's father had been a jeweler in Alagh?n's Merchant District. When Hekkel's father was alive, the family lived in a fine house, and members of the Assembly of Stars-the freely elected ruling body of Turmish-had shopped there. That was six years ago, and Hekkel's family had discovered that the city wasn't generous to widows and half-grown children. Hekkel remained convinced that gold could change someone's life. He was living proof that not having it could change lives, too.

As for himself, Cerril knew that having gold only changed a person's life as long as that person had gold and spent it freely. Gold seldom came his way, but he took the coppers and the occasional silver without complaint. Unfortunately, coppers and the occasional silver spent quickly.

"Do you see your sister?" Hekkel asked from behind Cerril.

"Yes," Cerril growled. "Now shut up before I have Two-Fingers bust your nose for you." He said the last because he knew it would give Two-Fingers back some of his self-respect and standing among the group.

"Just let me know when you need it done, Cerril," Two-Fingers offered. "I'll smash the little bastard's nose good and proper."

Cerril ignored them, seeking out Imareen at the back of Elkor's Brazen Trumpet just across the broad cobblestone street leading down to the docks and shipyards. His sister, fathered by another sailor than the one who had fathered Cerril, stood limned in the shadow of the alley behind the tavern.

Imareen's thin, straight figure rarely drew even the drunkest sailor's eye, but she was one of the fastest serving wenches in the city. She'd inherited her lashing tongue from their mother, and her skill with verbal abuse was legendary. Cooks and merchants feared her, and the small bit of power given her by Elkor himself sometimes went to her head.

But Elkor didn't increase her tenday draw at the tavern, and all the other serving wenches at the Brazen Trumpet got large tips. When Cerril had suggested that he and his band would reward her for pointing out potential robbery victims, Imareen had hesitated only momentarily. They'd been working together the last four months.

Imareen had let them know that a man-alone, deeply in his cups, and possessing at least a little in the way of gold or silver-was at one of the tables nearly an hour ago.

An hour, Cerril thought in quick anticipation, is more than enough time for a single drinker to get drunk.

Covering his excitement, Cerril whispered, "Stay here," to the others, then stepped out of the alley and crossed the street.

A dwarven wagon driver rattled across the street from around the nearest corner before Cerril got halfway across. Cerril had to scramble to avoid being hit. The stench of the sweating horses filled his nose.

The dwarf didn't mark his wagon with a lantern or a torch. That, plus the fact that the dwarf whipped the horses and cursed at them, led the young thief to believe the dwarf was about a bit of foul business as well.

The black markets throughout Alagh?n had increased since the Inner Sea War had taken place, and Cerril had occasionally managed to hire his group to hard-knuckled merchants as lookouts. The pay for the work they did was meager, but it also marked targets they considered and sometimes went back to rob.

Cerril's heart beat rapidly with anticipation as he joined Imareen at the back of the tavern. There was nothing better than being a thief in Alagh?n. At least, not to his way of thinking.

"Hurry, you damned child," Imareen chided.

That was their mother's voice, Cerril knew. The tone and the words rankled him, but he managed to ignore them for the moment. He jogged to the back of the tavern and joined his sister.

The fragrant aroma of pipeweed clung to Imareen's hair and clothing. Cerril enjoyed the smell, and when he had coins enough, he often indulged in the habit himself. Of course, if his mother found his small store of pipeweed she kept it for herself, chiding him for experimenting with such a vice-and she said all that with a plume of smoke wreathing her head.

Imareen emptied a slop bucket onto the alley. The splashing noise of the liquid striking the hardpan startled a cat rummaging through a pile of refuse behind the tavern. The feline leaped into the air and dashed up the sagging fence marking the alley's end. Despite her authority with the cooks and the merchants, Elkor still expected her to empty out the privies.

The stench of the slop filled the alley, turning the still air thick and tickling Cerril's nose into a sneeze.

"Listen to you," Imareen groused. "Honking like a goose and making noise enough to wake the dead."

Her foot remained in the back door so it wouldn't close on her. The rumble of men's voices and the ribald strain of dwarven drinking songs echoed out into the alley. Cerril doubted anyone inside the tavern could have heard him sneeze.

"Do you want to talk," he asked, "or do you want to divvy whatever we find in some man's pouch?"

Imareen didn't even hesitate. "Divvy, and you'd better not short me. I'll know if you do."

Cerril nodded. Both times he'd tried to make off with part of his sister's cut, she had known. If she could have made merchants realize the power she had to know a lie when she heard it, she could have made a large stipend. However, her unnatural skill seemed only to work with Cerril.

"Who's the man?" he asked.

