I have a busy schedule, Armistrade" the investigator replied, halting well out of reach. "I fear you assign yourself more importance than I do."

From behind Tarram came the faintest of sounds. The Lord Investigator heard it too.

"Show yourself!" he snapped. "Whoever you are, show yourself, or I'll put a bolt through this man's face!"

He was answered by a low, gurgling moan.

Osturr's eyes narrowed, and he leaned his head to one side to peer around the statues.

A hurled halfling-sized dagger crashed into his crossbow, sending the bolt bouncing out of its channel as the bow went off, its poisoned death thrumming off into the night to strike down an astonished bird that had been cautiously wheeling to see if matters were quiet enough to return to its roost.

Osturr was still flinching in fear when the Molthuni helmet Tantaerra had salvaged came whirling out of the night to take him right across the face.

Tarram snarled, launching himself at the man who'd hunted him for so long—a snarl that became a helpless roar of pain as his wounded leg failed him, sent him stumbling amid sickening agony to fall at the very feet of the Lord Investigator.

Who'd finished lurching backward and grimacing in pain, and was now drawing a long, slender dagger from a forearm sheath.

"I've decided to dispense with your trial," the Lord Investigator spat. His arm swept up, raising the needle-dirk on high.

Tarram rolled over, trying to get his arms up in front of his face.

Luraumadar, the mask whispered insistently, sounding almost gleeful. Luraumadar, Luraumadar ...

The Pathfinder Tales Library

Novels

Prince of Wolves by Dave Gross
Winter Witch by Elaine Cunningham
Plague of Shadows by Howard Andrew Jones
The Worldwound Gambit by Robin D. Laws
Master of Devils by Dave Gross
Death's Heretic by James L. Sutter
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City of the Fallen Sky by Tim Pratt
Nightglass by Liane Merciel
Blood of the City by Robin D. Laws
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Called to Darkness by Richard Lee Byers
Liar's Blade by Tim Pratt
The Wizard's Mask by Ed Greenwood
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"Certainty" by Liane Merciel
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The Wizard's Mask © 2012 Paizo Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.

Paizo Publishing, LLC, the Paizo golem logo, Pathfinder, and Planet Stories are registered trademarks of Paizo Publishing, LLC; Pathfinder Roleplaying Game, Pathfinder Campaign Setting, and Pathfinder Tales are trademarks of Paizo Publishing, LLC.

Cover art by Lucas Graciano.
Cover design by Andrew Vallas.
Map by Robert Lazzaretti.

Paizo Publishing, LLC
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Redmond, WA 98052
paizo.com

ISBN 978-1-60125-530-3 (mass market paperback)
ISBN 978-1-60125-531-0 (ebook)

Publisher's Cataloging-In-Publication Data
(Prepared by The Donohue Group, Inc.)

Greenwood, Ed.
The Wizard's Mask / Ed Greenwood.

p. ; cm. — (Pathfinder tales)

Set in the world of the role-playing game, Pathfinder.
Issued also as an ebook.
ISBN: 978-1-60125-530-3

1. Thieves—Fiction. 2. Treasure troves—Fiction. 3. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 4. Imaginary places—Fiction. 5. Fantasy fiction. I. Title. II.Title: Pathfinder adventure path. III. Series: Pathfinder tales library.

PR9199.3.G759 W59 2013
813/.54

First printing June 2013.

Printed in the United States of America.

To James Sutter, for welcoming me to Golarion.

And to Shaiyena Coté, for being more feisty than any halfling.

Chapter One

Hard Times in Halidon

The only man still alive in the room smiled behind his dark mask.

The warning was encrypted, but Molthuni codes had never risen above simple. Always the same pattern, always strict adherence to unimaginative authority, leaving many holes for a clever rat to slip through.

And although more than a few things had slipped away from him recently, he was still a clever rat.

He read the Molthuni intelligence report again. Bluntly flattering. No wonder Tarlmond had laid a trap for him.

The man Tarram Armistrade always wears masks, and so is most widely known as "The Masked." Nethran gives his name as "Armistrode," but this is now considered a misreading of a handwritten ledger entry. Has gone by several other names, including Bellowbar, Jalosker, and Markant.

Makes his living as a thief; successful, is wanted for many crimes in Cheliax. Many small thefts within our borders probable, but none proven. Suspected of involvement in the Five Dragons thefts.

Is swift to violence and must be considered dangerous.

Tall. Agile. Speaks courteously and in cultured sentences; can and has impersonated nobility, law-officers, priests, and officials. Observant, and remembers what he sees.

Some recent accounts report that his face has been damaged or altered in some manner.

Recently seen in Canorate and Braganza. Apprehend on sight for interrogation, but slay without hesitation if difficulties arise.

Ah, yes, those oft-arising difficulties. Annoying things.

It had been a nasty little trap. A needle tipped in soporific poison, thrusting up under the seat-cushion. If his long-ago preparations for getting past the defenses of the Five Dragons hadn't left him immune to that particular poison forever, he might be slumped helpless in that chair right now, lost in dreams, waiting to be awakened by the ungentle handling of cold-faced men in blood-red Molthuni tabards, eager to take out their frustrations on the dangerous fugitive known as The Masked.

If Tarlmond had been a better actor, if the man had been better able to leash his own anger and keep it off his face ...but he hadn't.

The Halidon merchant's fury at discovering just how badly he'd been hoodwinked had fairly bellowed across his cozy office at his arriving guest. The Masked would have had to be blind and deaf not to notice the blazing glare, the tight-lipped smile, the greetings curt even for Molthune.

Luckily, he wasn't either of those things. Yet.

His good mood turned bitter.

As if he needed to be punished. If he could have undone that theft—years ago, now—he might still have a face. He might be able to live a comfortable life without the constant threat of pursuit—and by those far more dangerous than any Molthuni investigator.

Who would have thought such danger lurked in masks? Masks!

Bejeweled, darkly elegant, one even sporting feathers. He should have known a wizard's mask would harbor magic.

He should have done so many things differently.

And if so, what then? He might have died years ago, drowned in boredom behind a desk in some ledger-cluttered shop cellar room, in one of the more crowded and noisome cities, keeping track of "chamber pots, black" or "false noses, flesh-hued."

False noses like those he no longer bothered to use, because there was nothing left to keep them from sliding down to plummet from the chin he no longer had.

It had been the easiest of mistakes. He'd needed to see in the dark in order to make his escape, and so had put on the one mask of his newfound loot whose magic was supposed to help with that.

He'd taken it off again soon enough, but "soon enough" had been too late.

The curse had begun. Slowly wiping away his face.

Someday, a dying sage had warned him, it would leave only eyes staring out of a blank, smooth sheet of flesh. Noseless, mouthless, and chinless. He'd go mute, reduced to breathing through his skin, with an endless, droning whistling. He'd be something people would recoil from, or else draw sword and hack at in terror and revulsion. A walking worm that would quickly starve to death.

He wasn't that far gone yet. He could still fare well enough far and wide across Golarion, in increasing desperation to find magic to halt and reverse his curse. Nothing he'd yet found even slowed what was happening to him.

"Yet I remain Tarram Armistrade," he told the dead man on the floor gently. "For now."

His once-handsome face was a ruin, nose gone and mouth a mere slit in a chinless slide of flesh. He covered it with masks that had no magic, because leaving the mask on hastened its foul work.

Yet he dared not leave the cursed mask hidden, for any harm done to it happened to his face, too. Usually he wore it like some sort of hidden codpiece, under his clothes, where it was least noticeable. Where he was wearing it right now.

"Though more truly," he added to the sprawled and forever silent Tarlmond, "I am now The Masked."

It was a matter of necessity. If he went around unmasked, he'd no doubt be mistaken for a monster and slain by the first warrior he passed. The laws of Molthune allowed citizens who perceived danger to slay "horrible monsters." Molthuni law was so clear-cut and brutally simple. Pity for everyone that most people weren't.

The Masked looked around the room and smiled, though he took little pleasure in it. Cozy rooms like this one, chambers of wealth that stank of power and ill-gotten gains, were where he flourished these days. While his victims fell.

Enough self-pity. He took up the poker and stirred the small fire in the grate to spitting, popping vigor. He dropped the intelligence report onto its flaring flames, pinned it there with the point of the poker, and watched it curl and blacken into ash.

When nothing recognizable was left, the tall masked man turned to survey the shelves behind the desk again, peering at the lowest-down tomes.

Ah. There.

Escolarr Tarlmond was as predictable as he was greedy. That particular fat volume. Sigh.

When purchasing a false book as a treasure-coffer, even a dolt should be aware that to buy one out of a shop window in Canorate, from a shop that made scores of identical volumes, meant that many would recognize your hiding place for what it was at a glance.

There'd be a removable floorboard somewhere in this room, too, and a rather better coffer beneath it. With another poisoned needle, no doubt. Best toyed with at leisure, elsewhere, so take the second and leave the first. Between the book coffer, Tarlmond's purse, and the gems that undoubtedly rode in a hollow boot heel, no one would notice the missing floorboard stash.

But first, there was still business to attend to.

Molthuni sword-tutors taught too many showy flourishes. Tarlmond had taken so much time singing his blade free of its scabbard, and needed so much room to do so, that it had been simplicity itself to step inside the man's reach, thrust the elbow of his sword arm away with one hand, and throttle the merchant with the other. A quiet and bloodless death, but it left The Masked needing to account for—or conceal—the congested purple of the dead man's face.

He caught up the decanter that held Tarlmond's best wine, splashed it generously over the corpse's face, front, and hands, then arranged the remains with that purple face in the fire, a goblet in one dead hand and a stool overturned where it would look as if the drunken merchant had tripped over it and ended up in the fire.

Finding the right floorboard, and its spring-dart trap—my, but Tarlmond had been a nasty, suspicious man, and Halidon was better off without him—took but a moment. The coffer thus gained was smaller and lighter than most, which was even better. Into the padded underarm sack it went.

The Masked shot a last, careful look around the room, and found nothing that could be linked to a tall masked visitor. Closing the door softly behind him, he strolled out and down the stairs, not hurrying.

The first faint wafts of burning flesh preceded him. It smelled like boar, reminding The Masked he was hungry—but the reek of Tarlmond's perfumed hair oil, rising to overtake it, was just horrible.

Yes, Halidon was much better off without him.

∗ ∗ ∗

Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra had run out of curses days ago. The abominable creaking of the ill-maintained wagon had long since half-deafened her and brought on a ringing headache that felt as if someone had put a metal bowl over her head and started tapping it with a hammer.

She could tell by the color of the road-mud passing slowly and lurchingly beneath her that the caravan was far west of Canorate now, up out of the low river-vale farms and close to the Backar Forest. The roadside was littered with twigs and withered leaves fallen from carts that would soon have been snatched up for hearth-kindling, back where she'd come from.

Come from? Hah! Escaped from.

She'd come from Nirmathas, too long ago. Canorate had only been where she'd lived—existed—as a slave.

A small, puny, but useful slave.

If she hadn't been short and gaunt, even for a halfling, she could never have fit between the rotten wagon floorboards and the ramp-boards slung under the decaying conveyance on open frames—recently repaired frames that were probably the stoutest, best-built part of this damnable, never-to-be-sufficiently-cursed wagon.

A turnip wagon, no less, its old sides and bottom too full of cracks to haul grain any more. Which at least made it unlikely anyone would soon be needing to haul forth the ramp-boards that were serving Tantaerra as a floor. Turnips got forked out of wagons, or clawed into sacks and the sacks tossed down.

She hated turnips.

Still, being wedged here like an opportunistic rat won out over being a Molthuni slave. Just about any situation would—and Tantaerra had been one of the luckier slaves. Her master, back in Canorate, had been a maker and seller of knives, specializing in throwing knives. She'd been his sharpener, errand-runner, and demonstrator of the art of hurling and catching razor-sharp knives. Which had made some Molthuni wary of kicking or throwing handy objects at a scuttling, skinny, two-and-a-half-foot-tall halfling.

Not that she'd spent most days doing much more than running the grinding wheel or scampering along the highest shelves, fetching down blades to save Hroalund the puffing work of moving his stockroom ladder. And happily eating the apples and wedges of cheese he literally tossed her way.

That had all ended, very suddenly and not long ago, the day someone had killed old Hroalund in a dispute over prices.

Tantaerra had taken his smallest, most exquisite throwing knives—the little adorned ones he sold to women of wealth, to wear hidden under their garments as sharp little surprises for those who offered unwanted attentions—strapped them all over herself, and gotten out, far and fast, seeking the caravan yards. Slaves were blamed for murders all too often, and she'd no desire for that painful a death.

So she'd left the grandest city in Molthune the way most vermin did, hiding under a turnip wagon and living like a rat, foraging by night when the wagon stopped. Whatever she could find—ground-grubs one night, and handfuls of grass too often. Sometimes she stole from the caravan as well—anything but turnips. Halfling slaves were always hungry, but she wanted food, not turnips.

Well, the sun was lowering; it would soon be foraging time again. The puddles passing under her were starting to stink of more than ox-dung and horse heaps, too, and her wagon was starting to rattle over larger rocks, the broken and half-buried remnants of flagstones. They were coming to some sort of settlement.

That meant more danger for her than the open road, yet it might be a good thing in the longer run. The wagon's groans were deepening, which meant she might soon have to find a different home—if something right beside her didn't break with sudden violence and maim her in an instant.

Oh, life was such an endless parade of amusements...

"Ho, Yarlin! Get that banner up! Halidon's garrisoned, and I'd rather not be wearing half a dozen bolts before nightfall!"

That gruff shout came from almost beside Tantaerra, as the head of the caravan guards rode past.

Halidon. She'd heard it mentioned once or twice during her years in Canorate. A small place—logging village, most likely, as it stood at the edge of the Backar Forest. A usual waystop because it was near mid-journey, when taking the most direct roads between Braganza and Canorate.

So they were that close to Halidon. Good. This gods-cursed wagon just might make it.

KeeEEERAKKh.

Or not.

The wheel that was thankfully farthest from Tantaerra rode up over a particularly sharp stone and then thumped down its far side—and the axle that had been spitting grease all over her for days shivered and split, from the hub of the wheel halfway to where a certain small and uncomfortably cramped halfling was grimly watching it from.

The wagon—and the caravan it was part of—lurched right on. No one had heard, of course. No surprise there. This lot saw and heard nothing that didn't jump up and dance for coin under their very noses.

The constant groaning of the wagon was different now, as the dying axle added its own protest to the general din. A sort of rising, wobbling, wandering shriek that—oh, how could they not hear it?

When someone stuck his head in and under for a look, a certain non-paying passenger would be discovered. Though there were halflings in Molthune who weren't slaves, Tantaerra had never known any personally—and stowaways of any height were rarely greeted with much kindness. Moreover, to a certain breed of merchant, a female slave—even a two-and-a-half-foot-tall halfling, well out of girlhood and approaching middle age—would be something to cage and make use of.

Neither the wagon in front of this one nor the one behind had ramp boards or anything else slung underneath. The wagon three back trailed a broken-off length of rusty chain and the dangling remains of a ramp-board frame, but she doubted they'd carry much more than the weight of a few spiders or flies before tearing free and falling to the road.

The light was failing, the sun sinking low, and by the rattling of slowing iron-shod wagon wheels and the clip-clop of hooves rising ahead of her now, there was less mud and more stone underfoot. Voices, too, and some excited shouts. Children.

The caravan had entered Halidon proper. Which meant, the gods being the gods, that it was just about time for this axle to—

SheeEEEEEREEAKH!

Tantaerra dropped and rolled even before the far wheel came off the separating axle and the wagon lurched and then sank down into a nightmare of splinters, amid a chorus of surprised and angry shouts.

She had a glimpse of the wheel wobbling away on its own, bouncing and swaying like a drunkard leaving a tavern late. Then her own hasty escape snatched her view of it away. Out and back, to scuttle like a crab under the next wagon and hope its oxen weren't fast enough when stamping at her to—

"Hoy! You! Crannor, what's that? It just went under your wagon! Like a halfling, but smaller!"

Like a halfling, but smaller.

Tantaerra growled silently at that and kept scuttling, running on hands and knees just as fast as she knew how, trying to—

"There! I saw it! Over there, under Derethrai's wagon, now!"

"What's all this?" Sharper voices, and unfamiliar, not from the caravan. She risked a look.

Molthuni soldiers. Big, clomping hobnailed boots, dark breeches, blood-red tunics, helmets too big to stay on without chinstraps, and spears. Led by an officer without a spear, who was instead carrying some sort of short battle-hammer with a wicked-looking spike where its pommel should be.

"Stowaway, or a thief, under the wagons. It broke yon turnip cart, somehow."

Oh, aye. Blame me for your born-of-neglect breakdowns, now!

"'It'?" the Molthuni officer snapped. "Some sort of beast?"

"Don't rightly know, yet. Small, and fast—and something's been stealing food from us, all the way from Canorate! If you'll look under that wagon!"

"Trail thefts are your problem, citizen, not the duty of the soldiers of Molthune to ..."

Boots, tramping closer, the sharp points of spear-heads dipping down into view, and Tantaerra had run out of wagons.

Cursing silently, she doubled back. The one place they'd not be so enthusiastic when thrusting spears would be in among the mud-spattered legs of the oxen at the front of each wagon. Oxen cost coin, good coin, and so did harness, and—

"Hah!" One of the soldiers, too dim-witted not to thrust his spear right into the snorting, stamping midst of the oxen. "I see it—a boy, a really small boy, a—no, a girl! Barefoot—"

"Croel, haven't you ever seen a halfling before? Slave Pits of Absalom, boy, but they're—mind! You'll have—"

Whatever else the older soldier might have been going to say was lost in a dozen shouts of alarm. An ox had felt the burning bite of a careless spear-slice, and tried to rear back and kick out at where the pain had come from. The wagon it and three fellow beasts were yoked to shuddered under its buffeting, and frightened and angry muffled shouts arose from within it.

Shouts that grew suddenly louder as doors banged, and the ox kicked again and soldiers leveled spears at the beast as if it were some sort of battlefield foe.

"What by the ponderous teats of Lamashtu are all you idiots doing? We just about got a dozen jars of Mereth's best honey-wine sauce in our laps! D'you have any idea how much that goes for in Braganza? Nearly lost a handful of Crysta's map-painted plattercloths, too! Stand back from my oxen, you spear-waving idiots, or I'll have your guts for my next batch of sausages, I will!"

"Citizen, have a care for how you speak to soldiers of Mol—"

"I am having a care, helm-for-brains! If I were treating these louts of yours like mere brigands, they'd be choking around my fists run far down their gullets right now! You in charge of this untrained, murderous rabble, then? Well, let me tell you a thing or two about how officers conducted themselves when I was wearing a uniform as ugly as yours, and going up against real foes of Molthune rather than handy oxen! Why, back in those days, we—"

Tantaerra grinned. Good old Bryhraun, and his Finest Sausages, too! He could keep this up right through the night, and would, if someone didn't put a spear through him to shut him up.

Bryhraun! Yes! His wagon was crammed with edibles, and it had those little light-windows up by the front that opened from within. If she scampered just right, she could snatch and be gone onto its roof before anyone could grab her.

Bryhraun was still spewing oaths and belligerence at the Molthuni officer, who was busy putting one of those sneeringly weary "I'm only going to put up with this for so long, old windbag, and my patience has just about run out" expressions on his face.

Tantaerra stuck out her tongue at him as she raced into view, caught hold of the trail-step of Bryhraun's wagon, and swung herself into a backflip and roll up and into the wagon—right between the merchant's legs, where she hoped they'd not be foolish enough to thrust spears at her, given the old merchant's temper.

Ah, but they were. She found her feet only to see Bryhraun's stout and hog-ugly wife and daughter converging on her, shrieking.

Tantaerra plucked up a fat "dragonsmoke" sausage as long as her arm, sprang to the high shelves beside the little window on her left, hauled on its dog-lever as hard as she knew how, and was out into the breeze and the gathering dusk before Bryhraun's wife could draw breath for her next scream.

And up onto the wagon roof, thanks to a hard swing on the frame of the window itself. Only long enough for a deep breath and a wild peer all around, before she took a firm grip on the sausage—sinking her fingers into it, that was the trick—then sprang into a wild leap for the roof of the next wagon. Dingy blue, which meant it housed Maraskho's Fine Garments.

She only just made it, landing hard and bruisingly, skidding along most of its dirty, warp-boarded length.

Behind her, Bryhraun's wagon rocked. Its oxen grunted and shrieked and tried to snarl as their hooves sliced into each other, and general mayhem erupted. She could hear falling goods crashing around in the merchant's wagon and his family's screams rising into wild and frightened incoherence, but was more intent on all the villagers converging to see what was happening.

No more soldiers yet, which was good, and some of the patrol that had gathered around Bryhraun's wagon were being jostled by arriving locals, spears waving wildly as they tried to follow her yet not gut someone. Even better.

It would be dark soon, but not soon enough. Everyone who cared to could see her, and it seemed Halidon bred or reared hardened folk. If any of them got a grip on her, she'd have to be fast and vicious with a knife to get free.

And her left hip was aching from that landing. Time to get gone. On her left, not much more than two streets away, the forest loomed up like a great dark wall. That's where she'd have to hide—and climb, because a village next to a forest meant skulking beasts with sharp teeth prowling by night.

Tantaerra dropped onto Maraskho's oxen, her landing and swift run along them setting them to snorting, bucking, and twisting, too. Perhaps she could get work as an ox-tamer, if—

Blast! More soldiers were coming, hurrying down those streets she had to get through to get to the woods, and they were alert and hard-eyed—and had spotted her already. Keeping in formation, carrying the same long spears, and led by an officer whose swift hand-signals were being heeded. No slouches, these soldiers. She'd not get past them alive, unless they wanted her taken for questioning.

And when they discovered the slave brand under her chin ...

Her escape must be the other way, using the halted wagons of the caravan as a barrier to these Molthuni reinforcements, and it must be now.

She sprang off an ox that seemed heartily glad to be rid of her, landed with a wince, and ran, ran as she'd never run before, keeping close to the line of wagons as she darted along it, a racing arrow more than a thing of stealth. She could tell by the thunder of boots and the waving spears that soldiers were running, too, on the other side of the wagons, which meant she'd have to time this just right ...

Here, and now! Where this knot of village women were standing hands on hips gossiping, obviously sourly amused at seeing soldiers having to run. She dug at the slits in her belt as she ran, her thumb finding the sharpened edges of the coins she kept as handy slicers and moving on to—yes, the gold piece that wasn't sharpened. Absalom minting. She could clearly recall the disbelieving face of the merchant she'd plucked it from, and she was going to miss it, but—

"Blessed coin," she called, pitching her voice as low and loud as she could, "lend me some of your luck now!"

Still running hard, she flung it past the heads of the staring women. It rang off the side of a wagon just beyond them, at about the time the meaning of her words sank home. Then in almost perfect unison they turned, in a swirling of skirts, and went after the coin.