"A stranger."

He said, "Strangers are good."

"I know, Cerril. I know what I'm doing."

Cerril didn't rise to the old argument that existed between them. Since she was four years older than he was, she'd always told him what to do and not to do, but she knew since he'd taken to making his way in the shadows that the balance between them had shifted. She just didn't want to act like it had.

"Give me some measure of respect in this," Imareen said.

"I do," Cerril said.

He sorely wished that cuffing his sister would work as well as it did with the members of his gang, but Imareen would never stand for it. There was a good likelihood that she'd get up in the middle of the night to stick a knife between his ribs and tell their mother that Malar the Stalker, god of marauding beasts and bloodlust, had taken him in the night.

"He's settling his business with Elkor now," Imareen said. "He'll be out shortly."

"Have you seen his purse?"

Avarice gleamed in Imareen's muddy brown eyes. "It looks small, but it's heavy."

"Small isn't good." Still, Cerril couldn't keep a faint smile from his lips.

"Heavy is good, and this man works to keep his purse well hidden."

"Has anyone else noticed him?" Cerril asked.

"No. No one's noticed him."

"You're sure?"

"Just the same," Cerril said, "keep an eye out. If it looks like someone's following him, wave one of the tavern lanterns in the window."

"I will."

Cerril nodded. "Let's have a look at him."

Imareen opened the tavern door and stepped aside. She followed Cerril inside then led him through the small larder behind the Brazen Trumpet's bar.

The tavern was small and ordinary. Besides the heavy, scarred bar that ran the breadth of the building, odd-sized tables and unmatched chairs took up the floor space. Nets hanging from the ceiling held colored bottles in bright greens, blues, and dulled browns and rubies. All the liquor had been drained from the bottles, and they'd been refilled with water. Hundreds of seashells and smooth stones joined the bottles. The nets made for a colorful display. An ensorcelled shark hung above the fireplace. It was nearly as long as a tall man, and the lipless mouth was open in a fearful pose. Men lounged in the chairs around the tables. Most of them were professional seamen, sprinkled with a few mercenaries. The two groups sat apart from each other. Maybe they'd sailed the same ship across the Sea of Fallen Stars, but each looked down their noses at the other. "There," Imareen whispered in Cerril's ear. Cerril studied the man at the bar. Elkor was trying to chat the man up, offering to rent him one of the rooms above the tavern for the night. The man simply shook his head. He wasn't a local. Cerril knew that from his clothing. While most Turmishan men wore square-cut beards and layered clothing against the humid heat that sweltered the Vilhon Reach, the victim Imareen had marked had a ragged appearance. His clothing was disreputable and he hadn't shaved in days. The man's emaciated form resembled a bag of bones shoved into a burlap bag. He was in his middle years, but his infirmity robbed him of any dregs of youth. Hollow-eyed and pale, he habitually raked his gaze over the tavern crowd. "What has he been doing since he's been here?" Cerril whispered to Imareen. "Drinking," his sister answered. "Drinking like a man possessed. And writing." "Writing?" Cerril pondered that. Writing was usually a merchant's domain, keeping records of things sold and purchased, but writing was something mages also did. "Writing what?" "I don't know," Imareen admitted. "I read about as well as you do." Cerril couldn't read at all. Learning that skill had never proven important. He'd had a strong back, and now he had quick hands and an agile mind. "He was writing in a book," Imareen added. Elkor fussed over the price he was exacting from the man. Cerril raked the man with his gaze. He saw no book. "Where's the book?" "I don't know." Imareen glanced down at him. "Are you afraid?" Cerril didn't answer. "People are always claiming to have stolen things from mages," Imareen said. "Why, you could make a name for yourself with just one theft." "Those are stories," Cerril insisted. "All of them can't be." Frowning, Cerril said, "Stealing from mages isn't smart business. I don't plan on living out the rest of my life as a toad. Or worse." "It might be an improvement." Cerril shot her a look. "If he is a mage and he questions me, I'll tell him that you pointed him out." Imareen paled beneath her freckles. "I don't think he's a mage." "I hope not." The man settled his bill with Elkor, who looked after the man longingly. Evidently the tavern owner had gotten a good look at the heft of the man's coin as well. "He's leaving," Imareen said. "I can see that." "Well, if you don't hurry you might lose him." Cerril hesitated for just an instant. "We don't have anything to show for the night," Imareen pointed out. "If we don't get something, we could be starting a trend of bad luck." I know, Cerril thought. Bad luck was a recognized force in a port city. Ships sailed with luck, and any ship branded with ill luck was quickly noticed and just as quickly abandoned by merchants as well as sailors. Cerril believed in luck, always striving for the good and avoiding the bad. The man walked through the Brazen Trumpet's double doors and out onto the street. Coming to a decision, Cerril started forward. "Remember about the lantern," he whispered to his sister. "I will. And don't try to cheat me, Cerril." Turning, Cerril rushed back through the storeroom and out into the alley. He stayed within the tavern's shadows, stepping out briefly at the corner so that Hekkel and Two-Fingers could see him. He pointed at the man walking up the sloped street leading away from the Brazen Trumpet. Two-Fingers nodded. Hekkel immediately stepped into the shadows on the other side of the street and took up the first leg of the pursuit. Cerril remained on his side of the street. He and Hekkel were the two most skilled at following someone through the city in the shadows. He glanced back at the Brazen Trumpet but didn't see Imareen put in an appearance at one of the windows. Carefully, his breath tight at the back of his throat and in his lungs, Cerril continued following the man. Their prey seemed content to stay within Alagh?n's dockyards. The man stopped occasionally to stare into the windows of a closed shop that caught his interest. His destination turned out to be Stonebottom's Inn, one of the first structures ever built along the Turmish coastline. Back in those days, the port city had only been an avaricious gleam in a founding father's eye. Stonebottom's was meager and small, cobbled together from ballast rocks brought over in merchant ships. A lit candle in a glass tube dangled from the sign, revealing the chipped and peeling paint that advertised the name. No candles burned in the two front windows that would have signified a vacancy. Stonebottom's usually stayed full whenever ships were in port. Knowing they had to take the man before he reached the inn, Cerril increased his pace. Hekkel's shadow flitted along the other side of the street. Two blocks before Stonebottom's, Cerril signaled Hekkel. Without hesitation, Hekkel ran out into the street. "Good sir! Good sir! Help me, please!" The man stopped and turned, putting his back up against the building beside him. His hand darted for his waist sash, and Cerril would have bet anything that he was carrying a blade there. At least the man hadn't turned Hekkel into a toad. "What do you want, boy?" the man demanded in a thin, worn voice. "It's my mother!" Hekkel cried, coming to a stop in front of the man. "She fell down! I can't wake her!" The man remained quiet, his hand out of sight. "You've got to help me!" Hekkel pleaded. "I'm no healer." The man glanced warily around the dark street, but Stonebottom's was located in one of the several old parts of the city. Little foot traffic ever went through that area so early. A few hours before cock's crow, though, the seamen who rented rooms there would come stumbling through. Cerril stayed within the shadow less than twenty feet away. He breathed shallowly. Thankfully the street was also devoid of lanterns and he remained hidden. Hekkel was small for his size. Most people not used to children often thought he was a child of seven or eight years. At least, they did until they saw the hardness in his eyes. Still, the man almost hit Hekkel when the boy dropped to his knees and wrapped both arms around the man's legs. "Please!" Hekkel cried plaintively. "I think she's dying!" "Here now," the man said. "Get