In their wake, Tantaerra swerved out, straight away from the line of wagons, and sprinted down a handy street ahead. Past a few hanging signs and their shops, away from the caravan, away from the great forest. If she couldn't reach the trees now, she'd have to wait for deep night to try for them, and in the meantime she needed somewhere high enough that she could climb out of the reach of spears, somewhere that was hopefully also large enough for her to hope to hide in, on, or atop.

Which meant the watchtower she could see ahead, standing like a stubby lance against the setting sun, and the Molthuni military barracks attached to it.

As the old Nirmathi saying put it: When hunted by wolves, the best place to hide is among them.

Come to think of it, the "wolves" those words referred to were Molthuni soldiers like these. Fair enough. Like a wolf, then, she would be.

The street was full of older villagers strolling to see what was going on at the caravan. She got more than a few curious looks, but no hindrance or pursuit. And thankfully no dogs.

Which might well mean there was something in the forest that prowled Halidon by night, hunting such barking beasts.

Something to mull over later, when there weren't Molthuni soldiers pelting along after her, still far behind but waving their spears and yelling at her to stop.

Did that ever work? Did they really think someone running from them would be foolish enough to stop and give up? Or that common folk who increasingly resented the ever-increasing laws and little rules, and the heavy-booted zeal of the crimson-coated soldiers who enforced them, would leap to catch or hinder a fleeing fugitive?

No one was leaping in Halidon, that was for sure.

She ran past staring villager after staring villager, her hip really starting to ache, now. Ahead, the street ended in a muddy open space in front of a long row of empty paddocks, with the barracks looming up on her left. No palisade or gatehouse, and no door guards, just a tall, ugly stone building with a shake-shingled roof, various sections of it having different pitches, as the building had been expanded over the years by builders with their own ideas of what a barracks roof should look like. No gables, nor anything as fancy as a spire or a turret, except the lone, square watchtower, which was wrapped around with rotting wooden gutters sloping down from the surrounding roofs and jutting well out into the street. Evidently it rained hard in Halidon.

Good. If those gutters weren't too rotten, they'd be her climbing aids and help to hide her, once she was up and—

Light flared, at the far end of the barracks. Panting for breath, Tantaerra slowed to peer. A soldier on a ladder, his back to her, was swinging shut the shutter of a massive, rusty hanging metal lantern ...and starting back down to the ground.

He'd be heading this way to light the next one, and the next. Stout bars jutted out up there beside each lantern, the ladder hooking over them for stability. She had to get up onto the roof, and hide in the angle where it descended to meet the watchtower, before he—

No. Impossible.

She'd have to do this the other way.

She raced to the streetside wall of the barracks and flattened herself against it, just before he reached the base of the ladder.

Then she waited, shuddering to catch her breath and trying to ignore the pursuing soldiers getting nearer. It was dark enough now for not every idle glance to notice her, if she kept still.

This should have been about long enough ...

She went to the ground, crawled to the corner, and peered around it, chin almost in the dirt. The lamplighter was just settling the ladder into position by the next lantern. She waited, in case he was one of those sightseers who liked to take a look around every so often, but his attention was entirely on the tinderbox slung on a loose baldric at his hip, and positioning it to avoid banging it against himself as he climbed. He started up.

Like a small and silent wind, Tantaerra raced to the ladder and went up it behind him, moving only when he did, stretching with great care for silence, and keeping over on the left side, because the tinderbox was hanging down the soldier's right side.

She waited until he was right at the top and had swung the lantern-shutter open before climbing up on its far side, to hang right beside his head. He was intent on striking a striker, inside the box on a short-chain, against the box's row of flints so as to catch sparks on a taper—a fiddly task that really needed more hands than he had, and was consuming all of his attention save enough to mutter tunelessly, "She was only a shopgirl from Canorate, but she was a jewel to me ..."

Wrapping her legs around the bar that the ladder was hooked over, Tantaerra let herself dangle head-down beside his left shoulder and pushed against the lantern until she could murmur a provocative purr right into his ear.

"All the way from Canorate I've come, dreaming of your manly strength, and now at last, lover—"

The lamplighter stopped humming and stiffened.

Tantaerra licked her lips, then planted a wet kiss on his earlobe.

The resulting startled shriek and fumbling clatter were gratifying. The soldier's head snapped around to look, and slammed into the open lantern-shutter, setting the lantern to swinging and the startled man to falling back—

With a sudden, arm-flailing shout, the lamplighter was gone, and the abandoned ladder was swaying ...

The crash, below, was impressive.

Delicately, Tantaerra gave the top of the ladder the little push necessary to send it toppling slowly over and down, then swarmed along the bar onto the roof and clawed her way up it as hastily as she could, ending on the roof side of the watchtower. The gutter there was in deep gloom, and sturdily wedged between the wall just under the roof and the rising side of the watchtower. She made herself as small and slender as she could, and snuggled down into it, prepared to become a motionless part of the building until full night came.

The sausage was more than a little battered, but tasted delicious.

Chapter Two

A Halfling on the Run

The squeal sounded like someone low-voiced and very surprised being torn apart. Very close by.

Tantaerra was awake in an instant, trying to grab for the hilts of her knives and knowing a moment of panic as she felt her arms pinioned by the—oh. The gutter.

She was lying in the roof-gutter she'd snuggled herself into, a little stiff and more than a little cold. With determined speed she heaved herself up enough to turn over, clapping hands to reassuring hilts, and blinked up at—the stars.

She was wedged between the barracks roof and its watchtower, on a clear and rather chilly night, with nary a cloud to be seen, nor anything moving. No rats, no perching birds ...so what had that sound been, so loud and so near?

"Kisses of the banshee, Rolph, do you ever oil these windows?"

That voice was coming from right above her.

Whoever it was spat onto the roof, then leaned out—Tantaerra froze, staring up in silence—and fastened back the noisy shutters by thrusting dangling hooks into loops set ready for them in the watchtower wall. The man had to stare right down at her to do that, and he did. Yet didn't seem to see her, ere he withdrew.

"Why would I?" a deeper voice asked sourly, from farther back in the room beyond that window. "This isn't Canorate. They give us scarce enough oil for our blades and armor; we don't waste it on hinges opened once a year—if that. Get that screen up, or we'll be plagued by moths and stingers before I can get this flagon filled."

"Worry not, Daethan. We have moths in Canorate, too."

"I grow no younger," a third man observed coldly. A voice used to command, this one, and humorless. Probably ruthless. "So let us proceed. My rank you can plainly see. My name is Osturr, though those not in this room should know me only as 'Lord Investigator.' I report directly to the General Lords, and they dislike deceit, half-truths, and corruption large and small. My current orders have me traveling Molthune ferreting out Nirmathi spies. Your most recent reports mention a masked man you are suspicious of—so here I am. Have you anything to add to what you reported?"

"N-no." That was Rolph's voice. He was one of the Halidonese military commanders, evidently. "He's been doing business with Tarlmond—er, Escolarr Tarlmond. A manygoods merchant with a rather sly reputation, but an ex-soldier and no convictions. We gave our man Harl a report on this 'Masked' as a warning. Suitably abbreviated, of course."

"And? Has this 'Harl' reported back to you?"

"Only that he was expecting to meet with the masked man again soon. Claims to know no name for the man, nor to have seen behind his mask."

"And the nature of their 'business' together?"

"Message-running. Verbal, not written, the masked man being the runner."

"Clearly communications about illicit matters, then. And the cover cargo?"

"Eh?"

"The document or key or other portables The Masked carried to Tarlmond's associates, as his pretext for visiting them to pass on the merchant's secret messages. We call it 'cover cargo.'" The Lord Investigator didn't utter the word "dolts," but his tone of voice made it as clear an addition as if he'd spat it in their faces.

Tantaerra grinned up at the glittering stars. My, but Molthuni bloodcoats were so civil to each other.

"We don't know," Rolph replied, a little stiffly. "Our investigations have not proceeded—"

"That far. Indeed. Halidon is so rife with lawbreaking that your resources are overstretched. I shall report as much."

"Here, now!" A fourth voice rose in protest, in tones rough from little use. "There's no call to—"

"Oh, but there is, Lancecaptain. Molthune is at war, in case you've forgotten as much, here in this dusty backwater. The border with Nirmathas, I should not have to remind you, is not all that far away. And any weakness in the soldiers of Molthune must be identified and obliterated, for we are only as strong—"

"As our weakest warrior. I know the saying. We all do."

"Then why, Lancecaptain, don't you apply it? The General Lords' orders, reports, even suggestions—none of them are empty words, or intended to be taken as such. You might perhaps—just perhaps—have noticed that I am armed. These blades are not for show. I use them often—and almost always on soldiers, or our hirelings, who've been found wanting. Now as you clearly have nothing of value to tell me, suppose you avoid being found wanting by releasing to my command your best patrol—or assembling one, if you cleave to the rather desperate practice of harnessing your few competent soldiers to your drooling dolts and disloyal malingerers—forthwith. As in, right now."

The voice turned brisk; the Lord Investigator was clearly on the move. A door banged open. Tantaerra smiled again, not needing to see into the room to know that the oh-so-pleasant Osturr had turned on the threshold to add, "I see no reason to wait for morning to start hunting masked men, as Halidon is clearly no great metropolis. The stench as I rode in tells me you lack sewers, for instance."

"That is correct," Rolph confirmed, even more stiffly. "If you'd care to dine off the roast in the kitchen, I'll assemble the patrol for you before you're done."

"Lord Investigators trust no food they've not watched being prepared. We are not deeply loved."

"Oh?" the Lancecaptain dared to say, sarcasm clear in his voice. "You surprise me."

"Wanting," the Lord Investigator replied, as gently as any lover speaking endearments, and turned to descend the stairs. Tantaerra's eyes narrowed. She heard just the faintest of scrapes as heels moved on stone; the investigator was almost as quiet as a thief, despite the Molthuni boots the man must be wearing.

Whoever this Masked was, he was in for a bad time.

As was she, if Osturr didn't find his quarry. He'd turn sleepy little Halidon behind-over-brisket searching it—and when the sun rose, this roof would become a halfling oven. A moment ago she'd been thinking staying put up here for the night would be best—but no, stalking along right behind this patrol, waiting for a chance to make an "accident" befall the Lord Investigator would be safer. Less chance of being found by searchers, and all enthusiasm for searching would likely die with this Osturr.

"I warned you he bites," Daethan murmured merrily, from the window above her.

"I asked for this posting because it was quiet," Rolph snarled. "Fight a few forest beasts who dislike our logging, and jail a few thieves trying to move about the country in disguise, with the caravans. It's vipers like him I left Canorate to get clear of. 'These blades are not for show.' Pah. I'd like to show him a thing or two. I'll wager he's never set foot in Nirmathas, nor fought in a real battle."

"I'd save your coin, if I were you," Daethan murmured. "Be glad he didn't light up. He likes horrible greenish cigars—'stinkchokes,' we call 'em—from somewhere beyond Cheliax. Even with this window open, we'd have gone just as green as they are. But he didn't even get one out. He must like you."

And with that, he went out and down the stair far more noisily than the Lord Investigator had.

"Damned funny way he has of showing it," Rolph growled. "Ruldroon any better yet?"

"Well, he won't be climbing ladders anytime soon," the Lancecaptain replied heavily, his voice fading as he and Rolph followed everyone else down the stairs.

Tantaerra kept her sigh silent as she got up, stretched—then hastily crouched back down again as one of her feet started to go through the gutter. Every bit as rotten as she'd feared.

So, now? Down, yes, and that'd be an easy climb with all these rough edges and sloppy finishes, but whither after that?

Someone barked an order in the barracks yard below. Ah, yes, the gods forbid soldiers of Molthune would do anything stealthy or sensible. Not with Lord So Mighty High Investigator around.

Boots crunched on loose stones, spears were grounded, swords clanked. That'd be the best patrol.

"You will obey me," Lord Investigator Osturr said, his voice silk over ice. Someone's spear trembled.

"We search this barracks first. First rank, out and form a cordon, looking in. You and you, stand behind them facing out, to guard against attack. The rest of you, search room by room, and report results for each room back to me, as you deem it clear or have trouble to report. We'll begin with the cellar, if you have one, and work our way up to the rooftops. Cordon first, and call when ready. Watch for anyone seeking to flee."

Dung! Steaming, dripping dragon dung!

She had to get out and gone before that cordon—

Tantaerra put her foot firmly through the rotting gutter, pulled it back up again, and tore off a piece of wood with a crack loud enough to echo off the roof, then tossed it over the roof peak, just high enough to clear.

It landed with a tiny crash on the far side of the roof, bounced once and made a second, tinier crash, then fell to the ground below.

Men shouted and rushed, spears waving wildly.

Good, they were headed around the far end of the building, which meant she—

"That was thrown, idiots. The first sounds came from up there."

The Lord Investigator was standing just below her, looking up. Three guards were with him.

"A child—no, a halfling. You do own some crossbows, do you not? And know how to use them? Go and get them and shoot it down, but alive. I need some questions answered. I think it highly unlikely a masked halfling could fool even Halidonese merchants into thinking he was a man—even with stilts, or a chair. Yet what better spy than a halfling? And Nirmathas has spies everywhere."

Gods spit, was this man for real? He sounded like a bad actor in one of those tavern-stage satires Hroalund had liked so much.

Two of the Molthuni soldiers were hurrying back around the tower, no doubt to fetch those crossbows. Leaving just this devilspawn Lord Investigator and one bloodcoat.

Which meant her time, if she was to live much longer, was now.

Tantaerra sighed and started to undress.

"Whoa! Lord—"

"I do have eyes, soldier. They're called 'breasts' in polite company. Even halfling ones. You are professional enough not to be distracted, I trust? Good. Have your spear ready for when she jumps. Mind you aim low, away from the face and the heart. I'll need her to live long enough—"

Overvest and tunic bunched up and firmly clenched in her teeth, Tantaerra launched herself off the edge of the roof, the plump little bags she'd retrieved from her armpit-slings in either hand. She'd only have one chance at this.

She threw almost gently, trying for accuracy.

And almost missed the bloodcoat's face anyway—but the bag from her right hand caught the Lord Investigator square on the nose, and burst in a dark red cloud covering the two men.

The Lord Investigator shrieked helplessly as his face was drenched in pepper, but still got his sword out lightning-swift as he staggered, slashing the air wildly and blindly.

And she was falling right into that steel, was going to be hacked by this too-clever Molthuni shark-ass after all ...

The instant before steel bit into her, the sneezing, helplessly sobbing soldier staggered right under her, spear falling from his hand—and got butchered by the Lord Investigator instead.

Tantaerra bounced off his head and shoulder into a hard landing in the street as his dying gurgle began.

Soldiers were running hard from around both sides of the barracks now, but the blind and suffering Lord Investigator was rushing about and hacking like a madman, and they slowed warily to try to go wide around him.

"These blades," Tantaerra could not resist calling out cheerfully, "are not for show."

Then she was off and running again, her tunic back down to her waist as she raced into the night. In the direction of the forest, just as fast as she could, before—

A Molthuni bloodcoat trudged out of a side street, spear in hand. Behind him were more, a dozen spears at least, and a hooded lantern.

"Thief! Runner! We've got us a runner, lads—after him!"

"And so, as always, it comes down to me being entertainment," Tantaerra gasped aloud in amused exasperation. She sprinted one street closer to the forest, then was forced to swerve north again to avoid a crowd of men spilling out of a pitiful rural excuse for a tavern in order to watch the chase.

She'd never wanted to be a thief, and was just about out of thieves' tricks, but how else was an escaped slave to eat? If she could become a citizen of Molthune, now—

Later. She'd chewed on such thoughts too many times, these last few days, and this was no time to be gnawing on them again. She'd need all her wits to get clear of this legion of enthusiastic bloodcoats—and how by all the grinning gods could Molthune field armies to pillage and plunder her beloved Nirmathas at all, if a backland logging village had this many dolts in uniform? After all, whether veterans or clumsy untried recruits, they all had to be paid, and eat and drink every day.

The small, no-two-alike homes that leaned against each other in clusters were giving way to muddy spaces, and fences, and huge barnlike buildings that had to be warehouses.

The shouting soldiers were right behind her, lanterns bobbing and spears glinting in all directions. They seemed to have gained reinforcements; there were dozens of them!

Soon she'd be out amid fields, in the moonlight, with nowhere to hide except the wild forest on her left—and she'd have to plunge dangerously deep into it to shake off this many pursuers, with no time to climb or hide.

Uncaring stars twinkled down. Molthune stretched off in gently rolling hills as far as she could see to the north and east, and—and she'd be damned if a bunch of heavy-booted Molthuni bloodcoats were going to catch her after all this!

There were more than ten warehouses, and that might just be enough, if she could start some sort of fire or loose some draft-beasts or start some other distraction.

Aye, always the "if," as the saying went.

She had to get in among them, far enough ahead of all of these bellowing bloodcoated heroes that they couldn't see precisely where she went, and try to get inside a warehouse that wasn't empty, without leaving obvious signs of her entry.

At a dead run, in the middle of the night, in a place she'd never been before, with a few panting seconds to manage it all.

Grinning gods, why was anyone fool-headed enough to try thievery?

Well, perhaps most of them were as desperate as she was.

She took the second muddy cross-trail, between warehouses and their fenced-off paddocks. The dirt fields stood empty—no one had carelessly left wagons or tethered beasts or anything else she could let loose or topple or otherwise use to slow the pursuit.

Tantaerra sprinted, huffing for breath, feet slapping on the dirt. She had to be fast and nimble, and all that mattered now was staying alive.

Damn these bloodcoats and their heavy-booted enthusiasm! Why couldn't they all hie themselves off to Canorate and do something useful, like keeping the peace in that city of seething feuds and cutthroat traders? How much guarding did trees need, anyway?

The soldiers were as thick as a stone wall between her and the forest, but if she went the other way, back down the spine of muddy, ramshackle Halidon ...

Blast it, no! Her only way to there, the road she'd come down after getting clear of the barracks and turning this way, was blocked by three bloodcoats.

Older men, by their faces, veterans who had formed a careful and determined barrier, spears held low and ready before them, spaced close enough to be effective, but not so close that they'd be in each other's way. The tallest one had drawn his sword and planted it upright in the road, handy for him if he needed it—and in her way as she ran.

Damn damn damn blast!

She'd have to turn back, and into all the waiting teeth in such disarray behind her, with that one capable guard chasing her and the rest of them angry but having had time to reorder themselves and close in around her ...

No, they were closing in already! Trying to get past these three was her only chance, however poor ...and it was slim and getting more skeletal by the second ...

She ran, heart sinking, right at their ruthless grins. This was it, this was—

Suddenly, one of the three soldiers was moving. Face startled, helpless—

Thlangg!

Someone she could scarcely see in the darkness, someone dark-garbed and strong, had just grabbed the necks of two of the three soldiers from behind and dashed their helmed heads together.

Tantaerra got a glimpse, just for an instant, of a single bright brown eye peering at her from behind the Molthuni helms. Then it was gone, that ringing clang still loud in the air, as the two dazed bloodcoats were shoved hard into the third, grounding them in a brief chaos of thudding bodies and wildly kicking legs. Whoever had felled them darted off into the darkness—leaving a hole right in front of Tantaerra.

She sped through it.

Back into Halidon, into a darkness that held fewer spears and wildly waving lanterns and shouting men behind them, into—oh, blast.

Around a corner, now heading her way, came more Molthuni spearmen. In a tidy line that stretched right across the street, with a second rank right behind, who were holding aloft a bright row of lanterns.

She kept running toward them. She had to. There was a crossroads just ahead, but she knew before she reached it what was waiting on her right, where the forest was. Yes, there—a few more bloodcoats, spears lowered.

She turned left, right back to the barracks that almost had to be nigh deserted by now, with all these soldiers in the streets. It would be a bit too much to hope that a still-blind Lord Investigator would still be hacking the air in all directions ...

It was. She saw moving helms catching the moonlight, just two—no, three—and then lanterns were unhooded to her right. More bloodcoats! This place must be a patrol-base with a big garrison, gods spit and spew ...

With a savage snarl, Tantaerra turned left again, and ran along the barracks fence. Back toward the warehouses.

She was being herded.

At least the lanterns and the shouting she'd fled from were still over there, one street closer to the forest, and not waiting in front of her.

One soldier was sprinting back to intercept her, though.

"What," Tantaerra almost sobbed at the moon, "have I done to enrage you so thoroughly, gods? What?"

She kept on running, but drew her two daggers. Her only two daggers. She had a stabbing needle, too, but this Molthuni ahead would have to embrace her and raise her to his unprotected face for that to be any good.

She would need luck to manage this, and it would only work if he were alone and she gave him no time to set himself and be ready.

"Haaaaa!"

He charged around the corner of the fence at her, spear to the fore.

She threw her first dagger hard at his face—and he struck it aside with his spear, laughing—which left him no defense at all against her second knife, flashing end over end like a hungry fang, right into his mouth.

Damn. She'd been trying for an eye.

But he staggered, choking, fell hard on one knee, clutching at his throat—and she ran right up him and buried her stabbing needle in his right eye, then let her speed carry her past his head. She caught his chin and jerked his head around, trying to slow herself, and landed on her feet, behind him and facing him.

She needed both her daggers back. Fast.

She plucked the first out of his mouth and went back into the road-gloom to seek her second.

Bloodcoats were running from the barracks and from the patrol with all the lanterns. If she couldn't find her dagger in a few panting moments, she'd have to abandon—there!

She scooped it up gratefully and ran, fangs in both fists, heading for the nearest warehouse.

It looked about as inviting as a fortress, high unbroken walls looming up in front of her, moonlight bathing the nearest one ...so the one beyond, then. Behind and around this fortress ...yes! It had neat stacks of barrels along its east wall, and—was that a vent-door, propped open?

Gods be thanked, a whole row of open vents, and the same in the next warehouse, beyond!

Using her daggers like climbing spikes, Tantaerra swarmed up and over the fence. Climbing the barrels was a series of swift, easy leaps, and then—

She plunged through the nearest vent in a full, fast dive. If it was a long fall onto a hard floor within, so be it, she was—

It was a short fall, onto a hard and unyielding crate, but she bounced, wincing, and skidded to a hard stop.

Oh, but she was going to be sore in the morning. If, that is, she lived to see morning.

It was dark, and her arrival had raised dust. She sat up on the crate and saw more of them all around her, dark and looming and silent.

Resisting the urge to scramble, with the din of running bloodcoats growing nearer outside, she sat still, straining to hear.

Nothing. At least, nothing man-sized on the move or breathing hard, inside this end of the warehouse.

Tantaerra got down off the crate, sheathed her daggers, and felt her way cautiously along. She was in a loft, under the eastern eaves of the warehouse roof—there would be another loft facing her, that way, with an open gulf between where the pulley-hoists hung, with catwalks across where the trusses were doubled, for men with long hook-pikes to move crates like these about, to disturb the rats.

"Rats like me," she murmured, heading for the end of the warehouse. Any ladders up and down would be there, and—

There was a sudden roar from the other end of the warehouse, behind her, and the rattle of counterweights. Moonlight flooded in. The great end doors of the warehouse were being thrust open.

"Lanterns first!" The voice was clipped and cold. "No one goes haring off into the dark—that just gives our little rat a chance to slip out. Lamps to the fore!"

Lantern light flared, and Tantaerra saw dozens of helms and spears gleaming on that threshold. The bloodcoats were earning their coins tonight.

"All doors and stairs guarded," a new voice called, from outside those open doors.

"Good. Traevyn, guard these doors. No one not of us is to pass out. The rest of you: the lofts first. Search and secure, then look down to aid in searching the floor. Watch for crates that have been opened."

A soldier who knew his business. Damn him.

They were going to be slow, and careful, and thorough. She wasn't going to be able to escape.

Unless clouds took the moon away, and this warehouse had what she was hoping for.

It did.

Her heart leaped in hope as she found the wall-rungs, and the oiled rope tied to the topmost one that held the roof-hatch firmly shut.

The best warehouses had these; a way up onto the roof for repairs and for sun-drying damp sacks. The sun would bake her once day came again, but until then she might stay alive a little longer, if the moonlight wasn't good enough for bow-work. She was small enough to ...

The knot undid with ease, kept from closing hard by a length of wooden branch shoved through the coils. The hatch opened almost soundlessly, and she eased herself through it, not daring to hope that moonlight flooding in wouldn't be noticed.

Yet there'd been no shouts, yet.

She let the hatch back down with infinite care, then rolled gently away from it, back from the roof edge, back south along the slope.

And into something that shouldn't have been there. Something that stiffened.

Tantaerra tried to roll away again, to get out a dagger—but a hand came out of nowhere to close like an iron clamp around her throat and haul her back again.

Bringing her nose to nose with its owner, a man who'd been lying asleep on the warehouse roof in the moonlight.

A man who was wearing a mask that covered his face from forehead to chin.

"So," he whispered into her face as she struggled to breathe, his other hand pinning her arm in place, keeping her from reaching her dagger, "are you some sort of intrepid Molthuni agent? The Bloodsworn Halfling Strike Force, or some such?"

Chapter Three

Ten Silver Weights

The mask didn't have to be on his face or next to his skin to whisper in his mind.

It was covering his crotch right now, under his breeches, but he could hear it firmly and clearly. Which meant this halfling was important.

Not that he could tell anything else about her. The mask was whispering the same word it always did.

Luraumadar.

Whatever that meant. The Masked was as sourly mystified as ever.

"Well?" he hissed, giving the throat he had hold of a little shake, ere he loosened his grip from throttling to merely tight. "Will you answer me, or die?"

"That's a hell of a way to begin negotiations," his tiny awakener croaked.

The Masked found himself grinning. "Always begin from a position of strength," he said.

So ...a halfling woman, probably in her late thirties, and with the lined face of someone who'd known hunger often enough, despite the fact that she still had plenty of chest and hip on an otherwise scrawny frame. From Nirmathas originally, judging by her accent, but likely gone for several years now, as the accent was only faint. Running from the local Molthuni soldiery, but who wouldn't?

He let silence stretch to see what she'd fill it with. Shouts of bloodcoats calling to each other from the warehouse beneath them punctuated that waiting. Shouts that were getting closer.

"Let me go," she said at last, preceding and following those words with swallowing that had to be painful.

"And have you gut me with that knife you've been trying to reach? Or its cousin, hidden somewhere else about you? Not likely."

"My quarrel is not with you, sir. I'm ...being pursued."

"I am aware of that," The Masked said dryly. "I'm also aware that you've led your pursuers here, to me—and awakened me from a rather pleasant slumber that I'm in sore need of. It might be wise to be more persuasive."

"It might be wise to let me go. Those men are out here in the night with their spears and lanterns not because of me, but because of you. You've not been subtle enough in your dealings, whatever they may be. There's a Lord Investigator come from Canorate to hunt you—because these dolts of Halidon have grown suspicious of you."

The Masked tightened his grip a little, to remind the halfling that she was in no position to afford scorn. Nor to try for her knife again.

"Keep your hand well away from your hilt—any of your hilts," he warned softly. "And just how is it that you know this?"

"I listen at windows," she hissed, eyes flashing fury. "They were speaking of your dealings with Escolarr Tarlmond."

"Have they found him, then?"

"Was he lost? They said nothing of seeking him, only you. Tonight. And I warn you, that investigator is both smart and a winterstone-cold bastard."

"So," The Masked told her flatly, "am I." When that drew no reaction, he asked, "I take it the warehouse below us is surrounded and being searched?"

"You take it correctly," the halfling hissed. "They'll probably be out on this roof after us very soon now."

"So my easiest play would be to open that hatch you came up through and toss you down to them."

She tried to struggle, jerking and arching suddenly, seeking to slip out of his grasp with her small size, but The Masked had been expecting that, and tightened his grip cruelly. "Stop trying to get yourself killed, and give me a good reason to do otherwise," he snapped, and relaxed his grip enough to let her breathe again.

The halfling panted for air, managing to gasp swiftly, "I'll pay you to hide me, to get me away from the bloodcoats!"

"Oh? How much?"

"Ten silver weights," she spat.

They locked gazes for a long time, as the shouts grew louder.

Then The Masked nodded. "A paltry price for a paltry deed. I accept. With one condition."

The roof-hatch squealed open.

"What?" Tantaerra hissed.

"Draw steel on me or threaten me—just once—and my fee rises tenfold," The Masked told her.

She nodded. "I accept."

"Good. Keep low."

∗ ∗ ∗

The masked man let go of Tantaerra and rolled to pluck up something from the roof on his far side.

It was a stone block the size of her head. He hefted it, waited, and as a soldier's head appeared under the raised hatch, threw it. Hard.

Tantaerra winced at the dull thud of the helm crumpling, followed by a brief rattling that might have been teeth. The Masked was already clambering over her in deft haste to grab hold of his lolling-headed victim. He hauled on that head, dragging limp arms and shoulders up through the hatch far enough to let him hook the man's sword-baldric through the hatch handle.

Then he shoved hatch and Molthuni back down, jamming the corpse in the narrow hole, and clambered back past her. "Come."

Rubbing her throat, Tantaerra followed him. To the other end of the warehouse roof, where a ventilator thrust up into the night sky. There was a long spar tied to it, hanging down off the roof.

"Where did this—?"

"I put it here," The Masked interrupted her. "If you're in the habit of spewing questions, kindly hold them for a better time."

Behind them, there were dull boomings from the hatch, then a louder, sharper one as someone slammed the butt-end of a spear against the roof from the loft below. Then a lot more of those louder, sharper booms.

Tantaerra wrestled her attention back from them to the man she'd just hired. Rather than moving the spar to serve as a bridge to the roof of the next warehouse, he had hooked an arm around the ventilator and clawed a flint striker from his belt.

Tantaerra saw an end of twine hanging out of the ventilator, swallowed the question she'd been about to ask, and joined him, holding her dagger against the twine so he could use the striker against it.

With a nod of thanks, he set to work. Three tries produced sparks, and they almost banged heads together blowing into flame. And then the twine was well and truly alight.

"Now we hurry," The Masked told his client, swinging the spar.

"I'll go first," she told him. "I'm a lot lighter. I can tie its other end to the ventilator on yon roof."

"With what?"

She slapped at her belt. The Masked peered, and saw that its buckle was a clip, and the belt itself was dark cord wrapped around and around a trim halfling waist until its wearer looked a lot fatter than she truly was.

"Go first," he agreed, "O Princess of Thieves."

"I'm not—bah!" She waved away the rest of her protest and set off across the spar, hugging it with her arms and hiking her behind into the air so she could run along it. A shout and a hurled spear told them they'd been seen, but the spear came nowhere near the halfling, and its ascent didn't make her falter; she was across in the time it took The Masked, holding the spar steady, to look behind him once. Spear tips were bursting up through the roof back by the hatch, but the unseen soldiers below seemed to lack time and space enough to shift crates so as to let them thrust up hard anywhere else along the roof slope. Which was rather fortunate. The first wisps of smoke were drifting up out of the ventilator now, and the shouts from beneath the roof shifted into startlement and fear ...

∗ ∗ ∗

The halfling was up by the next building's ventilator, unwinding cord from around herself with the grace of a dancer. The Masked set about untying the knot at his end of the spar, so they could haul it along with them to the next roof.

More spears sailed up out of the night, to clang and clatter on the roofs well below them both and fall back into the night. It took practice to throw a spear up high with any accuracy, and it seemed this backcountry garrison hadn't done much high-hurling.

Then his new client was beckoning him with a wave, and flattening herself down on the spar to steady it as he'd done for her.

Not that she weighed much more than a sturdy dog, mind you. The Masked threw a last look at the loop of untied rope around his ventilator, shrugged, and started across, crawling and trying not to kick or do anything that might set the spar to sliding down the roof. This was no hero-ballad; he'd not be walking away from a fall from this height.

More shouts, and more spears—but flames were leaping up behind him, now, and the shouting inside that warehouse was turning to screams.

Down below, more soldiers were running. There'd be crossbows, soon.

The spar started shifting when he was still more than an arm's reach from the roof he was heading for, but he simply abandoned all caution in favor of haste, clawing his way onto the roof before it dumped him. The halfling, Desna be praised, was clinging grimly to her end of the spar and the ventilator, straining to slow or stop its shift, and hissing an impressive stream of curses.

"My thanks," he told her, joining her. "Let's get this untied; we'll need it to get to the next roof."

"Now we're even," she replied, as they clawed at her cord together.

"Oh?"

"Taking down those three bloodcoats on the road yonder, so I could run past," she said, pointing with her chin.

The Masked looked down at her. "What are you talking about?"

The halfling looked confused. "You mean that wasn't you?"

The Masked felt a sinking feeling deep in his gut. "Describe him." The words came out sharper than he'd intended.

Taken aback, the halfling said, "I didn't get a good look, but he's got brown eyes. Why—do you know him?"

All too well, The Masked thought grimly. That is, presuming his suspicions were correct. But explaining would only complicate matters. Instead, he said, "Lots of men have brown eyes. Come on and help me with my striker again."

A sudden smile lit up her face. "You didn't!"

"Yes, and the next warehouse, too. When my neck is concerned, I don't stint on diversions. If I hadn't needed them, I'd just have left them, not burnt all this down behind me. As it is, though, I've no hesitation at all in destroying Halidon's shipping district."

His client was grinning widely now. "I'm no thief, sir, but you ...you are something of an army all by yourself."

"You hired well, then."

"So," he asked the halfling, "what should I call you?"

Her grin turned impish. "'Princess' will do."

The Masked gave her a long, steady look.

She merely shrugged. "And what should I call you?"

"The Masked," he told her simply.

That earned him a long and steady look from her. Facing it squarely, he added, "It's what I've become. The name I had before is no longer important. To anyone."

Behind them, with a sudden crackling roar, the roof of the first warehouse erupted in flame. Tongues that roared at the stars, bright gold but greenish around the edges.

Greenish. Oils, tree oils. There must have been jars inside some of those crates in the loft.

The Masked looked at his client, and the halfling princess looked back.

Then in unspoken accord they turned and hurried to get to the next roof. Those flames would die down again, but right now they were more than enough light to aim crossbows by—and the soldiers who'd been searching that warehouse had already spilled back out into the night to point, and trot, and throw more spears.

As badly as ever, but he'd only prepared one more fire, and Halidon wasn't so large that they could lose themselves in its warehouses, even if none of them had been burning.

"This is ten silver weights I'm really going to earn," The Masked told his client grimly, as he braced himself atop the spar so she could set off along it.

"I'm afraid so," was all she said, as she embraced the spar and started her run.

Halfway across, a spear laid open the left side of her breeches as it snarled past, and she yelped—but kept right on going.

The Masked winced. He was a much larger target.

Behind him, the ventilator they'd just left was spewing smoke already.

Yes, he was going to be earning this fee the hard way.

∗ ∗ ∗

The masked man started across the spar before she'd had time to set herself and steady it, almost before she was off it and onto the new roof.

Of course, it started to slip and slide, rattling down the roof he was busily departing, and not a halfling on Golarion could have held the spar once it started. Tantaerra only just had time to loop the cord lashed to the spar around the ventilator and under itself, then around her waist. She flung herself down and set her feet against the rusting metal—gods, but this warehouse was much older than the other two, roof and ventilator and all.

The cord tightened cruelly around her as the spar slid off the roof and her body took his entire weight.

"Urrhh," she told the stars, clenching her teeth. Gods, do not let him get feathered with arrows now, and leave me helpless, tethered to a dangling dead man, while cruel bloodcoats clamber up to drag me down before that ice-hearted Lord Investigator ...

The cord tugged, then slackened, then tugged again. Which meant he was climbing, or kicking, or clawing his way up onto the roof.

Her left haunch smarted where that spear had laid it open, but it was a shallow cut, a mere slice. She was more worried about her breeches—or rather, the likelihood that they'd tear further, laying bare more of her leg, and letting all the world see her anklet, where she carried her coins. Wrapped and tied, so each was held apart to prevent telltale clinking ...but anyone who'd seen a coin-anklet knew what they were at a glance.

She'd better pay her rescuer his ten silver weights soon, and lighten the load enough that she could shift the anklet to her other leg, safely out of sight again. She'd better—

"Agghh!" she groaned, as the cord tightened so much it felt like it was cutting her in half. She fought to breathe, fought to ...

Suddenly there was no weight at all on the cord, and she heard the crash and hollow ringing bounce of the spar striking the ground far below.

"Masked man?" she called out fearfully.

"Here, Halfling Princess," came a snarl from just below her on the roof. "Thank you for my life. Again."

"Nine silver weights?" she asked hopefully.

"You've not paid me yet," he reminded her, clambering past. "This is all on promise."

"Not empty promise," she replied, rolling free of what was left of her cord—he'd sliced through it, near the edge of the roof—in time to see him at the ventilator with his flint. She hastened to join him.

They'd just kindled a tiny flame on the third twine when the night around them pulsed brighter.

The roof of the second warehouse didn't go up with quite the roar of the first, but the two blazes together had all Halidon awake now, and the north end of the village brightly lit for everyone to stare at.

Tantaerra peered around. There was barely a breeze, but what little there was came out of the forest heading northeast, carrying the smoke away from Halidon. And offering two escapees on a roof no concealment at all.

The flames were bright enough to show her all the watching folk, the soldiers foremost among them, surrounding the warehouses. There was no way for them to get to the forest, nor to the caravan, sequestered down at the south end of the village in a guarded paddock.

She watched the glow of the flaming twine inside the ventilator and said suddenly, "We're going to die up here, aren't we?"

The masked head turned toward her. "How you doubt me, Halfling Princess! How can I collect my fee if we die on this rooftop?"

"Oh? You've magic that can whisk us away, I suppose?"

"Hah. Hardly. This is no ballad or fireside tale, princess."

"I'm no princess," she snarled. "My name is Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra, and I was a slave in Canorate." She pointed at the ground down beside the barracks. "And that is the investigator I was warning you about. Recovered from the pepper I put into his eyes, and giving the orders for the noose tightening around us both now. In a savage mood, by the looks of him."

"You took down Osturr the Hound with a handful of pepper?" The masked man chuckled. "Ah, but you furnish steadily better entertainment, Prin—Lady Klazra."

"Tantaerra," Tantaerra corrected sharply, "masked man."

"Since we're such good friends now," he chuckled, "I am Tarram Armistrade. Or was." He clambered along the roof past her. "Come. We have a hatch to use. In some haste."

"We're going down into the waiting arms of—?"

"They'll be very busy, very soon. No fear; we'll wait until the right moment."

The hatch lifted readily under the masked man's hand; he'd evidently prepared it from below, earlier. He bundled her through it like a rebellious child and almost bowled her over coming through it on top of her.

"Why the haste?" she panted, stumbling aside in near-darkness as she realized her cord had been left behind—and wished it hadn't. "If we're going to be waiting ...and am I permitted to know what we're waiting for?"

At that moment, the world began to roar.

The floor heaved, the far wall of the warehouse slammed inward as if punched by a god's fist, and every barrel, crate, and shipping-crock in the place hurtled into the air and started to come right at Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra.

She was flying through the air too, she realized dazedly, and there was a curious ringing silence in her ears, even as she watched boards tear into splinters and doors blow open into the night and a huge wall of roiling flame come raging through that broken end wall toward her.

This must be why The Masked had been in such haste to get down off the roof ...and must also be what he'd been waiting for ...

Something in the middle warehouse he'd known about, something that could erupt in a blast like the fury of the very gods.

She couldn't see him anywhere, couldn't—

She struck something then, something solid and meaty that had boots she'd seen before—his boots, this Tarram Armistrade—that was folding up around her, his arms reaching to cradle her. She felt him strike something, something that gave way, and then they were falling past splinters and a rebounding door, out into darkness, and there were bloodcoats looming above them, and spears...

Then that raging flame followed them out through the doorway and raced over them, and bloodcoats were tumbling, spears spinning away on their own into the night. They were bouncing, and skidding, and bouncing again.

Then tumbling, head over heels in dirt amid ruined fences and over the sprawled bodies of fallen bloodcoats as the ringing silence started to fade.

Tantaerra could see thousands of embers and dark shards in the sky, fountaining up against the stars as her own tumblings slowed, and she heard something deep-voiced behind her ear that might have been The Masked groaning or cursing ...and then at last she came to rest, on her back and staring up at all the fragments tumbling down now out of the sky, crashing and spattering and tlinging off the ground and buildings and roofs around her.

Was she hurt?

She couldn't feel a thing, just the solid reassurance of the ground under her, but something—no, someone—was rising from behind her. The Masked.

He took her in his arms and started to stumble away, her world yawing and bouncing crazily now, and as if from far away she heard his voice.

"I trust you found that worth waiting for, Tantaerra?"

She tried to move her lips to frame a reply, but found no words, and he was too busy to listen anyway. Busy heading for an old and solid-looking stone building, plunging through its open front door, and swinging her onto one shoulder to free his other hand to backhand a startled-looking old man in a robe, knocking him to the floor. The Masked trotted past the blinking, protesting priest and a fitful-looking fire in a round hearth in the center of the floor, and into a deeper, darker archway.

"This," he informed her, "is the village shrine. The shared temple of several gods, serving all until—if ever—Halidon is large enough for gods to have temples of their own."

The masked man shouldered through a curtain and past some tables heaped with what were probably offerings, to a mildewy-smelling wall climbed by a simple stone stair with no rail. He started up those steps. "Are you all right?"

She tried to speak again, and was mildly surprised to hear her own voice. "Now you ask me? Now?"

His only reply was a brief chuckle, that soon gave way to panting as he climbed.

It was a long way, sixty or seventy steps, before The Masked staggered away from the top of the stair to a stout door. It was held shut with a hasp and through-spike, and he set her down long enough to use the spike like a crowbar and tear the hasp away from the rotten wooden doorframe it was anchored to, hauling the door open onto a lofty view of the night sky.

Then he picked Tantaerra up again and rushed her through the door, out onto the shrine roof.

It was a flat circle of decking around a central spire surrounded by a dozen or more statues of gods, facing outward over a sheer drop to Halidon below. The dark statues were bedecked with bird droppings, and momentarily fanned by the whir of flapping wings as awakened and disturbed birds hastily departed into the night sky.

"Here," the masked man said, propping her up in a dark niche between Gozreh—a tall, somber bearded man leaning forward out of a storm cloud sculpted all over with small lightning bolts—and a robed figure with the head of an elk, who could only be Erastil. "There—hidden! Now pay me!"

"This is ...rather abrupt, Sir Armistrade," she replied sharply. "You were to hide me and effect my escape from the bloodcoats. We haven't escaped yet. Your commission is half done, if that. I'll pay half."

Still panting, her half-rescuer held out his empty hand for the coins. "Done. On the condition you stop with the 'sirs.' I'm Tarram. Or Armistrade, if you're annoyed with me."

Tantaerra knelt to get at the anklet she was going to shift to her other leg anyway. "As it happens, I am. You do realize this roof is a trap, not a hiding place?"

"You did see me remove the means of bolting the door and trapping us out here?" the masked man replied gently. "Well, then, not so much a trap as a place one man—as in, me—can defend against many. Unless they take off their armor and leave their spears behind, there's no way more than one of those Molthuni soldiers is going to get through this door at a time."

"You've never met this Lord Investigator," Tantaerra told him dryly.

"Oh, but I have. Osturr has been after me these—ah, this last little while. He's been just too late to close his hands around my throat on several occasions. And whether I'd set foot in this village or not, he'd soon have come to Halidon to check on the local commanders as part of his ongoing duties. Such vigilance is the norm in Molthune these days. Along with inns keeping detailed registers of all guests, citizens being expected to report unusual people or events, and the like." His voice turned wry. "In fact, the local Molthuni commanders have almost certainly set their own spy to following and watching the Lord Investigator. They have reports to make too, you know."

"I'm less than surprised, but also less than concerned, Armistrade," Tantaerra told him. "Whether they watch him doing it or not, he's still going to be coming up here after us. So why, exactly, are you making his work easier for him? This is a blind end we've rushed up into; we've cornered ourselves."

"This is a defensible spot we'll be tarrying in only until the right time to move."

"There'll be no right time, masked man," she replied tartly, pointing down over the edge of the roof. "Look!"

∗ ∗ ∗

They could both see the Lord Investigator down below, pointing as he gave orders, his every movement swift and angry. He gestured up at them several times, then fell in behind the line of bloodcoats he'd sent trotting in their direction.

"Wouldn't it be easier to defend the top of the stairs, inside?" the halfling asked, sounding as irked as ever.

The Masked shook his head, without sparing a glance for her. "No protection against bolts or spears from below. I need the archway. And before you ask, no, I'm not some sword-swinging hero, nor a wizard who can hurl fire all night long. I'm a man who would have quite likely slept the night away peacefully if you hadn't goaded these bloodcoats and then led them right to me."

She made no reply, yet the heat of her gaze on his back was like a forge-fire.

Tarram closed the door and moved to stand between the two statues closest to the archway, undoing the cloak he'd had pinned tightly around his upper body all this time, wadding it up and stuffing it ready atop the folded arms of holy Torag, the dwarves' Lord of Creation. Then he undid the leather overflaps that kept rain out of the dagger-sheaths on his upper arms and the short sword scabbards on his lower legs, as well as keeping the weapons that lived in them secure while he was tumbling through warehouses and scrambling along rooftops. They were ready.

So now, so was he.

Drawing his favorite dagger from his belt behind his left hip, he waited. Better a small parrying fang at first, and an empty strong right hand to grapple with. Perhaps one of the first soldiers he faced would obligingly bring him a longer, stronger sword.

Abruptly the door was flung open. The first Molthuni came out onto the roof in a rush, charging with a leveled spear and a snarl. He was passing Tarram before he saw the man standing motionless among the statues—so it was child's play to give him a shove from behind that sent him over the edge, shouting in terror.

Tarram was already rolling back to the statues and up to his feet as the next two soldiers came through the archway in a rush, jabbing with their lowered spears. The one in the rear couldn't reach as far, which made it easy to parry the foremost spear and then yank on it, to tug its owner toward the statues—and into a trip and a fall over that second spear.