up from there. You need to see someone who can do your mother some good. I'm just a traveler. I've no experience at healing. I'm a scribe." Carefully, Cerril reached for the window ledge of the cobbler's shop beside him. Hundreds of years of masonry held Alagh?n together. Dozens of styles held sway in the city, and they created a rambling disorder to Alagh?n that provided any number of dead-end streets and orphaned blocks. The mortar of the older buildings was also in a state of disrepair, often crumbling when jostled. Cerril raked a finger between the stones that made up the window ledge. The mortar broke up easily and he slipped a stone as big as both his fists from the ledge. A half-dozen others were already missing. He threw himself at the man, running quickly. The man, distracted by Hekkel's caterwauling, didn't hear Cerril's approach until it was too late. Cerril brought the stone around in a hard-knuckled right hand just as the man looked up at him. The stone caught the man on the side of the head. His eyes turned glassy and he slumped. Cerril caught the man by his shirt collar and struggled with his slight weight. He stumbled. "Help me, damn you!" he swore at Hekkel. "Did you kill him?" Hekkel released the man's legs and stood, gazing at their victim's slack face. "No," Cerril said. He glanced around the street, wanting to make sure no one had seen them. The guards around the docks were pretty lax. For one, the black market paid handsomely, funneled through the Thieves Guild. And for another, men desperate to turn a profit often had no hesitation about killing a guardsman. "I've got him," Two-Fingers said, joining Cerril. Two-Fingers caught one of the man's arms and draped it over his broad shoulders. He shifted most of the unconscious man's weight onto him. Cerril grabbed the man's other arm. Together they walked the man into the nearest alley. The thoroughfare was long and narrow. The scant moonlight didn't even penetrate. They laid the man on the ground. Cerril searched under the man's blouse with practiced fingers and quickly found the small but heavy pouch at the man's waist. Gold! The thought flooded Cerril's mind when he felt the heft of it. He opened the pouch and poured the coins into his waiting palm. "Tymora's smile," Hekkel swore softly, voice filled with excitement. "We did all right for ourselves tonight." Even in the darkness, Cerril could see the dull glint of gold among the coins. His questing fingers found the biggest of them and drew it forth. It was solid, round, and heavy. "Gold," he whispered. "I never seen anything like that," Two-Fingers said. Cerril scowled at him. "Alagh?n gets coins from all around the Sea of Fallen Stars. There's probably lots of coins you haven't seen." He flipped the coin over. The face held the image of a great, snarling, catlike beast with flattened ears and a mouthful of fangs. The obverse showed a taloned, bestial claw in bold relief. The image caused Cerril's stomach to turn cold. "Do you recognize it, boy?" a scratchy, weak voice asked. "Damn it!" one of the other boys swore. "Cerril didn't kill him after all." "Get a rock," another boy suggested. "Smash his head in! I don't want him identifying us for the guard." "No." Cerril's voice cut through their fear. He crept closer to the man, feeling something dark and powerful touching him through the cool gold. He held the coin up. "What is this?" "Do you recognize it?" the man challenged. Cerril didn't answer. Sometimes it was better to let things go unanswered. "Of course he does," Hekkel snapped. "That coin represents Malar. The Stalker. Also called the Beastlord. He's one of the Gods of Fury that serve Talos. What of it?" The man gasped but no sound emerged. Blood trickled down the side of his head onto the ground. He made no move to get up. The fact that the man didn't try to cry out, and even looked a little relieved, made Cerril yet more uneasy. "The coin is cursed," the man said. "There's a geas that's been laid on it by Malar." "You lie!" Cerril exploded. "Try to throw the coin away, boy," the man challenged. "That would be stupid," Hekkel said. Still, Cerril turned his hand upside down. The coin of Malar remained stuck to his flesh, denying the certain fall to the ground. Fearfully, he pulled the coin free of his palm with his other hand, then found it was stuck to that hand. "Do you feel the power of the geas now, boy?" the man asked, smiling. Blood continued to pump from his wound. Cerril shook his hand, trying to fling the coin away. His stomach knotted in fear, spilling bile against the back of his throat. Bad luck! He turned to Hekkel, shoved his hand out, and said, "You want it-take it!" Hekkel eyed the coin greedily, but fear made him back away. He shook his head slowly. Totally panicked, Cerril turned back to the man. He found the knife at the man's waist and drew it out. Without hesitation, he pressed it against the man's throat. "Take it back!" The man returned his gaze and said, "I can't." "You can." "I can't. The coin has to be wanted. I had never even heard of Malar when it came into my position." Cerril pressed the knife blade harder. "Take the coin." Slowly, the man reached for the coin in Cerril's hand. The man plucked at the coin but it refused to release Cerril's hand. It lay there in the boy's palm, attached as firmly as a blood leech. "I can't," the man said, removing his hand. "It knows I don't want it." Cerril groaned in fear and anger. He almost slit the man's throat, then he realized that doing that might have doomed him. "What kind of geas is on the coin?" The man swallowed hard, his eyes narrowing in pain. "I don't know," he said. "The coin drew me here." "To Alagh?n?" Cerril asked. "Yes. I've never been here before, but visions of this place came to me in dreams. Nightmares, actually. Gods, but the things I saw during the last few months I've had that thing." "What are you supposed to do?" Cerril knew that the nature of any geas, for good or ill-and with Malar the Stalker involved he had no doubt that it would all be for ill-was the need to accomplish something. "I don't know," the man answered. "You're here," Cerril pointed out. "Only because the nightmares ebbed a little when I made the decision to board a ship and come here." The man's eyes fluttered closed for a moment, then reopened. "You'll know what it wants you to do. You'll have nightmares about it." Cerril glanced up and saw that Two-Fingers, Hekkel, and the others had stepped back from him. They don't want any of my bad luck rubbing off on them, he thought. He looked back at the man. "All I can tell you," the man said, "is that the geas involves a graveyard somewhere in this city. I've seen it in my nightmares, but I haven't had a chance to look for it yet." Cerril's breath caught at the back of his throat. A graveyard? Alagh?n was filled with graveyards. The last thing he wanted to do-while under the effects of a geas or not-was go to any one of them. He stared at the fat coin lying in his hand and cursed his own rotten luck.