The Masked slammed his dagger hilt up hard under the man's jaw—low, more upper throat—and brought his other hand down on the man's neck and shoulder, wiping him face-first down the sharp, unyielding front of a carved god, sending him sprawling atop the hindmost soldier's spear. Which left that soldier scrabbling to get out his sword as Tarram trampled the first soldier in a hasty rush to reach the second soldier and slash him across the face.

The man shrieked as blood spurted, and The Masked politely relieved him of his sword and shoved him stumbling back into the next arrival through the archway.

Who almost spitted his fellow soldier, but managed at the last minute not to—at the expense of both his balance and a good parrying position. The Masked took advantage of that, hacking at the side of the man's head and then at the side of his knee. Helm ringing, the man fell heavily, and The Masked lunged over him, surprising the next soldier—another spearman—with a thrust that sunk home under the bottom of an armored tunic, up into the man's crotch.

The man screamed obligingly and writhed in the doorway, giving The Masked the time he needed to turn and rush back along the roof, kicking two downed and groaning soldiers over the edge and slamming his dagger hilt hard into the back of the third Molthuni neck. That man lay sprawled and still, and went on doing so.

The wounded soldier was clutching his crotch and moaning as he stumbled or was dragged back through the archway, but his fallen spear lay on the roof right in front of the door, an obstacle to the next attacking soldiers.

Watching the doorway, The Masked backed along the statues until he reached the angle he wanted, where a carved divinity shielded him from any bowshot. Then he stepped back between two gods and waited, dagger and new-won sword up and ready, his gaze fixed on the door.

"Gods bear witness," the halfling whispered from the next niche, "but you are a sword-swinging hero." Then she darted out of her shelter, snatched the helm off the fallen soldier's head and a dagger from his belt, and was back in her niche.

The Masked was in his niche watching the doorway, from which no new assailant had emerged. Had they taken out an entire patrol, or cowed the last few into not daring to advance?

A moment later, he had his answer. A soldier with only a drawn short sword came running out onto the roof at The Masked—and when Tarram left his niche to parry that sword, the Molthuni flung himself down on his face.

A crossbow cracked beyond the archway, and a crossbow bolt came thrumming out of it, laying open Tarram's thigh as he dove desperately back at his niche.

He roared his pain up into Torag's carved face and clutched at his cloak, trying to shake it out into a cloud in case there were a second bowman, but the pain ...

"That should slow your running," Lord Investigator Ammarand Osturr observed with cold satisfaction, as he strode out of the archway with a cocked and loaded crossbow in his hands.

"Reload the other," he snapped over his shoulder, "but hold it ready for my use. No firing."

The Masked gave him a bitter smile. "Took you long enough to catch me, Hound."

"I have a busy schedule, Armistrade," the investigator replied, halting well out of reach. "I fear you assign yourself more importance than I do."

From behind Tarram came the faintest of sounds. The Lord Investigator heard it too.

"Show yourself!" he snapped. "Whoever you are, show yourself, or I'll put a bolt through this man's face!"

He was answered by a low, gurgling moan.

Osturr's eyes narrowed, and he leaned his head to one side to peer around the statues.

A hurled halfling-sized dagger crashed into his crossbow, sending the bolt bouncing out of its channel as the bow went off, its poisoned death thrumming off into the night to strike down an astonished bird that had been cautiously wheeling to see if matters were quiet enough to return to its roost.

Osturr was still flinching in fear when the Molthuni helmet Tantaerra had salvaged came whirling out of the night to take him right across the face.

Tarram snarled, launching himself at the man who'd hunted him for so long—a snarl that became a helpless roar of pain as his wounded leg failed him, sent him stumbling amid sickening agony to fall at the very feet of the Lord Investigator.

Who'd finished lurching backward and grimacing in pain, and was now drawing a long, slender dagger from a forearm sheath.

"I've decided to dispense with your trial," the Lord Investigator spat. His arm swept up, raising the needle-dirk on high.

Tarram rolled over, trying to get his arms up in front of his face.

Luraumadar, the mask whispered insistently, sounding almost gleeful. Luraumadar, Luraumadar ...

Glittering against the stars, the dagger swept down.

Chapter Four

Treacherous Moonlight

Tantaerra sprinted hard, knowing she'd be too late. That blade would be deep in Armistrade's throat or eye socket long before—

Something moved, lightning-swift, beside the Lord Investigator. It took her a moment to realize it was one of the god statues.

By then, it had dealt its death, stabbing as swiftly as a crossbow bolt through Osturr's neck with a long, slender sword that drove him a step nearer the roof-edge with the force of its strike. His spasmodically flung needle-dirk thunked into the roof beside Tarram's head.

The Molthuni investigator struggled to stand, and to speak. "Urrkh!" he announced, waving one arm wildly.

He was choking on his own blood—and the statue on the other end of the sword was no statue at all, but a dark-garbed man whose grin and dancing brown eyes caught the moonlight for a moment as he glanced at the onrushing Tantaerra.

He must have been standing there all along, utterly motionless, so still that they'd all mistaken him for—

A chorus of angry curses arose inside the doorway, and the air was suddenly full of flung spears. And a lone, speeding crossbow bolt.

Tantaerra skidded and desperately dropped onto her back.

The statue-man flung himself down and swung the helpless, dying Osturr around like a shield, to host wetly thudding spears and deflect the bolt on into the night air. The spear-bristling Lord Investigator sagged to the roof, spewing blood from his mouth in a torrent, and the soldiers of Halidon came pounding through the archway.

Tantaerra rolled to her feet and fled back for the shelter of the statues, but never took her eyes off the battle.

The man who'd been a statue was up on his feet as swiftly as an eel slipping out of a fishmonger's grasp, and crouching with drawn daggers in both hands to await the charging soldiers behind the many-speared shelter of Osturr's body. As the soldiers parted to stream around those spears, he ducked back between the statues, slicing a man viciously behind the knee. Then he lashed out at the face of the next one, parrying a sword-slash so hard that sparks flew, and driving the dagger in his other hand deep in under the edge of a helm. That soldier spasmed and shrieked, running on blindly across the roof and right over the edge—and by then the statue-man was in among the Molthuni soldiers like a flitting shadow, slaying at every breath.

The first soldier he'd wounded was swearing as he hopped and hacked savagely at Tantaerra, keeping her too busy to watch the statue-man closely. By the time his wounded leg collapsed and she managed to stab him in the throat, the roof was strewn with dead men and the statue-man had just dragged his long needle-sword out of the Lord Investigator's neck—Osturr's head almost coming with it—and was disappearing through the doorway.

A brief, abruptly cut-off scream rang out inside the temple, lower down the stair. And then another.

Smiling grimly as it occurred to her how many empty beds there'd be in the soldiers' barracks by morning, Tantaerra promptly pounced on Osturr's body.

He was dead, all right. Her little knife wasn't needed to make sure of that. So she planted it ready in the roof beside her and swiftly plundered the man's body. The first thing she took was the forearm sheath for that needle-dirk, though it was too big for her to use as a leg-sheath, and would have to go to The Masked.

An underarm purse held only papers, one of them a commission from the General Lords that might prove useful, if anyone could be fooled into thinking Tarram Armistrade was really Ammarand Osturr, but his left boot held not just a wicked poniard better than any knife she owned, but had a hollow heel holding a neat stack of gold measures, proper Absalom minting.

His right boot held what she'd really been hoping for. A flat, slender, dainty little glass vial sheltered in its own steel sheath against breakage. The sheath bore an etched sun. A healing potion.

She almost slipped it into her neck-sack out of habit, but reluctantly turned to The Masked, lying so still behind her.

He groaned as she stepped over him, his eyes flicking back and forth behind the mask, and she took hold of its lower edge, below his chin, and peeled it back to see his face.

Then froze, wishing she hadn't.

He had no chin. Or nose. Just two eyes, blinking blearily up at her out of a smooth whorl of flesh, as if everything had flowed from his forehead down to his throat. A mouth that was a lipless slit. Something out of a nightmare ...

Her gorge rose. Swallowing hastily, she snatched the mask back down into place, and bent to look at his leg.

His hand rose weakly to pat at his face. No, at his mask. He was trying to make sure the mask was still in place.

No wonder.

Setting her teeth, Tantaerra tried to forget what she'd seen by poking her nose into the more mundane terror of his wound.

There was a lot of blood, dark and sticky and drenching the roof under him. The bolt had torn right through his thigh.

She didn't have to roll him, thankfully, to see the warhead, sticking out on the far side. She drew the sharpest of her knives, the one she kept sheathed high on the inside of her thigh, and sawed at the shaft of the bolt. He groaned, but Tantaerra kept grimly at it until she'd shorn through it and could pull the shaft back out of him.

Fresh blood gouted, and he roared in pain and slammed a fist down on the rooftop.

"Quiet," she hissed into his ear. "And drink this."

She thrust the mask back again with firm fingers, used her fingers to find and pry open his mouth, and fed the healing potion into the side of it. Within, he had a full set of teeth, in better shape than most she'd seen, and ...and he was fully awake now, looking up at her sidelong.

He relaxed with a great shudder as the pain ebbed. The magic worked fast.

"Do they have food in temples?" she asked, looking at the blood he'd leaked all over the roof.

"Shrine, this, not temple," he muttered, "so I don't know. And I thank you, Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra."

She shrugged. "We're not out of this yet, Tarram. The forest is just over there, but might as well be half of Golarion away, for all the chance we have of reaching it. With all these buildings ablaze and the streets full of soldiers who've had time to find and load their crossbows, now. The whole village is awake and watching."

"What happened?" He was sitting up and looking around the corpse-littered roof, at the Lord Investigator and all his spears in particular. "Did you—?"

"No. There was someone else up here, hiding among the statues. He killed Osturr and all those behind him, too, then fought his way back down the stair." Tantaerra gave him a long look, trying to read his masked face but seeing only that vividly remembered glimpse of his ruined flesh. "Think you can walk yet, to follow him?"

The masked man shrugged. "One way to find out. I feel better, that's for sure." He rolled away from her, up to his knees, then crawled to the nearest statue and hauled himself upright. He clung carefully to carved divine limbs as he put just a little weight on his wounded foot, winced, and took a step with it, arms outstretched to grab the next statue along. Then, limping, he went right past that statue, turned, and announced, "I'll live. Let's get gone from this place. Before—"

"Before it becomes our shared dead ending," she interrupted him. "Help me harvest any purses we can find off these bodies, will you? Quickly!"

The Masked chuckled. "Someone's feeling victorious."

"Someone's feeling practical. The one who isn't a sword-swinging, get-himself-killed, heroic dolt."

He ducked his head. "Well said. Just purses, or are you still collecting daggers?"

"Only very good ones. And put on this bracer. It's a sheath for that needle-blade—"

"That the Hound tried to kill me with. All right."

He was still buckling it onto his forearm when Tantaerra slid the blade it had been fashioned to carry firmly into place, moved her hand down to his elbow, and tugged.

"Come on. Those soldiers won't stand around down there forever."

She hustled him off the roof and down the stairs. Aside from a stiffness and obvious ache, he could walk well enough, and went down the steps in a warrior's half-crouch, the best salvaged soldier's sword ready in his hand.

Tantaerra blinked. If she'd thought they'd turned the roof into a charnel house ...

There were dead soldiers on the steps, and the main room of the shrine was awash in them. That statue-man must be even more impressive than she'd thought. There was no sign of the old priest, and no one alive in the place to challenge them, though when she skulked close to the door to peer out without showing herself, there were more than a few soldiers outside, spears or crossbows in hand, watching the shrine warily from a good distance back.

"Ready bows outside," she reported tersely. The Masked merely nodded. He had already plucked a burning log from the central fire, shielding it from eyes outside the door with his body, and started back into the rear chambers.

"Seeking a back door?" Tantaerra hissed.

"After I look for more healing, of the sort you gave me. That old man was more than a back-village priest, by his robe. He was once a high temple healer. So he should have some vials hidden away back here somewhere ...ah!"

He'd been feeling his way along the side lip of a thick-topped table, and something had just shifted under his fingers. Tarram felt for a catch, failed to find it, and in exasperation drew his dagger and slammed its pommel against the wood. Twice, thrice—and the fourth time a carving broke off and fell away, allowing his fingers into a hidden recess hollowed out of the edge of the tabletop. A deep groove, really. He used his dagger point to move three vials out into Tantaerra's waiting hands before the hiding place was empty.

"He probably won't have much more than that—not that we could find without spending the rest of the night in here. And as I see no sign of food ..."

"Let's be going," Tantaerra agreed. Then she spotted something dark in a corner of the next room. "Bring your brand over here."

What she'd seen proved to be a wet-weather overrobe with a cowl. A trifle short for Tarram, but quite different from what he'd been seen wearing around Halidon up until now, so he donned it, and they went looking for a back door.

It proved to be right where they'd expected it to be, which meant it would open out onto a close-up view of the still-blazing warehouses.

"Ready to get a bit warm?" Tarram asked.

"Being as the other way is straight into bowfire," Tantaerra replied, "yes. But let me borrow some boots first."

"They'll be far too large—"

"And I'll kick them off the moment we're not walking through flames and coals," she snapped. "If I stumble, catch me. You do want the other five silver weights, don't you?"

The Masked nodded, then carefully opened the door, keeping behind it.

Onto a view of crackling, dying flames wreathing blackened spars that were starting to lean perilously—but no shouts or hurled spears.

He stayed where he was until Tantaerra came back to him with a pair of oversized boots in her hands, and murmured, "When I was moving around well back, yonder, I could see that way, out the door. There're four or five soldiers over thereabouts, far left where we can't see them from here. They're watching the shrine, but it doesn't look like they've seen us. Yet."

"What d'you think of the fire, right ahead? Think we can make it through what's left of this nearest warehouse?"

Tantaerra looked up at him. "We'll have to, won't we?"

The Masked's blank visage somehow seemed to be smiling. "Ready?"

When she nodded, he put out one arm to bar her way and said, "Don't run. We stroll as if we've every right to be out walking, until they start shouting. Then you can start stumbling in those boots."

"And who are you to be giving orders, faceless man?" she asked him softly.

He stiffened, let his arm drop, and said gruffly, "The one you hired to help you escape, little Lady Daggertongue."

Tantaerra took a step away from him—and promptly stumbled in her loose boots.

They stared at each other for a long moment, as flames crackled outside and soldiers shouted far away down the south end of the village.

Then they both, more or less in unison, blurted out apologies. Tarram waved at the door with a courtier's grand flourish.

So Tantaerra lifted her chin, plucked up a dead soldier's short sword she'd decided to use as a walking stick, and set out on a stroll into the waiting flames.

∗ ∗ ∗

Eight slow strides, his thigh aching a little but seemingly as strong as if he'd never been wounded, nine ...had the bloodcoats gone blind? Eleven, twelve, and still no—

"Hoy! Hayyah! You! Over in the burning! Halt! I said halt!"

Striding through fallen beams and embers, Tarram raised his arm, half-turned toward the bellowing soldier, and made the flat-hand-waving-at-the-ground Molthuni military sign for "Be stealthy."

It wasn't a ruse likely to work, but if it bought them even a few moments more before some hoghead fired his crossbow ...

There were barrels ahead. Blackened and smoldering, yet a barrier against anyone aiming crossbows at them, even if they'd become brittle charcoal. And if they held liquid, they just might still be a lot sturdier than that.

Tarram tried to quicken his pace. Beside him, Tantaerra almost fell for the third time, hissed a curse, and kicked off one of her boots.

Only to promptly step on an ember and hiss a much louder curse. Words that came wreathed in a sharp, unpleasant reek of burning hair. Tarram wrinkled his nose. He'd heard the old saying many times, that roasting humans smelled like roast boar. But he lacked the words for what burnt halfling hair smelled like.

"Who are you?"

The shouting soldier again. Well, that signal had bought them more time than he'd thought it would ...

Tarram shouted something incoherent back, making his voice sound irritated and clipped, like a high-ranking officer making a reply he didn't think he should need to give. Like the Lord Investigator.

And kept right on walking, in behind the barrels now. He didn't have to look to know that Tantaerra was right beside him. She'd found it impossible to walk in just one oversized boot, had abandoned it, and was now cursing constantly under her breath. As the smell of scorched halfling grew steadily stronger.

There were real flames right ahead, leaping up like a huge campfire, over a heap of ashes that marked the corner of the warehouse. Two steps to the right to go around it, and two more to get past it, and they were through it and into a cooler area beyond, the street between this burned warehouse and the next one.

"Come on!" he hissed.

"You, too!" the halfling hissed back at him, from somewhere beneath his right elbow. "Down this street back into Halidon, yes?"

"Yes!"

They sprinted, and with every step the night grew darker. There were still lanterns, of course, but if luck stayed with them ...

It did. A lantern guttered out ahead, to the accompaniment of curses, and they were plunged into pitch darkness.

They shuffled forward, gently passing their swords back and forth in front of themselves to avoid running onto the points of any unseen spears.

The voice, when it spoke, was startlingly close. "That you, Thrykon?"

"No, soldier!" Tarram snapped, without hesitation, trying to remember the exact pitch and tone of the Lord Investigator but settling for sounding as rudely imperious as he remembered the man being. "I am Lord Investigator Osturr, and I have had about enough of the shoddy, shocking lack of discipline here in Halidon! Are you soldiers of Molthune or not? Who assigned you here? Right here, I mean! You should be over there, where the lanterns are! Can no one follow simple orders around here?"

"I—sorry, sir. I'll—sorry!" They heard the chastened bloodcoat hurry off.

"I can follow simple orders," a new and nasal voice spoke up, "and mine were to stay right here and stop anyone passing me, until Morthus himself relieved me. And being as he hasn't, and as he gave me those orders himself, I'm staying right here."

"And what, soldier, might your name be?" Tarram inquired icily, edging forward but keeping well to the left of that voice. He felt Tantaerra's hand touch his knee and stay there, so she could move with him.

And then, just as suddenly as it had vanished, the moon came sailing serenely out from behind the clouds, bathing all Halidon in its pale glow. Stars twinkled around it in a largely empty silver sky.

Tarram and a truculent short-bearded soldier found themselves facing each other across a space that was largely filled by the spear in the bloodcoat's hand.

A spear he promptly raised menacingly, falling back a step so Tarram couldn't grab at the spear shaft.

Smiling tightly, Tarram bounded forward, ducking past the spearhead, and grabbed the shaft anyway.

The soldier snarled and tried to jerk it free—and Tarram let it go, so he could lean in and slam his fist down on the man's nearest hand, where it was gripping the spear. The man shouted in pain and swung the spear away to try to keep hold of it—and Tarram punched him in the throat, then locked his arm around the soldier's neck and hauled the man down backward, slamming the back of the Molthuni's neck hard onto his waiting knee. The man convulsed in a brief frenzy of waving arms and hands clutching air ...then went limp. The fallen spear bounced and rattled.

"Stop amusing yourself and come on!" Tantaerra snapped, tugging at Tarram's arm. "The forest's only just there! Come on, you bloodthirsty boarbrain!"

Hearing pounding hooves ahead along the last street across their path, Tarram put on a gasping burst of speed and caught up to his client. Burying his fingers in her hair, he lifted her off the ground at a full run and hauled her to the left, hard.

She shrieked and spun around in his grasp with daggers flashing in both hands—so he let go, flinging her into a handy horse trough and then diving after her.

He landed beside the trough in a rich layer of fresh horse manure, reached into the heart of the splashing, grabbed hold of her, and snatched her out again. Slamming her hard against his chest to drive the wind out of her and quell any shouts before she made them, he rolled under a wagon.

There was a long, long line of carts and wagons drawn up down this last street. The forest they'd been trying for was an enticing four strides or so away, across the muddy road, but the soldiers of Molthune were determined to catch the two fugitives, and were even now thundering past the wagon.

"That way! Make sure they don't get past you!" a bloodcoat shouted. "Hrandel, bide here in case they're behind one of these doors and try to dart out later! The rest of you, with me!"

More hooves, the main din moving on along the street and away into the distance.

Lying on his back trying not to pant loudly, holding his client very gently now and trying to ignore the fire in the glare she was giving him, Tarram listened hard. If they thought to bend down and look ...

"What an idiot," a rough voice said disgustedly, before spitting into the dirt not a hand-width away from Tarram's leg.

"Aye," another bloodcoat agreed. "Some stupid mother wasted a lot of time and food on that one. Always galloping after glory, all shouting this and ordering that and look at me, I'm so important ..."

"They're gone, those two. A halfling and a masked man, still hiding in Halidon? I think not. Six streets one way and four the other, and the moon showing us every roof; where does he think they're hiding?"

"He hasn't got to thinking yet. He's too busy being all shocked that the two of them murdered the Lord Investigator."

"Which means we have to hunt them down and kill them, mind—because once word reaches Canorate that their precious investigator's been killed, it'll be our necks if we haven't brought down his slayers."

That brought a groan. "You're saying we're going to have to search every last damned house in Halidon. I knew it. Poking into reeking privies and dirty clothes that don't smell much better while the owners stand there glaring at us, hating us with their every breath for invading their homes, and I can't say as I blame them. Why can't murderers just stick to the streets when they're running, so we can ride them down tidily? Why do they always have to try to hide and lurk?"

"Because they're as fond of their necks as we are of ours, that's why. Gods look down, Braerve, sometimes I think you're as dense as yon post."

"Aye, you spoke truth for once, Larl: sometimes, you think."

"You looking for this spear in your eye?"

"By accident, you mean? The way you 'accidentally' tripped Arjon down the watchtower stairs?"

"Why, you—"

"If you two stalwarts are quite finished threatening each other," a new voice snapped from farther down the street, "there are some wagons here that need searching. In, under, and atop every one of them, and may I remind you we're looking for a shorter-than-most halfling, probably female, and a tall and rather thin man wearing a mask—or, if he's taken it off, someone with an untanned face who's a stranger in Halidon. Work together, starting with that wagon, and moving that way. And remember: I'll be watching."

That brought a sullen pair of "sirs" in reply, and the squeal of an opening coach door.

Followed, a moment later, by Tarram's client jerking free of his hold and clambering off him, to vanish into the night in a rustle of disturbed weeds.

He tried to twist his head around to see where she was going. She'd said not a word. A horse stamped, leather creaked, and there were some firm footfalls on wagon floors. A sagging cart groaned under sudden weight.

"Say, now," Braerve said suddenly, "there's food in this one! Crocks full of eggs, and this has to be fish, in oil, and—"

There was deep, metallic sound, as if a pot had struck something solid, then silence.

"Braerve? Braerve?" Larl snapped, sounding scared.

The metallic sound was more of a ringing, this time.

Silence.

As it stretched, Tarram rolled over as quietly as he could, and waited tensely under the wagon.

"Tarram?" That was Tantaerra's voice. "Tarram?"

He said not a word, but crawled in the direction of her voice, rising up warily in the lee of the next wagon with one of his short swords ready.

To find himself looking into the eyes of the halfling. "Carrying this crock of eggs is beyond me," she told him, tossing aside a skillet that had blood and tufts of hair on it, "but if we take any of the fish they'll smell us miles off. So if you'd care to do some lifting ..."

"What about that bloodcoat who said he'd be watching?"

"He's watching from down the far end of the street, past those lanterns, where there seems to be beer. Now are you going to carry these eggs across this road into that damned forest, or not?"

Tarram found himself grinning. "I'll carry."

Chapter Five

City of Vipers

If I have to eat all these raw eggs," Tarram muttered, "I'm going to have the runs for days. Nonstop, rather aromatic days."

Tantaerra grinned. "All the more for me, then. So catch us something palatable we can eat raw."

"Such as?"

"Giant dewworms are nice."

Tarram's gorge rose. "To a halfling, perhaps, but...really? You truly like giant dewworms?"

"Only in the right sort of stew, with lots of leeks and pepper. Though they go down well seared in a fire, slaked in ox- or cow-drippings. If you have ox- or cow-drippings."

"Fascinating," Tarram pronounced, with the most devastating sarcasm he could muster. "I'll freely admit that halfling cuisine is lore I've sadly neglected ...but it's lore I rather thought would stay neglected, on my part. And the more I learn of it, the more I'm convinced it deserves my enthusiastic neglect."

"Really? How fitting," his client shot back, as they ducked under the fourteen thousandth—or was it fourteen thousandth and first?—low horizontal tree bough. "As that's about what I've received from you since we left Halidon. Enthusiastic neglect."

"What? Princess, I have fought for you; run for you; robbed a shrine for you; faced a damned Lord Investigator for you; burned down three warehouses, any one of which has assuredly brought a 'slay on sight' order down on my head ...all for you. This is neglect?"

"I did say 'enthusiastic,' masked man. And I'm not a princess. I'm—"

"Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra, I know. Sharp-tongued escaped slave, possessed of the pride of a princess."

"Are my ears failing me? Am I actually hearing a human accuse a halfling of pride? When all Golarion knows humans are walking bundles of arrogant presumption? Loud arrogant presumption?"

"Hey, lady, you hired me! I'm your walking bundle!"

Tantaerra's reply was short, pungent, and unprintable. They gave each other glares that quickly fell into wry grins and turned back to wearily stalking through the forest.

A branch snapped. "Oww!" the halfling said. She cursed, then added sourly, "Remind me again why we have to tramp along the edge of the forest in the dead of night when anything could be prowling out here, hunting us. I'm tired, and we're well clear of Halidon."

"Yes, but we haven't found the caravan yet."

"What caravan?"

"The one that dropped me off in Halidon," The Masked said, "then kept going. Because the caravan master, Halvran, is far too cheap to camp overnight in a place that'll charge him fees for its paddocks and water and such, when there are streams and grazing and space free for the taking out ahead of us somewhere. He had some lumber business to be transacted directly hereabouts, then is headed for Braganza."

"And if Halvran is too cheap to camp at all, and just kept going?"

"Well," Tarram growled, "if we keep on walking in this direction, Braganza shouldn't be more than seven or eight days away. Now quiet."

"Oh? Why, exactly?"

"Because I can still hear bloodcoats from Halidon blundering along far behind us, which means they can hear us. And because yon fires ahead mean someone encamped—and if they happen to be Molthuni soldiers, I'd rather they didn't see and stop us before we know who they are and can slip past them."

Tantaerra peered through the brush ahead of her, ducking this way and that, and finally espied a tiny moving point of light. Flame. "Oh, to be taller," she muttered, far more quietly. "So say yon fires are this Halvran of yours—what then?"

"I pay him handsomely, and he gives us space in the same wagon I was riding in before," Tarram told her.

"And when the bloodcoats arrive in his camp and start searching for us?"

"I promise Halvran far more coin to keep us hidden—delivered when we get safely to Braganza—than any bloodcoat will ever pay him," he told her smugly. "And Halvran, who's no fool and values his repeat customers—I happen to be one of them—considers how much more he'll make from years ahead of dealing with a still-living client than whatever he'll get, most likely nothing, for handing us over, and ..."

He spread his hands expressively.

"So just how does a man from afar who wears a mask come to be a repeat customer of a pinchcoin caravan master in Molthune?" the halfling asked, tilting her head sidelong as she regarded him.

Tarram gave her a shrug. "A story for another day. When we know each other rather better than we do now."

"When we trust each other more, you mean," she said softly.

Hearing the bitterness in her voice, he gave her no words, only a silent nod.

∗ ∗ ∗

"Here they come," Tantaerra muttered. "I hope you bought Halvran's trust handsomely enough."

The masked man shrugged. "Here's where we stop talking and listen," he whispered in her ear, falling still behind the heap of blankets that walled them into one rather stuffy corner of a crammed wagon.

"Stand!" they heard Halvran roar. "Not a stride closer, or we'll start putting crossbow bolts in faces!"

"We're soldiers of Molthune, from Halidon, in pursuit of two escaped fugitives, and we demand—"

An old, crude crossbow fired with a sharp crack and rattle.

"The next one will be in your face," Halvran warned. "I see no soldiers of Molthune, only a bunch of brigands who come rushing out of the night, wearing bloodcoat soldiers' uniforms to lull honest, loyal Molthuni into letting them get inside their defenses. So just who are you to be demanding anything? This is a mixed-goods caravan, with all proper permits and passes, not slaver-wagons! So we have no fugitives here! Now, be off with you, or I'll make a report in Braganza that'll cut short some shining careers right quick, I will!"

"Show us your permits and passes, and who's traveling in this caravan, and we'll—"

"Stand back, or you'll be playing pincushions, that's what you'll be doing!"

"Caravan master, we're seeking a halfling, shorter than most, and a tall man wearing a mask, and if we're not allowed to search your wagons, there'll be—"

"Enough!" a new voice snapped, from just outside their wagon.

Tantaerra and the masked man she'd hired exchanged looks. They knew that voice.

"Worm your way out there to where you can make sure it's the man from the temple roof in Halidon," The Masked muttered. "But make damned sure you don't get seen."

"As you command," she told him sardonically, and set out to do just that.

She was in time to see it was indeed the brown-eyed man.

"Loyal soldiers of Molthune," he was saying, as he stood among the wagons with a lantern high in one hand and something small held up in his other palm, "do you recognize this badge? Do you know what it means?"

A little silence fell, ere one of the bloodcoats from Halidon said sullenly, "No."

"Well, you should know it. Lord Investigator Osturr showed some of you—or your superiors—one just like it, earlier today. It proclaims me a Lord Investigator from Canorate, reporting directly to the General Lords. As such, I outrank all of you, and everyone back in Halidon—and I am hereby ordering all of you to return there. Right now, and with no sly deceit nor continued pursuit. I am traveling with this caravan, and if there are any fugitives hiding in it, I'll find them. Now go."

"But—"

"But nothing," the self-proclaimed Lord Investigator said coldly. "Your work is guarding Halidon, not chasing fugitives across half Molthune. That's my work."

∗ ∗ ∗

"It's him, all right," the halfling hissed, "though I couldn't get a good look at the badge he was holding, or I'd have been seen."

Tarram snorted. "Never mind. They don't carry badges, and he's no Lord Investigator."

"Oh, and you can be so sure how, exactly? It very much looks to me as if he slipped into this caravan to get to us. How exactly are we going to hide from him, all the way to Braganza?"

"We stay right here with our raw eggs—and the food Halvran has promised to bring—not budging from this wagon, and we take turns sleeping, one of us awake and on watch at all times. That should work, if he doesn't set fire to the wagon."

"If. As we've started with the 'ifs,' be aware that if we somehow make it to Braganza unharmed, I'll be expecting you to rent me a palace with a hall set for a feast."

By way of reply, Tarram demonstrated that he knew a rude gesture common among halflings.

"Sir! I'm shocked, simply shocked!" Tantaerra plucked an egg from the crock, cracked it, and deftly swallowed the contents.

Tarram rolled his eyes, and that made her giggle. He did it again.

She turned suddenly solemn. "The man's dangerous, remember?"

"So am I," Tarram purred.

She rolled her own eyes. "Idiot."

∗ ∗ ∗

The minutes passed slowly. After several hours with no incidents, Tarram decided that not only could he probably sleep now, but that staying awake for a few yawns more might be nigh impossible.

"Will you take first watch?" he asked his client.

When there was no reply, he opened one eye for a proper look at her—it took a real effort—and discovered that she was no longer an alert and armed halfling poised for battle in their blanket-walled corner of a wagon, but rather a shockingly small huddled heap.

"Tantaerra?" he murmured.

Silence. Gods, it was like traveling with a puppy. Snap at you one moment, and fast asleep the next. And she was so tiny. Like a little prancing doll.

Louder, closer: "Tantaerra?"

The only answer he got was a small but emphatic snore.

Smiling, Tarram fell back and let his eyes close.

Luraumadar, the voice of the mask greeted him gently. It sounded faintly amused. Luraumadar.

Well, at least there were some things in his increasingly dangerous life he could depend on.

Luraumadar.

∗ ∗ ∗

Wagon wheels echoed off the looming stones overhead. Then Tantaerra and The Masked were through the great arched gate and inside Braganza.

All around them grand buildings soared up into the sky. Somewhere behind them stood the gate guardians: a dozen cold-eyed and bright-helmed Watchswords. The city's armored soldier-police wore the scarlet tabards of Molthune emblazoned on their left shoulders with the arms of Braganza, the crossed sword and hammer of the realm bisected by the upright gold key of Abadar the Banker God. The officers also wore armbands emblazoned with the same badge, and The Masked had quietly warned Tantaerra that the Watchguard of Braganza was far more competent than the garrison of Halidon had been. Remembering Canorate, Tantaerra didn't doubt that.

Ahead, the foremost wagons rumbled along a broad but dusty cobbled street littered with sawdust, odd cuts of wood, and broken roof-tiles. Soaring up on all sides were magnificent, many-balconied buildings. No matter where she looked, Tantaerra could see nothing less than four floors high.

Braganza was nothing like as large as Canorate, but these buildings were tall, clean, and new. Every last one of them, new!

"You're gawking," the masked man muttered warningly beside her. "Even if you came from Nirmathas, you've seen tall buildings before."

"So this is Braganza," Tantaerra replied softly, still trying to peer at everything at once. "Everything's so new and grand."

"And most of it stands empty. They build here to the glory of Abadar, not because it's a sensible spending of coin, or because there're enough citizens to fill all these mansions."

Tantaerra was still shaking her head at the soaring towers. Wherever one looked, carved archways and pediments. Turrets and spires and columns sculpted to look like heroic Molthuni warriors. All this must cost a fortune ...

"Indulge me," she murmured. "I've never been here before."

"I have," The Masked replied darkly. "With luck, they won't remember me. But luck and I seldom dance together."

The streets were choked with open wagons piled high with fresh lumber, dressed blocks of stone, and suntanned laborers with pulleys and ropes and crates of tools. The caravan had slowed to a crawl, wagons turning off at almost every cross street.

"Splitting up," Tantaerra murmured. "You know where we're heading, I suppose?"

"If I didn't," The Masked told her wryly, "I'd stand a rather small chance of getting there, wouldn't I?" He pointed down the street ahead. "See the sign of the cask? Remember it; not a good tavern, but one we could meet at, later, if mischance splits us up. It's called Ferkel's—Ferkel's Flagonhouse, actually, but folk will think you a tax collector if you use its full name."

"Got it," Tantaerra replied, with a calmness she didn't feel. "So tell me, where're we bound?"

"Down and out of this wagon, when we reach the right alley. That's why I wanted you to gather that sack together—we'll probably have to scramble, if we don't want to spend the rest of our first day in Braganza being chased by Watchswords."

"We don't," Tantaerra agreed dryly. "There do seem to be a lot of them."

"Armed vigilance is the Molthuni way," The Masked replied. "And bored armed vigilantes go looking for trouble, or make their own. Wherefore all the heavy-booted street patrols and suspicion. There are also nobles in this city who've taken feuding to the heights of art. Wherefore heavier patrols, and more suspicion."

"You paint such a welcoming picture of Braganza," Tantaerra said bitingly. "Don't you like it here?"

"Little tyrant, leave off for a bit, will you? I crave a certain unity of purpose right now—and some quiet in which to think."

The wagon promptly hit a pothole where a cobble had split. It rocked with a growl of protesting wheels, loud groans of wood trying to flex in two directions at once, and more than a few snorts from the oxen; Tantaerra almost had to shout to be heard over it all as she replied, "Quiet, of course! Here you go, offered gladly!"

The Masked growled wordlessly—and plunged out of the wagon, hauling her and the sack with him.

"Come!" he hissed in her ear. "Quick and quiet! No talking!"

The wagon groaned on its way as they left it behind, scrambling down the alleyway.

Out of long habit Tantaerra looked back, seeing wagon after rumbling wagon passing, then glanced up at the buildings that hemmed the alleyway in, looking for anyone watching out of windows or perched on a rooftop.

Almost immediately, with a sudden chill, she caught sight of a face peering at her from a high window. A brown-eyed face she knew. Their eyes met—and the face was gone.

It was the man who'd been on the shrine rooftop in Halidon.

"Dung," Tantaerra cursed under her breath, striding on down the alley but staring hard at the building that the window he'd just vacated was part of, so she'd be able to find it again. Green tiles, two slanting drainpipes, and—

"Ho! You! Boy!"

The voice was coming from behind her, and held the snap of command. A Watchsword. She'd bet all the coin she had.

"Stop! Stop in the name of Lord Ravnagask! The Watchguard commands you!"

Ah, being right was such fun.

"Split up," The Masked murmured. "Go." Then he turned and disappeared down an almost invisible side-alley.

Not bothering to look back—doing so would probably let her pursuer know she was a halfling, and not male to boot—Tantaerra burst into a sprint, heading down the alley for the nearest sturdy drainpipe.

"Stop! Stop, thief!"

Good, go right on bellowing, Tantaerra thought. Robs you of air and tells me just how far back you are. Far enough that I've ample time to get up to that roof before you can lay hands on the drainpipe.

Back in Canorate, she'd once encountered a guard who'd had no hesitation at all in trying to tear a downspout off a building to bring down a certain halfling scrambling up it. He'd managed it, too, though not before she'd reached a balcony and let go. It was to be hoped that these Watchswords of Braganza weren't quite so reckless, but as the old saying went, "Never trust a lawkeeper. They use laws like shields and swords and snares, all three."

And so they did—if they were swift enough. By the approaching sounds of panting and thudding boots below, this one wasn't.

"Stop! In the name of—"

Tantaerra left the drainpipe behind and set out along the roof. It was older and steeper than the last one, its tiles slippery in spots and rough in others. She resisted the temptation to look back until she'd leaped to the next roof, and scrambled around behind a dormer. Let the Watchguard look for a small boy, not a halfling.

The drainpipe was rattling behind her now, and she could hear snarls of rising rage.

Well enough, she thought. Destroy someone else's building, and I'll just be on my way. Over the roof-ridge, and down the backslope to leap to the topmost balcony of a soaring whitestone mansion with carved roosting eagles everywhere and drainpipes galore, descending between more balconies than she had time to tarry and count.

Ah, but it felt good to be prancing acrobatically among rooftops and spires again, like a little bird.

Too good. Unfamiliar city, chased by the local swords of the law already, and separated from her hired protector. Not wise.

Best get back to The Masked as soon as she could. Without leading the Watchswords right to him, of course. He knew Braganza. Well, perhaps not its rooftops, but—

The whitestone mansion was new and grandiose but not all that well built. In its facings and ornamental ramparts there were cracks even the clumsiest hod carrier could cling to, to say nothing of fissures a halfling could store a fine meal in.

Tantaerra resisted the impulse to explore and peer in through windows. The chimneys looked clean and long cold, so the place was probably uninhabited. Which meant it might make a suitable den to sleep or hide in, if such became necessary.

Thanks to the way the alley ran, The Masked must have headed that way, and from what she'd seen of him in their admittedly short time together, he'd have turned off the alley at his first opportunity, probably to the right, there, so as to still be hastening to Ferkel's but by a different route, so his spine would itch a little less in anticipation of speeding crossbow bolts.

Which meant her best road on was to leap swiftly to the next rooftop, over it to the dunstone mansion with the overblown facade but a much smaller, lower roof behind it, then start seeking drainpipes that could serve as swift ladders down.

She cast a swift look back, to make sure no Watchsword with a crossbow had reached a nearby rooftop. Nothing.

No, nothing at all. Empty dark windows, ornamental spires and carved gargoyles and glorious round full-leaded panes ...all empty, all for show. She was alone among the upperworks of deserted, new-built grandeur, with no sign of any nearby lofty watch post from which the Watchsword could look down across the city.

Well, not that she'd been expecting such. Pigeons were perhaps the only inhabitants of Molthune not viewed by the authorities with suspicion. The eyes of authority would be lower down, where men had footing enough to carry heavy chests of coins—and sharp swords.

Tantaerra turned, made a swift leap, and let loose a growl as she headed for the overblown facade.

She'd just decided she hated Braganza.

The roof behind the facade did nothing to change that opinion. Its tiles were new, and of the heaviest, most expensive thrice-glazed sort, but hadn't been dogged down properly. Several spun free under her landing to slide and clatter down the roofslope.

Abadar-damned fake city.

She dared not move that fast if these soaring mansions were all so hastily and sloppily built. Braganza in a gale must be a deathtrap for anyone on a roof or balcony, if tiles and shingles, trim and all, were loose enough to go whirling about.

Yes, a gold-fisted deathtrap, to be sure. Yet she'd seen no pattern of missing tiles and slates, gaping cracks or missing windows. Perhaps Braganzan builders were like masons just about everywhere, doing a sturdy shell but leaving little touches—like securing things properly, and sealing out the wet and the burrowing furry things wanting warmth in winter—for the occupants who came after to either pay someone to see to, or suffer. And as all of the buildings flanking this alley seemed empty ...

She was four roofs beyond that dunstone facade now, and moving more quickly. She could see a tricky stretch ahead, with a very steep roof plunging to gutters that looked more ornamental than sturdy. A dodge right would avoid it entirely, but take her farther west than she wanted to go.

Along this ridgepole, then, keeping low and ready to lean right if a fall began, so her tumble would be down those shingles to that scaffolding, where there'd be ropes and projecting boards galore to catch and cling to. She leaped—

The drop was just a little longer than she'd thought it would be, and her own knees caught her belly and chest, driving the wind out of her.

Which meant she was staggering and gasping as The Masked—trudging along an alleyway with a casual air that fell away like a cloak as he whirled, sword flashing up—spun to face her.

"The man from Halidon!" she gasped. "He saw us leave the wagons!"

The Masked nodded. "Forget Ferkel's, then—if he's been spying on us, he might have heard where we're headed. We'll try another place I know. Not my first choice, but..." He grabbed her shoulder, pushing her into a run. "Come on. After me, quick now!"

∗ ∗ ∗

"I thought we were going to another inn!"

"We are," The Masked responded testily, kicking open the boarded-up doorway of an abandoned construction site. "But like I said, it's one I know to be safe—which means that if this man following us has done his research, he might expect me to try for it. Which is why we need to disguise you."

"Me?" Tantaerra grumbled. "I hardly think that I'm the more recognizable one of us."

"Precisely. That's why you're going in to scout it out, and I'm going to wait in the shadows. Now come on."

She followed him into a large, dark room. It felt empty, as if noises made here would echo through chamber upon deserted chamber, abandoned by mice and rats because there was nothing at all to eat. It was too dark to see properly, but Tantaerra could make out archways and a staircase, far away across a cold, dusty marble floor.

The Masked held the door board partway open, creating a patch of lighter gloom, and beckoned her into it. He reached into a pocket, then dropped its contents into her hand.

"An eye patch?" Tantaerra scoffed, looking down at the bit of cloth. "This is your clever disguise?"

"Better than letting your real face be seen and remembered."

"While drawing the attention of every non-pirate in the place," she shot back. "Here. Watch."

She dug into her own pockets and withdrew several smooth river pebbles she'd picked up days before—it always paid to have a few throwing pebbles handy. These she tucked into her cheeks, changing the shape of her face. Then she reached down through the open door, adding smears of alley-grime near her temples, shadowing to make her head seem narrower. Grimacing, she used an even larger dollop to slick back and darken her hair, then doffed her top and turned it inside out to reveal a different hue entirely before putting it back on.

"How about it?" she asked.

The Masked stared at her. Was that admiration in his eyes? "You've done this before," he said.

"Halflings are good at avoiding notice," Tantaerra said. "It's why we make such good slaves—we're that much easier to overlook. But sometimes it works to our advantage."

The Masked bowed and swept out a hand. "I defer to your expertise, princess."

She snorted and moved back through the door. "Just point me to the inn, all right?"

∗ ∗ ∗

The crowded, warm din of Harl's Hearth was everything she'd expected, from the sodden rushes on the floor to the reek of beer, unwashed bodies, and faint gutspew. She ducked purposefully to the left the moment she was inside, as if she knew where she was heading, had business here, and didn't care who saw that. She took care to lurch a little with each stride like a forge-weary dwarf, and pointed her nose at the floor, keeping her face down.

The Hearth was elbow-to-shoulder full of men and women who all seemed to feel the need to bellow into the faces of comrades they were nose to nose with. Through this deafening din, out of the corners of her eyes, Tantaerra caught sight of faces peering watchfully over tankards everywhere. Not a few hard glances were being sent at anyone coming in the front door.

So a room full of hard drinkers who expected trouble and were watching for it.

They were all human, too. Even with her disguise, Tantaerra stood out as vividly as if she'd been painted green and stuck on a raised stage. Numerous pairs of eyes sized her up—but not the familiar brown ones she was looking for.

Tantaerra nodded toward the kitchens, as if she'd just received a signal from someone that direction, and scuttled for the door.

The Masked was busy being a patient statue in the darkest spot in the alley.

"No sign of him," Tantaerra murmured, as she spat out her throwing pebbles.

At that moment, the scullery door opened and two tavernmen muscled a drunkard larger than they were out into the alley.

"Gods spit, Agris, but you get heavier every night," one puffed, as they staggered over to a wall and dropped their belching, mumbling burden against it.

The drunk sagged to the unclean cobbles. "'S all th' drink y' sell me," he murmured. "'S heavy."

The two tavernmen grunted and returned to the door.

"Proper city of vipers, this is!" the drunkard groaned, to the cobbles his nose was pressed against. "Wrest a man's drink from his hand before he's found the bottom of it!"

The door slammed, and Tantaerra heard the thud of the door bar landing in its cradles, followed by a rattle of chain.

A city of vipers. Tantaerra found herself agreeing with the man.

She followed The Masked farther back into the alley's shadows. "So now what?"

"Now we wait," The Masked said. "Perhaps we just beat him here. If so, better to see him enter from here than meet him after we've holed up and cornered ourselves."

"Hmph," Tantaerra sniffed, but huddled down against the grimy wall to wait.

∗ ∗ ∗

"No. Absolutely not."

"I'm afraid it's the best idea I have."

"Putting me in a sack?" Tantaerra raged. "You need to start having some better ideas."

They were back in the abandoned construction site. They'd watched Harl's Hearth for several hours as the patrons gradually staggered or were carried out. When at last the common room closed down for the night, with still no sign of their mysterious tail, The Masked declared himself satisfied, and took them back to their staging ground to prepare his own disguise.

Which apparently consisted of sticking Tantaerra in a sack and pretending she was his grossly fat belly.

"I'll suffocate in there!" she pressed.

"As someone who's breathed through sacks on many occasions," The Masked said wryly, tapping his mask, "I can guarantee that you won't. And anyone looking for us will be looking for a thin man and a halfling, not a single hugely fat man."

"And you don't think your mask might be what they're looking for?"

In response, The Masked turned away and withdrew something from a pocket inside his shirt. When he turned back, his mask was covered by a fired-putty replica of a face, like those sometimes used by actors. He pulled his hood lower, and in the shadows beneath it the face looked almost real.

"I guess it's the best we can do," Tantaerra said slowly.

"It is," The Masked said firmly. "And if this takes much longer, it will be morning, and this won't work at all. Then maybe you can distract people by playing the role of my pet. On a leash."

"Don't push me, masked man."

"Wouldn't dream of it. I hear halflings bite."

Tantaerra gave him a dirty look. "Just give me the damned sack."

The cloth was actually closer to netting, and surprisingly smooth against Tantaerra's skin, allowing plenty of airflow. She could even see through it, after a fashion. As The Masked slung her over his shoulders, hanging her down across his chest and stomach, she said, "Leave a couple of buttons open as long as you can, hey?

"Of course."

Then they were back out in the alley again: one large-bellied man trudging wearily home, probably with a drink or two aboard.

The sway of his walk was hypnotic. Tantaerra suddenly felt very tired, too weary to even object to her circumstances. The bumping wasn't as bad as she'd feared, and she found she rather liked the smell of the man she was now pressed against. Though if he didn't bathe in the next day or so ...

Sooner than she'd expected, they were pounding on the door of Harl's Hearth, demanding service. The Masked had left a single button undone, and through it Tantaerra could fuzzily glimpse a panel in the door sliding open, a suspicious eye glaring through it.

"Yes?" the eye asked suspiciously.

"A room, if you have one. Private, with a bed—and a large window, that opens. No stabling needed."

"We're closed up for the night."

"I can see that," The Masked said smoothly. "But I assure you I can make it worth your while."

"Show coin."

The Masked did so.

"Mere or Tel?"

There was only the briefest of pauses, and then The Masked said, "I'm afraid I'm from afar, and don't know what that means."

Silence fell and stretched.

"I think I remember you," the man on the other side of the panel said slowly. "You stayed here years back. At least twice. Before things got ...as they are now."

Tantaerra could tell by the shifting movement that The Masked had nodded.

"It means," the innkeeper explained, "are you for Mereir, or Telcanor?"

"The Telcanors I've heard of. So, two large and wealthy city families at odds?"

"Bitter rivals. To the point of fighting each other in alleys, or more often setting hired swords to fighting. Nigh everyone in Braganza is loyal to one or the other."

"So are you for Mereir or Telcanor?"

The eye behind the panel favored The Masked with a cold look. "Mereir. Of course."

The climb to the room was a long one, up old and narrow stairs, through a house that was either sleeping soundly or more likely had few guests staying this night. The room was small and spartan, but had, as promised, a large window that could be opened onto a sloping roof—if one didn't mind disturbing a dozen or so seemingly incontinent pigeons.

"No fires, for any reason," the innkeeper ordered, silently gesturing coin after coin from The Masked's palm into his own until a rather stiff sum had been reached. He evidently judged his late-hours patron to be someone on the run, or in great need of shelter. In this, he was, of course right.

With a silent wave at a basin and ewer that turned into pointing at a battered chamber pot under the bed, Harl withdrew.

The Masked went to the window so he could whisper to Tantaerra, "Keep silent. He hasn't moved away from the door yet."

She patted his stomach through the sack to let him know she'd heard, and held her peace. The Masked examined the bed and then the room's lone chair, settling onto it with a groan worthy of the weariest of travelers.

That seemed to satisfy the master of the Hearth, whose departure they could hear as a series of faint, increasingly distant creakings.

The Masked went and slid the whittled peg on its length of twine through the hasp that would keep the door closed, presuming nothing stronger than a feeble child tried to get through it.

Then he unbuttoned, went to the bed, and eased off clothing and sack to let Tantaerra out.

She stretched like a cat, wincing at sudden aches in one thigh and the opposing shoulder, then grabbed at her nose to keep from sneezing as dust rose from the bed like a drifting ghost.

She was still struggling not to erupt when there was a sudden sharp knock on the door.

"Open up, in the name of Braganza!" a voice firm with authority thundered.

Chapter Six

Swords in the Night

Tantaerra wasted no time in cursing, but made for the window, sneezing hard—only to find three grim-faced men had appeared outside on the roof. Heavily armored and menacing, they held hand crossbows. Cocked, loaded, and pointed at her.

She skidded to a halt, then sighed and waved at The Masked to open the door.

He did so.

In the narrow passage outside, bearing a hooded lantern that gave off even less light than the innkeeper's lone-candle lamp had done, was a grand-looking armored warrior with half a dozen armored fellows at his shoulders—all aiming more loaded hand crossbows past him at The Masked.

"Yes?" The Masked asked gently. "Can I help you?"

The man took a step forward. The Masked held his ground.

The man took another step forward, bringing them chest to chest, almost brushing noses.

"I am here," he announced grandly, "to recruit you."

His gaze slid to Tantaerra, now standing truculently on the bed with hands on hips, face half-hidden behind netting. "Both."

"Recruit us into—or for—what?" she asked boldly.

The warrior regarded her for a moment, then turned back to The Masked.

"It talks," he told the masked man, almost resentfully.

"It's something of a princess," The Masked told him calmly. "Recruit us for—?"

"To stand with House Mereir."

"Ah. Mereir or Telcanor, I see. The problem is, I don't see."

"We don't see," Tantaerra corrected crisply.

The warrior frowned. "Your deaths would be regrettable," he murmured, "seeing as they could be avoided ..."

"Sir," Tantaerra said quickly, before The Masked could speak again, "we know Molthune to be a land of order, and of law. In that spirit, we'll agree to nothing until we know what we're agreeing to. Before standing with House Mereir, we insist on being told what's going on in Braganza."

"Indeed," The Masked continued smoothly, as Tantaerra's breath ran out. "We are successful traders, able to sway many allies—other traders, across Golarion—to the side of Mereir. Yet we won't do so unless we understand the true state of affairs here in Braganza. Do not all Braganzans obey the Imperial Governor, and the General Lords?"

The grand warrior's face tightened. "But of course."

"What, then," The Masked asked, "does Lord Cole Ravnagask think of this rivalry?"

"Lower your bows," the warrior ordered curtly over his shoulder, ere asking politely, "May I come in?"

The Masked bowed and stepped back, waving him into the room.

Tantaerra shot her hireling a dubious look, but the warrior's entrance did bring him within reach, where he could be snatched to serve as a shield if bolts started whizzing about.

"You request answers, so permit me candor," the warrior began, stepping past them to the far end of the room. Turning to face them, he hung his lantern from a ceiling-hook obviously intended for that purpose, raised his hands, and launched into what sounded like a speech he'd given many times before.

"There have arisen," he announced, "two rival families in Braganza—ambitious, capable, and militarily accomplished, risen in power far above others. I speak of the houses of Mereir and Telcanor, who hate each other heartily. Yet many of both families detest and despise Lord Cole Ravnagask still more. As do most Braganzans, if truth be told. The Lord of Braganza is widely thought to be ...crazed."

"Because?" Tantaerra prompted.

The warrior raised a quelling hand, and went on. "Though workers hired by Mereir and Telcanor do most of the ceaseless construction work ordered by the Lord of Braganza, and so enrich both houses, we and the Telcanors both see Ravnagask's mania for building as an endless leeching of the wealth and power of Braganza. How is Holy Abadar exalted by this raising of empty grandeur? The dust and din, the streets closed or cluttered with wagons and building stone, all this wasted work ...it drains our wealth, and robs Braganza of its rightful greatness and preeminence in Molthune."

"So if Mereir and Telcanor are agreed about this, what is there to choose between them?" Tantaerra asked, trying to sound bewildered rather than letting any hint of her rising anger into her voice.

The warrior frowned. "No one who dwells or toils in Braganza can be neutral. Those who claim to stand with neither Mereir nor Telcanor face the ire of both, and last not long. So let me acquaint you with the bright nobility of House Mereir—and the bottomless villainy of the Telcanors."

Tantaerra bent forward as if eager to hear every word, and saw The Masked doing the same. Like her, he was really shifting so they could trade silent glances with each other.

They were well and truly trapped. If they wanted to live to see morning, they would have to convincingly declare themselves for Mereir.

The grand warrior was a good, stirring speaker, and wasted little time in recounting the staunch and patriotic loyalty of House Mereir and the cynical falsity of the rival Telcanors, who would do or say anything to gain more coin and wielded their power in petty ways, like a cruel slaver fond of the whip.

It was some time before he ran out of breath and florid phrases—and Tantaerra lost no time in loudly and firmly declaring herself for Mereir, trying to sound deeply inspired. The Masked echoed her with a hasty urgency that seemed to convince the warrior that he'd truly won them both over.

"So the city shall know we stand with House Mereir?" Tantaerra asked, one hand raised to her breast and throat as she'd seen Canorate's aristocratic ladies do, to demonstrate that they were so moved as to be on the verge of swooning.

The grand warrior bowed low to her. "Indeed, youn—er, exquisite lady. Well before first light, I assure you."

"Good, good," The Masked said heartily. "Yet pray tell us, sir—by the Master of the First Vault, I don't even know your name—why us? Surely not every newcomer to your city receives this welcome."

"No," the man admitted. "Indeed, educating travelers, or even conscripting the lower classes, is rarely worth the effort. Yet the most perspicacious innkeeper downstairs recognized you from one of your previous stays as a man of ...particular talents, shall we say, and informed us of your presence, so that we might persuade you to stand with House Mereir."

"Ah," said The Masked flatly, losing some of his boisterous persona. "And perhaps you could tell us exactly what standing with House Mereir entails?"

"Of course," the warrior replied. "This—" He made a very brief and swift gesture with three fingers. "—signals you are of Mereir. Whereas this—" He made a far different curving, slicing gesture. "—is the mark of Telcanor. You must not do business with anyone of Telcanor, and aren't to consort with them or even converse with them. Be aware that Braganzans know who stands with whom, and will be watching you to make sure—"

The Mereir recruiter broke off abruptly as someone struck him from behind—one of his own armsmen, toppling like a felled tree. The others were also falling, some struggling to use their handbows, bolts peppering the low ceiling beams as they collapsed.

The Masked flung himself aside, seeking the floor with enthusiasm. The hail of handbow bolts that had felled the Mereirs hummed into the room like a swarm of angry hornets.

Tantaerra dove under the bed, snatching at the chamber pot to swing it around behind her like a shield, because the roof outside the windows had abruptly become a savage battlefield of struggling men. A rude interruption no doubt supplied by a force loyal to House Telcanor, who seemed to well outnumber the Mereirs.

That window wouldn't hold for long. Tantaerra hastily wormed her way forward and found herself nose to nose with The Masked—at about the same moment the window shattered with a deafening crack, wooden frame and all. Two men, wrapped around each other and furiously stabbing with already blood-drenched daggers, fell through it into the room.

"Let's get out of here!" Tantaerra hissed.

"Trying to stay alive long enough to do that," the masked man replied cheerfully, watching men of Telcanor stream along the passage and into the room, stabbing down viciously at the Mereirs underfoot. "Our way out'll have to be the roof, unless—"

A charging warrior of Telcanor reached down to gut him, forcing The Masked to thrust a hasty boot low into the man's belly and loft him helplessly forward into a wall. The resulting room-shaking crash abruptly cut short the Telcanor's rising cry.

Tantaerra viciously smashed another warrior's ankles out from under him with the chamber pot, precipitating a helpless fall into the edge of the bed, ending in another mighty crash as both bed and the head that struck it collapsed. "Battle rages," she murmured. "As usual."

A Mereir—or was it a Telcanor?—swung a sword at her with a snarl, and she sprang aside and into a panting whirlwind of ducking and dodging amid the brawling mayhem as sword after sword thrust at her.

The room seemed to be full of more men than it should be able to hold, even with the bed down and broken and the window a gaping hole out into the night. There was a lot of sharp steel, blood everywhere, and soldier after soldier going down. Which meant she and The Masked might soon be the only targets left.

Tantaerra flung herself across the room to where The Masked was taking down Telcanors with deft efficiency.

"You promised to hide me," she reminded him, slamming the chamber pot down on the foot of one assailant. "Well, look at all these brawlers! I want my ten silver weights back!"

The only reply she got was a short, derisive laugh as The Masked fenced with one warrior and tripped the man clutching his chamber-pot-injured foot into a fall that made the Telcanor's head bounce off the floor right in front of Tantaerra. Gleefully she landed on that head and helped it to bounce several times.

The Masked shoved the warrior he'd been crossing blades with back over the one Tantaerra had just rendered senseless, then spun to pluck her up under one arm and bounded to the window. Or rather, to where the window had been.

Shouts arose from Telcanors who saw the incipient escape, but the men in their way out on the roof were too busy grappling and stabbing each to intercept the masked man ducking through them.

The Masked shouldered one aside, knocked another sprawling, and sprinted up the gently sloping roof into the night. The adjacent roof was lower and an easy leap, but his landing was thunderous, and caused muffled crashes in the unseen rooms beneath him—as well as a certain sagging unsteadiness under his boots.

The Masked hastily relocated to the ridge-run of this older and less sturdy roof, where he set down a cursing, spitting Tantaerra and hissed, "Lead the way!"

Still snarling protests at being snatched up like a toy or pet, Tantaerra found a drainpipe that seemed sturdy enough to support a man—at least briefly—and swarmed down it.

Ahead of her was a great dark stretch of Braganza, probably empty building after empty building, and although she very much wanted to keep to the roofs and so avoid Watchguard patrols, she just couldn't see well enough to safely judge distances and the slope and condition of roof tiles—especially with a larger, heavier human lumbering in her wake.

"Seek dark places," she murmured. Of course, the thief's maxim wasn't just advice to someone wanting to hide—it was also a lure to make those trying to hide stray within reach of deadlier creatures who dwelt in the darkest places.

"But then," The Masked murmured in her ear, "perhaps we are two of those deadlier creatures, hmm?"

Tantaerra gasped, not realizing she'd spoken aloud.

They left the drainpipe behind and sprinted along a dark and unfamiliar alley. On all sides, crashes from nearby rooftops marked the heavy-booted landings of pursuing warriors.

They fled into the darkness, The Masked letting Tantaerra choose their route. Despite the ever-nearer footfalls behind them, she slowed enough to make her hastening quiet. More or less running blind, she avoided any lights she could, and tried hard not to let the unfolding choices of streets and turns force her into circling back toward Harl's Hearth.

"Patrol," The Masked panted abruptly, dragging her back from a corner she'd been about to duck around.

Tantaerra's temper flared—if he knew Braganza so well, why wasn't he leading?—but she set her teeth, kept silent, and chose another way, this one a narrower, reeking back alley.

Behind them, a sudden shout marked one of their Telcanor chasers blundering into the midst of the Watchswords on patrol. The ringing clang of clashing swords arose, then more shouts.

The alley opened out into a street that lacked unpleasant smells, but seemed full of heaps of lumber, building stones, and not-yet-erected scaffolds. "Seemed" because it was too dark to see anything properly.

Thanks to the Prince-Archbanker's endless construction, entire blocks of Braganza were evidently sprawling mazes of mostly empty buildings. Which if they weren't guarded or patrolled, probably served as temporary lairs for local thieves, fugitives—and perhaps exhausted builders, or visitors who didn't want to declare for Mereir or Telcanor.

All of this lumber and stone should be guarded, and Tantaerra reached out a hand to tap The Masked's thigh in warning.

He bent to murmur into her ear, "There'll be night-guards at either end of a stretch of this street, likely. I think we just waded through their privy."

"So?" she muttered back.

"Shall we hide among some of these builders' heaps, and see if some of our pursuers find the guards for us?"

Not such a bad idea. She seemed to have chosen her hireling well.

"We shall," Tantaerra told him. "Choose our hiding place."

Without word or hesitation The Masked turned left, felt his way past a long heap of roof slates and a row of barrels, then found a hard-trampled path that hooked around behind the barrels and ended in a little area with a table and some upended half-buckets obviously serving as chairs. There was a faint smell of spilled wine and strong cheese.

"Sit," he suggested. They sank onto adjacent buckets, sagged into silence, and waited.

"What if this place gets searched properly?"

The Masked shrugged. "Too many 'what ifs' keep you from doing anything in life. Think less, and do more. The gods can decide who lives and dies without any help from our over-careful planning."

"A life-view I've heard a time or two before," she replied—and yawned, suddenly tired. "And would be more interested in hearing again after I'd had a good night's sleep. Hopefully somewhere that wouldn't end with me spied upon, or clapped in chains, or branded on my behind for Mereir or Telcanor."

"Forehead," The Masked corrected her. "Insolent slaves get branded on their foreheads."

Tantaerra yawned again. "More fascinating lore, masked man. Tell me in the morning."

∗ ∗ ∗

A prodding finger found her ribs a long and silent time later, and she struck it away sharply. "No, I'm not asleep. I just want to be. It's quieter; have they finished killing each other yet?"

"No," The Masked whispered. "In fact, they're searching the stree—"

"More here, sir!" came a crisp, loud voice that rang with satisfaction, startlingly close, as a suddenly unhooded lantern flared blindingly. "Hiding back around—urrrkh!"

Satisfied that a Watchsword communicates far less articulately with the end of a freshly cut floorboard thrust hard into his throat, The Masked used the plank to ruthlessly drive the gurgling defender of Braganza over backward, loudly shattering the lantern. He and Tantaerra sprinted out of their hiding place and across the now dimly lamplit street.

"There!" someone shouted. "After them!"

"Again?" Tantaerra sighed. "Don't any Braganzans ever sleep? Or do they save their snoring for broad day when they're up ladders and scaffolds, raising fresh edifices to stand empty to the greater glory of Abadar?"

The Masked was loping along just ahead of her, familiar worn bootheels flashing, and she contented herself with following him, dodging when he dodged.

He ran right past a pile of stained wooden forms, mallets, and old rope, then a cluster of barrels, only to suddenly stop at a second stand of barrels, heave one out of a cross-cradle, and set it to rolling with a dull thud and sloshing sounds.

Tantaerra leaped for the stars, only just in time, coming down beyond the barrel. It rumbled on across uneven cobbles, back the way they'd come, and she hastened to get past The Masked as he wrestled more barrels over with various crashes and sent them after the first one.

"First lot were sand," he panted, "but these're water and only half-full ...we'll see how good at jumping these Watchswords are!"

Behind them rose the first startled shouts, thuds, and pained groans and curses.

Not all that good, evidently.

There was still enough lamplight for Tantaerra to see The Masked turn away, snatch up something from the ground, and hurry for a dark gap in the night-shadowed walls ahead. Another alley mouth.

"Halt!" a man's voice snapped out of it, as they came running up. "I thought you'd flee this way! In the name of Lord Ravnagask, stand and yield!"

A drawn sword flashed out to underscore the commands. The Masked parried that blade with something in his hands—then leaned forward and dropped it, with some care.

There came a thud, a wild howl of pain, and the clang of a dropped sword as the Watchsword bent to clutch at his crushed toes, boot still caught under the roof-slate The Masked had so thoughtfully gifted him with.

Then they were past and sprinting hard into deeper darkness, skimming unseen stone walls with their right elbows as they went.

The clangs and crashings were all coming from behind them now, and growing fainter.

"Slow, now," The Masked murmured, an instant before Tantaerra had been about to say the same words. They went from running to walking, trying to pant as quietly as they could, as they crossed another street and then another, their alley wider and straighter now. All around soared dark and empty stone mansions, tall and new and splendid. Twice The Masked halted suddenly and crouched low, peering into the night ahead.

"Watchswords?" Tantaerra hissed, the second time.

"No. Rats. The human sort. Lairing in these empty houses, and coming out at night to forage."

"Steal, you mean."

"Such candor, little one!"

"Cut the cleverness, masked man, and devote your wits to finding us a safe place to sleep! Preferably before the sun is up!"

"Ever the loving ally," The Masked sighed.

"Ever the overconfident scoundrel," Tantaerra shot back.

"Thank you," he said grandly, bowing as if she'd paid him the greatest of courtly compliments.

Tantaerra gave him a snarl. "Well? Safe sleeping place?"

"Being as we don't know the local sewers and cellars, and the rooms aboveground house honest citizens or their less law-abiding kin, that leaves us roofs as our best shelter—being as it doesn't look or smell like rain soon."

"Agreed. So find us the best roof."

The Masked leaned close to murmur in her ear, "I work best in silence."

Tantaerra nodded and gave it to him, and he strode on.

There will come a time, she thought, when I don't have to be always running, always fighting. When I can lounge around, and doze, and not have to be always on my guard. I just hope that time comes before I'm on my deathbed.

Tantaerra left off that line of thinking as she saw a faint reflection off something metallic in front of her. She whirled around. The lanterns of a Watchguard patrol had turned a distant corner, and were coming closer.

"Whither now, masked man?" she hissed.

"Wait and watch. Our safest sleeping place will be one they've searched, and so won't search again. Unless, of course, you snore loudly."

"I do not—" Tantaerra caught hold of her temper with both hands, then whispered icily, "Know, sirrah, that ladies do not snore."

"So I've heard, though I can say from tiresome experience that some do. Yet I wasn't speaking of ladies. I was speaking of you."

Tantaerra gave him her best glare.

The lanterns arrived at a swift trot, voices rising in gruff excitement, and a Watchsword barked an order that brought many swords from sheaths.

"So?" Tantaerra hissed. "Just where do we hide, hey?"

The Masked shrugged. "We don't. Come on."

"There!" a Watchsword bellowed promptly. "Fleeing from us!"

"A man and a boy!" another Watchsword barked. "Take them for questioning!"

The heavy-booted charge sounded like a stampede of frightened oxen. It was quite loud enough to cover Tantaerra snarling into The Masked's ear, "What happened to waiting until they checked the building, then hiding?"

"New plan."

Tantaerra ran after him, seething. "Do you always act the reckless fool?"

"No," The Masked replied calmly. "Only when I must." He flung himself around a half-seen corner and added, "Since I entered your service, it's seemed a 'must' fairly often. That might just have something to do with your act, little one."

"You," Tantaerra seethed, "are the most gods-damned annoying—"

Some of these Watchswords were fast. They were right behind Tantaerra now, and she swallowed the curses she felt like spitting and saved her breath for scampering. Really scampering.

They charged into a pitch darkness, and The Masked gave a grunt that sounded like he'd been hurt, followed by a crash as someone slammed heavily into a wall—and then the thunder of the onrushing Watchswords.

Tantaerra shrank back into a corner, trying to look small—and then blurted out an involuntary "Eep!" as someone grabbed her by the back of the neck, half hair and half her gorget-collar, and pulled her down and back, through a hole or panel she hadn't known was there, and down, down—

They were falling down a dark shaft—no, riding something that squealed, as something else hissed past her ear ...

"It's me, stop struggling," The Masked said in her ear. "And watch where you wave that knife. People get hurt that way."

He was standing atop a dumbwaiter, riding it down its shaft, its rope hissing past. Very quickly, which meant—

The crash as it hit the bottom of the shaft was deafening, teeth-jarring, and ended in loud splinterings as The Masked's boots went through the top of the wooden dumbwaiter box.

He kicked his way free, the last kick smashing open the doors at the bottom of the shaft and striking senseless a Watchsword on the other side of them, who'd been rushing to snatch them open.

That left an escape route that The Masked took without hesitation. And being as he hadn't let go of Tantaerra, she took it too, up an earthen ramp cluttered with wheelbarrows into the slightly less dark night, where three Watchswords had time only to turn and shout and start after them before they were out, along the street, and starting up a promising-looking drainpipe attached to the wall of the nearest dark mansion.

The masked man climbed one-handed with a speed that astonished Tantaerra. Halflings owned drainpipes, not hulking humans who wore masks and manhandled those who hired them and—

This empty mansion had a gently sloping roof split by five towers, a square of four around a higher central spire. The Masked headed across it in surefooted haste.

Only to almost run into someone coming around the nearest tower. Someone whose brown eyes looked all too familiar.

The man who'd been on that temple roof in Halidon. His mouth fell open in surprise, then closed again in a cold smile.

He stepped forward, a long, wicked dagger in his hand.

Chapter Seven

Braganza, Battle, and a Bath

Unless one carried an endless supply of daggers, throwing them was for desperate moments, attempts to impress, or overblown fireside tales. Tantaerra clutched hers firmly as she sprang.

A skirling shriek announced that The Masked's dagger had already met the steel of their foe—who ducked, darted, and slashed with a speed that made Tantaerra gulp. The Masked backed away only just in time, that wicked blade slicing cloak and leather.

Its wielder rolled, kicked, and came up inside The Masked's guard—too close to miss.

He drew back his arm for a gutting thrust, and Tantaerra flung herself frantically at his elbow, knowing even as she launched herself that she'd be too late.

The Masked sprang into the air, drawing up his knee sharply in a kick that slammed the point of that wicked dagger up over his shoulder even as he clutched at his foe's arms. He and the brown-eyed man went over backward, leaving Tantaerra hurtling toward empty roof. As they fell back, grappling, The Masked slammed his face forward, then hard sideways.

The brown-eyed man cried out as sharp points along the top of the mask laid open his forehead, blood spurting into his eyes—and the two men crashed thunderously to the roof together, bouncing once before they started sliding toward the edge. Fast. The Masked slammed their faces together again.

Then Tantaerra was busy hitting the roof in her own bone-shaking crash. She bit her tongue involuntarily as the hard landing drove the breath from her, rolled as she tasted her blood—no nicer than last time, she thought fleetingly—and slid down smooth tiles a frighteningly long way before desperate jabbings with her dagger brought her to a halt.

Attacking this brown-eyed man had been a bad mistake. Whoever he was, he was a far better fighter than either of them. They'd be lucky to escape, even if—

"Hold, and down weapons, in the name of Lord Ravnagask! The Watchguard commands you!"

—this rash battle didn't bring the Watchguard patrol up onto the roof.

"Hold, I said! You! Hold!"

Tantaerra rolled over to see who the Watchsword was bellowing at, just in time to see the brown-eyed man leap off the edge of the roof into the night.

Two Watchswords rushed to peer after him, almost lost themselves over the edge, and hastily grabbed at tiles and the nearest tower to keep from falling.

Tantaerra knew the man from Halidon wouldn't fall to the cobbles below. He'd catch hold of a balcony, stair, window or some such, and get clean away.

Disgusted, a young Watchsword, clinging to one of the towers to lean out perilously and peer, was reporting just that to the older, gray-haired officer who'd shouted the orders. "Clean away, sir! Three buildings on, and I've lost sight of him! Leaps like a spider!"

"No doubt," the ranking Watchsword said sourly. "Which leaves us with these two who were fighting him—presumably after arranging to meet him in this empty house. For no good nor legal purpose, I think. Take them."

The Masked had been crawling slowly up the roof, all weapons put away—and a ring of Watchswords had been warily closing in around him.

"No!" The Masked said sharply. "Don't touch it! There's a curse!"

Tantaerra looked over at him in time to see Watchswords drawing back from where they'd been about to unmask him.

"A likely tale," the Watchguard commander growled. "Off it comes."

Tantaerra watched the ring of Watchswords waver, all of them hesitating.

"I'm telling the truth," The Masked told them grimly—and the cautious hands reaching for him drew back again.

The commander sighed in exasperation, stumped along the roof-ridge, reached down, and wrenched the mask off.

There was a collective not-quite-gasp, a shared indrawn breath, as every Watchsword stared at the revealed ruin of a face.

Into the silence that followed, the man they were staring at said politely, "Please return that to me as quickly as you can. The curse is not of my doing, and I can't protect you or anyone from it. Quickly."

The Watchguard officer regarded him expressionlessly for a long moment. Then, without a word, he handed the mask back.

"Weapons," he commanded The Masked curtly. "Slowly."

Mask back in place, the man Tantaerra had hired back in Halidon started handing over steel. A sword, two daggers, a third ...and then a well-hidden fourth, before he stopped, folded his arms, and looked up at the Watchguard officer.

"Keep going," the patrol commander growled. "I know you have more."

The Watchswords Tantaerra hadn't quite reached yet stirred on the roof above her. She stopped climbing to meet them.

"After we surrender our weapons," she piped up, deciding she'd been meekly silent long enough, "then what? Is it too soon to tender my personal complaint to Lord Ravnagask?"

"Much," the commander replied flatly. "You're in for some harsh questioning first. He'd probably add some heavy questions of his own, if you somehow got to see him. Thieves and murderers aren't welcome in Braganza."

The Masked was yielding up daggers from both boots. "That's good to hear. However," he added loudly, "we happen to be neither. We're merchants from afar, newly arrived in fair Braganza—but chased out of the room we rented, a short while ago, by warring bands of recruiters for the Mereirs and the Telcanors. Who were so bent on carving each other up that we feared for our lives, and sought a rooftop to sleep on—only to find a foe up here, too!"

The lead Watchsword's eyes were cold. "Merchants you may be, from time to time ...as are all who have something to sell. Yet to my eyes you match descriptions just arrived from Halidon, of two fugitives who murdered a high-ranking investigator on a rooftop there. Not to mention burned down no less than three warehouses full of valuable wares. And here we are, on a rooftop."

The Masked blinked, then spread his hands. "This is what passes for evidence in Braganza? Do you arrest anyone you find on a street after someone breaks into a warehouse from—gasp!—a street? Be aware, before you answer, that my next report to Canorate will certainly make mention of how you treat us, Watchcaptain."

"Oh? See that it mentions murder," the Watchguard commander replied, "and three warehouses."

The Masked waved a dismissive hand. "My, my, busy little fugitives you have in ...where was it? Halidon? Not that doings in backwaters of the land are any concern of ours, officer. What is of concern to us is being so aggressively accused of such things, out of seeming nowhere. And I cannot help but ask myself, is this accusation of yours one more part of this foolish feud that seems to have swept Braganza? Are you and your fellow Watchswords for Mereir? Or for Telcanor?"

The patrol commander stiffened, his eyes flashing. "Let me inform you of something, prisoner. The Watchswords serve the Lord of Braganza. We're loyal to our oaths and to our city, and hold ourselves above the Mereir and Telcanor foolishness—which is a festering rot that shall be rooted out soon enough!"

He slammed his fist down on the roof-ridge beside him. As if that had been a cue, the air behind the assembled patrol was suddenly full of hurtling cobblestones—missiles that thudded into Watchsword backs and arms and heads. The struck soldiers toppled, several falling off the roof with despairing cries.

Over this din rose a voice that rang like a bugle. "Die, foul dogs of Mereir!"

The Watchcaptain turned, sword flashing out. "Stand together, Watchguard! Together!"

Two stones came right at him. The patrol commander dashed them aside with a curse, and then there seemed to be no more stones, just a line of dark-armored men charging across the rooftop. Men who'd stealthily come up the same stair the Watchguard patrol had used, and now stood between the Watchswords and any way down from the roof alive.

"Telcanor! For Telcanor!"

"Telcanor!"

"Mereir!" one Watchsword snarled back, in the instant before blades met and men started hacking at each other deafeningly. The Masked pounced on the constable who'd taken most of his weapons from behind, slammed the man's face into the roof so hard a tile cracked under it, then did the same to the next Watchsword, so he could recover his entire arsenal.

Tantaerra stayed where she was, chin-down on the tiles, watching men chopping and slashing each other above her.

Among the Telcanor attackers was someone who moved with far more agility, ducking low and coming fast, avoiding everyone else as he made for the Watchcaptain who commanded the patrol. It was the man from Halidon. Obviously he'd found and led this band of Telcanor warriors right back to the rooftop he'd so recently fled from, to mount this attack. But why? Who was he, and what was he up to?

The Masked had seen the man too, and shot a questioning look Tantaerra's way. She jerked her head at the night behind herself in a "Let's be gone from here!" signal, saw him nod, and started climbing carefully across the roof to join him.

It wasn't an easy traverse. Wounded or dying men and women kept crashing to the tiles and then sliding or rolling down it, taking anyone in their way down to the street with them. As she clawed her way across blood-smeared tiles, more than one body tumbled past to thud wetly on unseen cobbles below.

Halfway there, a particularly furious clash of arms made Tantaerra look up from trying not to kill herself long enough to see that the Watchguard commander was down. Their mysterious pursuer was now fighting his way toward The Masked, yet the patrol seemed to have rallied, and he was having to fight his way through at least five Watchswords to reach his quarry. Five good warriors who were holding their ground.

Heartened, Tantaerra hurried as quickly as she dared, reaching The Masked just as he finished prying up a roof tile to lay bare the lattices beneath.

"That dagger you just ruined," he muttered, reaching out a hand for it.

Tantaerra gave it to him. Without another word he tied it to an end of cord he'd just wound around two lattices as a stop-wedge, hauled her to his breast as if he was a wet nurse and she a hungry baby, and launched himself down the roof.

Tantaerra clung to him grimly through the battering that followed, trying to turn her fingers into talons, digging into The Masked's chest, not caring if she tore out hair by the handful.

Her clawings made him growl in pain as they went over the edge, the cord unrolling from around him in jerks that came faster and faster, tumbling them head-over-bootheels.

"What're you trying to do to me?" Tantaerra shrieked, flinging both arms around his masked head and shouting right into his ear. "I'm going to spew!"

"Spew away, then!" he bellowed. "If our friend up there cuts the line before we get low enough—"

There was a sudden, sickening lack of tension in the cord, and then they were falling, the severed end of cord leaping after them.

They struck hard cobbles, bounced once, slammed down again, and rolled, groaning in mutual pain. Luckily they'd only fallen about the height of a small room, but gods, it hurt.

Gasping for breath, Tantaerra rolled free of The Masked, clutching a lot of hair—and his mask.

She looked back and saw him reaching for her, his eyes ablaze with fury in that melting ruin of a face.

"I didn't mean—" she gasped, as he swept his mask out of her hands, clapped it back into place, then snatched her up and started to stagger along the street.

"Not angry ...with you ..." he grunted, unsteadily gathering speed. Right behind him, a plummeting Watchguard of Braganza greeted the cobbles with a sprawled and final splat.

A sword followed, all by itself, clanging and ringing like a maltreated bell as it bounced and clattered. Then another man crashed down wetly.

By then, they were more than a cross street away and hurrying, and Tantaerra had her breath back.

"I can run for myself, you know," she told her hireling, who was staggering and breathing heavily.

"Good," he gasped, setting her down with more speed than grace. "Then look back and tell me if you can see our friend anywhere. Following us, for instance."

Tantaerra looked, casting her eyes everywhere, even along rooftops across the street from where the battle was still raging.

"Can't see him," she reported, scurrying to catch up to The Masked, who hadn't stopped hastening down the street, reeling in the severed cord as he went into an untidy bundle. "Which means—"

"Nothing," The Masked put in grimly, saying that last word in unison with her. "He could be anywhere. If the right sort of rooftops happen to be handy, he could even be ahead of us, waiting for us."

"You're not used to such a foe," Tantaerra murmured, looking up at his masked face as they ran. "Not used to being afraid."

The Masked looked at her. "I'm not afraid," he said gruffly. "I'm pissed off. I want a good night's sleep and a decent meal—and a long, hot bath wouldn't come amiss, either. And I doubt I'm going to get any of those very soon. I had the sleep snatched away from me when I thought I'd procured it, and since then, I've been too damned busy fighting and running to be afraid."

"Lanterns ahead," Tantaerra told him, pointing.

"I can see that," he replied testily. "What I can't see is what's behind me—I'm not wearing the mask with the mirrors. Check again—are we being followed?"

Tantaerra swung around again—in time to see an all-too-familiar shoulder and arm duck into an alley mouth. "Yes," she said bitterly. "By him."

"Then we head for those lanterns," The Masked growled.

He strode right toward the bright lanterns, and all the armed and armored men holding them.

Tantaerra dashed after him. "He's right behind us, running down the street, sword out!"

The Masked cast a quick look over his shoulder, saw their mysterious foe two streets back and closing fast, and chuckled.

"A rescue!" he shouted, sounding desperate. "Fellow men of Mereir, a rescue! We are beset by vile Telcanors!"

His cry was answered by snarls and curses, and Tantaerra saw that amid the eager, angry armed men was an improvised litter made of cloaks slung over poles. On it sagged a bandaged and bloody man whose face—through several dark and swollen bruises—she recognized. The warrior of Mereir who'd come to their room at the Hearth to try to recruit them.

The Masked pointed down the street at the brown-eyed man, sprinting with sword in hand.

With a roar, the Mereirs charged, leaving four litter-bearers hesitating with the wounded man between them.

The brown-eyed man took one look at them, skidded to a halt, spun around, and raced back the way he'd come.

Like a pack of hungry dogs they swarmed after him, shouting and waving their swords.

The Masked watched that pursuit dwindle into the night. He'd only just turned back to bid the litter-bearers farewell when shouts and the clangs of clashing swords arose from far down the street.

"They've found the Telcanors," he announced with satisfaction, and led Tantaerra away down a handy alley.

"Where're we headed?"

"A rooftop that lacks Mereirs clashing with Telcanors—and sleep," The Masked told her flatly. "Before I start snoring as I walk."

Tantaerra pointed into the gloom ahead. "That one, perhaps?"

Ahead, the alleyway was scorched with soot and awash in ashes, many wagon-tracks crisscrossing through those heaps of tattered blackness. They spilled out of the gutted back of a tall mansion that had hosted a recent fire. Fresh planking and stonework shone amid the blackened ruin, where rebuilding had begun. Night-lamps glimmered high in occupied houses beyond, shining down on what looked to be an intact roof.

"How sturdy?" The Masked wondered aloud. "Dirty work getting up there, too."

"Ladders," Tantaerra replied. "I don't think even Braganzan builders can fly."

The Masked shook his head. "Prudent builders stash their ladders high, out of reach, then take the last ladder away with them. Otherwise they'd lose every one the first night, and—"

He came to a halt, staring at the neat stowage of a dozen ladders leaned together against one wall.

"Obviously Braganzans aren't prudent," Tantaerra purred.

Her masked companion sighed. "Or they trust in the Watchguard patrols."

"That's what I said," Tantaerra said sweetly.

It took more than a little grunting effort to haul the ladder they used up onto the roof after them, but that roof felt solid enough to sleep twenty masked men and a score of halflings.

Sleep, that most elusive of Braganzan delicacies.

This time, however, they found it.

∗ ∗ ∗

Luraumadar.

"Go away," The Masked snarled, or thought he did. Was he still asleep?

Luraumadar. The mask's whisper was louder and more insistent than usual.

The Masked blinked. It wasn't dark anymore. He turned his head to stare into the strengthening light, and found himself gazing across rooftops in a chill dawn. Smoke was curling gently up into still air from more chimneys than he could count. He felt stiff and cold.

Except for just above his right hip, where he was very warm. He looked down along his body. His employer was curled up against him, her snores butter-soft, one hand over her nose. For warmth, of course. That hand had left fire-soot across her cheek.

The Masked gazed at that smudged face. Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra. A little spitfire, to be sure, yet one that he just might start to become ever so slightly fond of, razor tongue and all.

She murmured something inaudible in her dreams, stirred—and farted loudly enough to awaken herself.

She came bolt upright to glare at him, hands darting to dagger hilts. "Well, masked man? What are you staring at?"

"One of the more diplomatic patrons I've worked with," he replied, chuckling.

"Keep me less hungry and closer to a handy chamber pot and a warm and private place to make use of it, and you'll find me even more diplomatic," she snapped, elbowing him in the ribs and kicking off against his hip to put distance between them. "Great stinking human."

When he made no reply, and didn't move, she erupted. "Well? Am I going to have to find us something to eat? Who paid good silver to whom, hey?"

Ten silver weights. Not enough, of course. A hundred times that wouldn't be enough for what he'd been through, and they both knew it.

The Masked merely looked at her. She cocked her head to one side and gave him an exasperated glare.

Ever so slightly fond, yes.

∗ ∗ ∗

The builders, as it happened, had brought their own little row of covered chamber pots, and even a few filthy cloaks that could serve as a temporary privacy tent.

They hadn't, however, been quite so kind as to leave anything to eat at their worksite, so The Masked followed his nose, leading his sharp-tongued client to where the nearest smells of frying and fresh-baked bread were coming from: a ramshackle joining of three former houses that were now Thaener's Fine Lodgings. With rumbling stomachs, man and halfling sought the front door, and a meal.

Thaener was long dead, it seemed, surviving only as a benignly beaming portrait presiding over the feasting-room. He smiled down on the ravenous eating of the two guests who arrived much earlier than most, and his merry countenance changed not a whit as they sighed, patted now-full bellies and stretched contentedly, then rented a room and paid extra for a warm bath to be brought up to it.

"Your masks, and my being a halfling, make us rather too easily remembered," Tantaerra said slowly, watching steam rise after the last small-keg of water had been poured into the bath and the keg-bearers had lurched out of the room. "We should do something about that before we set about exploring Braganza."

"Such as split up and go separately?" The Masked suggested, as he securely bolted the door. "I have masks that look less like masks and more like battered old faces, if I keep a hood up to shade them."

"I ..." Tantaerra's voice trailed off, and she turned away.

His patron wasn't happy about something. Something she'd rather not admit.

The Masked sighed, took off his cloak, and looked for some way to hang it to guard her precious modesty.

"What're you—oh. Don't bother." Tantaerra straightened from sniffing at the little ewer of soap-flakes. She was already half unlaced, her hair-combs out and tresses tumbling about her shoulders.

The Masked tossed the cloak aside. "So what's bothering you?"

"What d'you mean?"

"The princess," he announced to the nearest wall, "is reluctant. And even more reluctant to impart to me what she's reluctant about. In this, demonstrating that halfling women can be just as obstinate and foolish as human women."

"Masked man," Tantaerra said sharply, bared now down to the belt she was undoing, "what by the First Vault are you talking about?"

"Your obvious reluctance ...right after I suggested..."

Tantaerra stepped out of her breeches, then looked up into his silence. It was obvious what he was staring at. Both of them.

She put her hands on her hips and faced him challengingly. "Yes, they're breasts. Men have them too—the gods alone know why—yet I manage to keep from staring. Somehow. If you want to feel equal in awkwardness or, I don't know, plain rudeness, take out your manserpent and I'll have a good stare at that."

The Masked laughed. "Your tongue is sharper than many a sword."

"It has to be. I'm shorter than most swords. Now, have you had a good look?"

She swayed, stretching and swiveling like a tavern-dancer. "How about now?"

"I, uh ...was asking you a question. Which you've avoided answering by talking about my looking at your ...upperworks. Tantaerra?"

The halfling thrust one leg into the bath, winced, and drew it out again hastily. "Rutting hot."

"I don't doubt it. Most people heed the obvious warning—all this steam, you know."

"Stop staring, come around here, and wash my back," she commanded, striding into the bath. Wincing, she went hastily to her knees, gasped, shuddered all over, then snarled, "Vault, that's hot!"

"Too hot to—?"

"Wash," the halfling commanded. "Soap-flakes, bristle brush ...I'm filthy."

The Masked wrinkled his nose. "I'd noticed."

"Congratulations, masked man—you've discovered the secret: that stale, sweaty halfling women smell just as musky as human women. We also tend to be just as touchy about it. So please wash my back and refrain from saying anything that could get you killed."

"Tantaerra, answer me," The Masked said quietly, starting to wash her back gently, recalling how the maids in the most expensive inns he'd stayed at went about this. First, use the brush to lift all of her unbound tresses over her shoulder, to hang down her front ...

"Leave my hair," she said sharply. "I'll see to it."

"With your combs?"

"With my combs. Later." She sighed, and he could feel her relaxing under the brush. When he worked his way down to her tailbone, she slid smoothly right down into the bath to lie on her back amid the growing scum and look up at him.

"To tell the truth, Tarram Armistrade," she said quietly, "I was—no, am reluctant to be parted from you as we explore the city. It seems ...imprudent. Dangerous, even. We're stronger as a team."

"Yet if the Watchguard, after last night—to say nothing of eager prowling Mereir and Telcanor swordsmen—are seeking a masked man accompanied by a halfling?"

"We'll deceive them," Tantaerra said tartly, "by confronting them instead with a halfling accompanied by a masked man!"

She held out a hand for the brush. "Seriously, Masked One, why don't we work together? I'll keep to rooftops, peering and eavesdropping, and you dress as a crone, keeping your hood up and wearing the best mask for that—and hobbling about slowly, mind—and we'll take our measure of Braganza that way."

"That should work," The Masked agreed.

Tantaerra gave him a sly look, then used both hands to thrust her upperworks out of the water at him. "We'll just have to work up a false pair of these for you, with wadded-up clothes and all that cord."

"Or you could reprise your role as my pregnant belly, only tied across me higher up," he suggested, his hands shaping an imaginary bust line.

"That," she told him flatly, "is an entirely inappropriate suggestion."

"It probably won't be my last," he warned, making a mock grab for her.

She submerged hastily. "Sir Armistrade, do you mind?"

"Not yet," he said, leering through the eyeholes in his mask. "In fact, not at all."

Tantaerra found the brush and hurled it at him.

He caught it out of the air deftly. "You do want your legs washed, don't you? Half the filth of Braganza seems to have joined what you brought from Halidon ..."

"Masked man, you say the most charming things."

"That's why I'm still alive. For now."

"For now," Tantaerra agreed meaningfully, sliding farther down into the bath.

Luraumadar, the mask commented approvingly.

∗ ∗ ∗

It took them most of the morning to learn the extent of the Mereir-Telcanor feud, and the current mood of the city. A lot of Braganzans were willing to mutter a fervent desire that the two warring families would exterminate each other or just go away, but those mutters were neither loud nor firm. Both families, it seemed, were apt to treat neutral folk as foes, threatening such citizens into obeying, aiding, or joining them—or tasting a swift dagger or a fire kindled out of seeming nowhere, usually in the dead of night while the abstainers were asleep.

As The Masked and his patron returned to Thaener's with new-bought clothes, so those they'd been living in for days could finally be washed, a thought struck him.

Luraumadar, the mask said approvingly, in the depths of his mind.

"I'm curious," he murmured to the innkeeper, sliding two coins—good Absalom mintings that had ridden his belt for months now, awaiting just such a need—covertly across the counter. The man's hand came down on them with practiced casualness, his expression changing not a whit. "Do Mereirs or Telcanors look at guest registers in this inn? Daily? All inns in the city?"

The innkeeper turned away from The Masked to look at some tankards he'd been polishing that suddenly seemed to now need polishing again, and nodded. Thrice.

The Masked strode unhurriedly to the stairs, affecting not to notice a glowering man leading two others—all of them armed—up to the innkeeper.

Tantaerra was waiting for him in the room, a dagger ready behind her back. "Well?"

"The Mereirs and Telcanors examine all inn registers in Braganza. Daily."

"Then we're not sleeping here. Better rats than dead."

"Agreed," The Masked replied, and turned on his heel to look down the stairs. The three men were coming up, and looked quickly away from the stare he gave them.

"Out, right now," he hissed at his patron. "Back stairs, swiftly!"

Tantaerra rolled the new clothes into a bedsheet in a trice and joined him at the door. They raced along the passage, practically hurled themselves down the servants' stair, and burst out through the kitchens, ignoring a shout from a cook.

Another trio of armed men was lounging against a nearby wall, but The Masked and Tantaerra strode right past and sought alleyways.

A handy drainpipe got them aloft in time to see their pursuers hasten out that same scullery door—and come to a sudden halt, as the lounging trio unfolded themselves from the wall in a menacing line of men who held casually drawn daggers in their hands.

The Masked looked up and down the alleyway they now stood above, and at the mouths of other alleys opening off it.

"What a cesspit," he said, almost admiringly.

∗ ∗ ∗

He and Tantaerra soon found an empty mansion where they changed into their new clothes. Then they set about learning the streets of Braganza and finding possible lairs to spend the night ahead in. The city was a crowded, noisy hive of builders at work, with carts of supplies rumbling everywhere and the Watchguard directing traffic. They soon became aware that a growing group of interested observers—all apparently independent of each other—were following them, but there was nothing they could do about that.

"So," Tantaerra asked grimly, as they paused for breath on a lofty rooftop and surveyed all of the oh-so-casual folk who just happened to be looking back at them, "do we try to get out of Braganza before dusk?"

"No," The Masked replied. "If we try, we'll just be handing our friend from Halidon an easier task of reaching us. Assuming we aren't arrested at the gates or just taken down by Mereir or Telcanor bowmen while still within range of the walls."

Tantaerra sighed. "I hate it when you're so bleakly right about things."

"So," The Masked told her, "do I."

He headed along the ridgepole. "Like it or not, we've plunged ourselves into the heart of this feud. If Mereirs and Telcanors both see us as having taken sides, and try to employ or manipulate us, we'd best play along. Doing some manipulating of our own, rather than remaining the bewildered, beset 'played.'"

"A noble and wise resolve," Tantaerra observed, joining him in a decorative but useless cupola that had no way down into the building beneath it, "but just how will we manage that? Or have you secret powers you haven't shared with me yet? Behind that mask, you don't happen to be one of the General Lords of Molthune, do you? Or something worse?"

Even in his own ears, The Masked's reply sounded rather bitter. "Something worse."

Luraumadar, the mask contributed helpfully, in the back of his mind.

"A rather powerless something worse, unfortunately," he added.

His halfling patron eyed him thoughtfully, obviously wondering what he meant, but said only, "I'd like to know more about that, masked man, but ...later."

"Agreed," The Masked replied tersely, heading back along the ridgepole.

It was almost comical, how quickly startled faces disappeared from behind nearby windows. He hoped the Braganzans who lived in those houses were as sick of Mereirs and Telcanors bursting in to climb their stairs and peer out of windows as he would have been.

He and Tantaerra dropped down onto a heavily laden stonemason's cart and rode it for several blocks, just to irritate their pursuing spies. The Masked never caught sight of a certain pair of brown eyes among their observers, but he knew better than to assume the man from the temple roof in Halidon had been taken care of by the Telcanors last night. That sort of foe was never so easily gotten rid of.

The light was fading fast now.

"Do we pay Thaener's a late-night visit to do our washing?" Tantaerra asked, as they crossed yet another roof, this one adorned with silently screaming carved stone gargoyles.

"No. Someone will be waiting for us, well armed and in force."

They discussed various possible lairs for spending the night, and agreed on the best refuge—a tall, many-floored open skeleton of an unfinished building that had enclosed stairwells they might be able to barricade the tops of.

The Masked startled a cart-vendor by dropping down, apparently from the sky, to buy buns filled with cheese and spicy meats, to eat after dark.

Then they made for their chosen refuge, by as roundabout a way as they dared take in the gathering gloom.

It seemed deserted and ideal, as they huddled in dark silence, ate, and then settled down. The Masked never knew just when he dropped off to sleep.

∗ ∗ ∗

Luraumadar, the mask said urgently.

The Masked came awake out of a dark dream of finding himself in a vast, cold, soap-scummed bath with Tantaerra floating to the surface right beside him—drowned, dead, and staring at him reproachfully, her face frozen in her last despairing scream.

He blinked in the night-gloom, chilled and sweating, but relieved to find he'd been dreaming.

Relief that ended all too abruptly.

Tantaerra was trembling against him, and for good reason. As they lay together on the bare, unfinished floor, sword points gleamed down at them on all sides.

More than a dozen.

Splendidly armored men had somehow silently reached their rooftop and ringed them. One stood forth from his fellows, looming above The Masked and Tantaerra like a mighty statue in plate armor. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and what could be seen of his face in his magnificently crested helm was hard and cruel.

"Yield me your weapons," he commanded, reaching down an empty gauntleted hand.

Tantaerra gave him her first dagger with a hard throw, right at his face.

She was too close to miss, too close for him to move or strike it aside in time, too—

That gauntleted hand snatched the whirling dagger out of the air, then tightened around it. There was a sudden, shrieking snap from within that great fist.

The armored giant took a step forward, his armored fingers opened, and the shards of the halfling's broken dagger rained down into her disbelieving face.

Then he bent and took hold of their shoulders. His grip was like iron, grinding at The Masked's bones.

"Come, fools," this fearsome man announced coldly. "Your presence is required by a lord of Telcanor."

Chapter Eight

A Lord of Telcanor

Tantaerra tried not to whimper. She was cold—thanks to being carried dangling and naked through the night, by cold metal gauntlets—and felt bruised all over. Every act of resistance had been rewarded by a hard, metal-shod punch to a joint, until she'd hurt too much to struggle. The Telcanors had stripped them then and there in that unfinished building, taking every last thing from them—except, she'd seen through tears of shame and pain, that The Masked must have somehow managed to get one of his fleshy masks in place, because when she managed to catch glimpses of him, he had a normal-seeming face, with a nose and cheeks and eyebrows instead of a melted ruin.

All else was gone, even the lockpicks and little knives in her hair. Naked before the gods, as some priests said. Bared and weaponless, in this chilly stone city of empty mansions and half-built future mansions ...

They'd been carried—or, in The Masked's case, dragged—a long way through the sleeping streets of Braganza from where they'd been captured, ducking aside hastily from time to time to avoid Watchguard patrols. The patrols carried so many lanterns that Tantaerra was beginning to think that this was perhaps the point: to give large lurking bands of men and women plenty of warning to keep clear, so patrols would face a minimum of fighting and dying.

Whenever Watchswords were within earshot, the cruelly tight grip on her shoulders or neck became a stranglehold around her throat, quelling any shrieks or calls for help she might have been moved to make.

They'd crossed most of Braganza, she thought dazedly, as they turned through a tall, wide doorway at last. Guards stood aside and heavy bronze doors swung ponderously open, the cobbles beneath their striding captors' boots giving way to polished tiles. Huge low lamps—great castles of shaped glass and dangling ornaments, such as graced many high Canorate ceilings, only here their lowest teardrops were about the height of a short man's waist off the floor—blazed ruddily in a room paneled in dark woods and adorned with weapons hung on the walls. Walls that lofted up far beyond the highest spot she could twist around to see.

So this was either a palace, or a soaring city mansion indeed.

They left the lamplight and its countless ruby reflections behind, their captors hastening deeper into the vast building. More tall double doors, and more gleaming-armored guards, then a wide, curving stair of shallow steps that looked like smokeshot white marble, climbing and curving around to the left, a long way up, to a hallway floored in sheets of bright-burnished copper.

The warriors' boots hissed and slid on the polished metal as they strode down a dim and high-ceilinged passage to another set of stairs, this one narrow and steep and straight, with soft wine-red cloth underfoot. Then another hallway ascended to pair of huge high doors, which parted under the hands of formidable plate-armored guards to reveal a grand upper room that at last seemed to lack any additional stairs.

They had reached the top of this mansion, Tantaerra saw. The domed ceiling above had a great oval opening in its center, an intricate many-paned skylight that was all curlicues, brackets, and gilded glass. Rose-hued light flooded down on its edges from four directions, coming from lamps on half-seen roof spires that thrust up into the night sky.

All very impressive, even beautiful, if she'd felt in the least like appreciating it. So they were here, wherever here was, and their armored captors were seating them in huge stone chairs, chaining their throats so tightly to the backs of these seats that they could barely breathe.

The armored men then promptly departed back the way they'd come. All, that is, but the huge armored mountain of a man who commanded them, who strode to one of the row of doors Tantaerra could see along the back wall of the room and smote a metal panel on it with his gauntleted fist, causing a muffled boom.

Almost immediately, another door in the row swung open. Two servants in identical uniforms stepped out, faced each other across the doorway, and bowed low. Between their bent heads swept a burly, red-faced man whose shoulders were broad, whose jaw was large and heavy, and whose face was haughty, lip curled in a sneer. His hair was swept into a flowing peak, no doubt by the dint of much servants' primping and wax, and he wore a flared tunic that looked like a military uniform made by a ladies' gown designer.

"You two," this grandest of men boomed, sweeping up to the helplessly imprisoned Tantaerra and The Masked, "are foul Mereir spies! You shall die, but not before you've yielded up all you know, and every last villainy you'd planned—and you shall yield everything, under the tortures my experts shall inflict upon you, regardless of how sternly you resist me now! Know this, and despair! Yet I am munificent, I am, and can be so generous as to offer wine, and an evening of civil converse—if you speak freely!"

With every sentence he uttered, this large and florid man strutted back and forth in front of his prisoners, his chest bulging and arms gesturing grandly. His voice was almost deafening, and he was practically spitting.

"Let us begin," he said, suddenly stopping and bending to thrust his face almost into Tantaerra's, "with your names!"

"Uh," she stammered, terrified and ashamed of being frightened, her face warmed by his breath and spittle, anger rising in her as his gaze dropped from her face to her bare body. "Ah ..."

"You are unsubtly vicious and ambitious," The Masked interrupted crisply, "which leads me to suspect that of the Telcanors, you must be Krzonstal Telcanor. Excuse me—Lord Krzonstal Telcanor. Am I correct?"

Tantaerra tried to turn her head to look at the man she'd hired. He was bluffing—he must be—drawing on some of the replies he'd had from citizens earlier in the day. And with torture and death promised, why not bluff? What was there to lose?

It hadn't taken much eavesdropping to learn that the Telcanors were a large and cruel clan, and this Krzonstal was one of three brothers or cousins—she hadn't sorted them out, though she suspected The Masked had—who led them. He wasn't the head of the family, though, she did know that much, and—

Lord Telcanor had swung around to glare into The Masked's face, their noses almost touching.

"I am Lord Krzonstal Telcanor, and I'm not in the habit of repeating my questions. Give me your name. Or Zreem here—" He flung out an arm to indicate the huge armored man who'd so effortlessly broken Tantaerra's dagger in his hand, and who was now standing impassively behind the lord. "—shall force it out of you. Painfully. We usually begin by breaking fingers."

"Do you? The General Lords will be intrigued to learn that," The Masked replied flatly, gazing fearlessly right back at the snarling noble.

Lord Telcanor recoiled as if he'd been slapped, mouth falling open. Then it clamped shut, his eyes narrowed, and he leaned in close again. "Oh? And how will the General Lords learn of it? Enlighten me."

"They'll learn it from our reports. And if anything happens to us and our reports cease or seem false, from those sent to find out why."

"Your reports?"

"Our reports. Our names don't matter, as we won't give you our true ones. We are special investigators of Molthune, working personally for the General Lords."

"What? You expect me to believe that?"

"Lord Telcanor," The Masked snapped, "I don't expect you to do anything. After what I've just heard you say, I doubt your loyalty to Molthune, your judgment, and your sanity. It is not my business, as an investigator sworn into service personally by Imperial Governor Teldas himself, to 'expect' things. My duty is to observe, pry to learn what lies behind what I can observe, and report. Without altering what I say with my own opinions, expectations, or embroiderments. Your beliefs are your own business. Nevertheless, I and the halfling you have chained beside me are investigators charged to observe certain matters here in Braganza and promptly report what we've seen to the General Lords, and if you—"

Lord Telcanor paled, yet looked about to bluster further. Whatever reply he might have made, however, was lost forever in the almighty crash that followed, as one of the largest panes of the skylight shattered and started to rain down shards all over the gleaming floor.

The giant bodyguard sprang like a tiger to catch Lord Telcanor and sweep him back from the ringing, flying shards, but kept his gaze on something behind Tantaerra's chair that had obviously shattered the skylight—and was now descending into the room.

"Before you rush to strike any of the gongs, Onstal Zreem, you and Lord Telcanor might want to hear what I have to say in private," said a new voice from behind Tantaerra. A loud, calmly commanding voice she recognized.

It was the brown-eyed man from the rooftop in Halidon. He was still hidden from her view behind the chairs where she and The Masked were chained, but glass crunched under unhurried boots as he strode around them.

Lord Telcanor was gaping in earnest now, and Zreem had placed himself protectively in front of his lord, hand on sword hilt and face impassive.

The crunchings stopped. "In the name of Imperial Governor Markwin Teldas, I thank you, Lord Telcanor, for capturing these two dangerous spies. They have long been threats to Molthune, and have eluded some of our best warriors and agents. I've pursued them from Halidon to here. Molthune thanks you, and will soon do so by more than merely my words. So loyal and effective a Molthuni deserves high command, that we may all benefit from such leadership and capability."

Telcanor visibly preened, but managed to ask, almost fawningly, "But ...but who, sir, are you?"

"I am an investigator for Molthune. The High Investigator, as it happens. I am from Canorate, and my name here is Orivin Ahrkholm. I speak with the authority of the Imperial Governor himself."

"And who are these two?" the noble asked, waving a hand at Tantaerra and The Masked. "They would not give me their names."

"Small wonder; I'd not be surprised to learn they never surrender their real names to anyone. Lord Telcanor, you've captured not just two lying imposters but two veteran spies from Nirmathas! Be assured that Canorate will pay for the replacement of your skylight, but I dared not wait a moment longer when I heard them claim to serve the General Lords."

"Nirmathi," the noble breathed, making the word a curse, as he glared at The Masked and then at Tantaerra.

"They are of the enemy, yes," Ahrkholm agreed gravely, turning back into all the glass.

"Where are you going?" Zreem asked sharply.

"I must retrieve the rope," the investigator drawled, "by which I dropped down into the midst of things."

"Leave it," Lord Telcanor commanded, his booming self again. "An idea has occurred to me, and I must confer with my advisor." He nodded to Zreem, who strode to a particular dark gong amid the row of doors.

"You have an advisor, Lord Telcanor?" Ahrkholm asked softly.

The noble looked smug. "A passing fashion among the great houses," he replied, "but mine is the best. A real sage."

"Oh? His name?"

"Tartesper."

The Masked chuckled, causing both Telcanor and Ahrkholm to look at him sharply. "What's so amusing, Nirmathi spy?"

Tantaerra couldn't see The Masked's face, but his voice was gleeful as he replied, "I think you know, Nirmathi spy."

Ahrkholm's laugh was short and scornful. "I'd abandon any clumsy attempts to mislead, if I were you. You're truly caught now; your career is over."

"And how often have you uttered that triumphant little phrase and been wrong, Nirmathi spy?" The Masked asked, his words a sneering challenge.

Tantaerra wished she could see The Masked's face. Did he truly know this Ahrkholm? And other spies, of Molthune and Nirmathas and the gods knew wherever else?

For that matter, was the man of so many masks she'd hired a Nirmathi spy, or a spy for Molthune or someone else? Was Ahrkholm?

And whatever answers she got, from either of them...how could she be certain of the truth?

A door beside Zreem opened, and a black-robed man strode through it. He was short and burly, his jaw fringed with a curling line of ginger beard. He had a pockmarked face, and eyes as hard as two deep brown nails. "Lord Telcanor?"

As he rasped out those two words, Tartesper's gaze swept across everyone in the room—and Tantaerra shivered. This one would kill you as soon as look at you. To him, everyone was a tool to be used. Everyone.

The noble turned quickly. "Ah, Tartesper! I need your wise counsel, to be sure." He lowered his voice to a murmur and drew the sage aside. Zreem shielded them both from Ahrkholm, giving the self-proclaimed High Investigator a stern warning scowl.

Ahrkholm stayed right where he was.

It seemed a very long time before the two men broke off muttering, and Tartesper strode closer to the two chairs and gave their occupants both a long, level look. Tantaerra could read nothing in the cold, dead eyes that locked with hers. No triumph, no contempt, nothing. He did keep his gaze on hers, though, never looking below the chain stretched across her throat.

Then the advisor turned his head to regard Ahrkholm, and it felt like he'd slashed a taut cord binding her to him. Yet even as she slumped in sighing, sweating relief, Tantaerra saw something different had surfaced in the sage's face as he looked at Ahrkholm. These two men knew each other, but were pretending not to. Why? Was it just that Tartesper was a spy for the General Lords, too? Or something more?

Likely something more, because I don't believe Ahrkholm is working for Molthune at all. No Molthuni would have done what he did to those soldiers in Halidon.

Abruptly the advisor spun on his heel and strode back to his door, pausing beside Lord Telcanor to mutter something that made the lord frown and look at Ahrkholm. Zreem held the door open for Tartesper to depart, and firmly closed it again after him, coming forward to flank his lord.

Who smiled broadly, dusted his hands together, and announced to his prisoners, "I have decided to let you live. Freed and unharmed, too! There is, however, a condition."

He fell to pacing back and forth in front of them again, his head lowered between his shoulders as if to shelter from a bitter wind. Cunning was now written across his face—and obvious glee at being able to demonstrate his cunning.

Tantaerra was interested to note that Zreem had moved to face Ahrkholm, and dropped his hands to the hilts of his sword and his dagger. What was going on?

"You two," Telcanor said, "must perform a service for me—something I doubt any true special agents of Molthune would shirk, being as it will benefit our country at the expense of vile Nirmathas."

He turned, smiled broadly, and paced back the other way. "I'm letting you live on the condition that you go to Nirmathas and retrieve something for me."

He spun around and went back to The Masked, thrusting his face forward again. "Well?"

"Speak on," the man chained to the chair replied flatly.

The noble straightened up, simpered, and went to Tantaerra. "Lady halfling, have you ever heard of the Shattered Tomb?"

Tantaerra found her mouth suddenly dry. She licked her lips. "I—I've heard of many," she managed to say. "Which particular shattered tomb do you mean, Lord?"

Telcanor beamed at her. "This one," he said smugly, starting to pace again, hands clasped behind his back, "belongs to a long-dead wizard named Mahalagris. All Nirmathi should have heard of him—but then, you claim to be of Molthune, of course."

Tantaerra had heard of him, but only as a name attached to a passing tale about a mighty spellcaster who'd turned to evil—and there were so many of those.

"I need you to go to his tomb, which I'm told stands at the heart of the ruins of Hurlandrun, in Nirmathas." The noble spun back toward The Masked. "You know where Hurlandrun is, I trust?" The man chained to the chair smiled thinly. "It's a small, abandoned town near the headwaters of the Deepcut River. Abandoned by people, that is, and roamed by beasts. If I can trust the words of a certain veteran agent, back in Canorate, that is. I've never been there."

"Neither have I, but what you've said about it is what I've been told, too." The noble started pacing again, passing in front of Tantaerra now. "In that tomb is something I need you to find and bring here to me, surrendering it without demand or price, and not using any of its powers against me or mine."

"Powers?" The Masked asked quietly.

"Powers. It is a famous thing of magic. The Fearsome Gauntlet, once worn by the Molthuni war hero Korlhar Rahoring, before Mahalagris slew him. A metal gauntlet such as Zreem here is wearing—but this one can blast foes with magic."

"Lord Telcanor," Ahrkholm erupted, "I cannot believe what I'm hearing! You have in your power two enemies of Molthune, and you're setting them free? On some wild treasure hunt they'll forget all about the moment they're out of your reach? What's to stop them just disappearing into Nirmathas? And if they find this gauntlet, what's to keep them from turning it over to their masters in Tamran? I forbid you, in the name of the Imperial Governor—"

Lord Telcanor whirled to face the man who'd shattered his skylight, drew himself up to his full height, and bellowed loudly enough to make Tantaerra's ears ring. "Who are you to forbid me anything? I am Krzonstal Telcanor, and you are a stranger—an intruder into my home—who claims to speak for the Imperial Governor. Well, so do these two prisoners, here in my power!"

Tantaerra blinked. Gods! What had that advisor said to Telcanor to change his attitude to Ahrkholm so utterly and abruptly?

Suddenly the noble let his shoulders, swelling chest, and volume all drop, smiled sweetly, and added, "And as for what's to stop them abandoning their task and just fleeing Molthuni justice—you are. You shall accompany them and watch over them ...and when their work for me is done, you can have them, to do with as you will."

Ahrkholm flung out an almost imploring hand. "But—"

"But, sir," Telcanor purred, "I have only your word that you are the Imperial Governor's High Investigator and they are Nirmathi spies. One of them—we all heard him—calls you a Nirmathi spy. Who then am I to believe? A loyal and prudent Molthuni must proceed with care, for we have only the one country to hazard—and possibly, if we are too rash, lose. And I am a loyal and prudent Molthuni. One of you is lying, the other telling the truth. As long as I send both of you, there will be at least one true investigator there to watch over Molthune's interests."

He started to pace again. "So I am firm in this—" He glanced at Zreem, who gazed expressionlessly back at him ...but had the bodyguard given his master the slightest of nods? What was going on?

"—and these two shall go to Nirmathas for me. Accompany them if you wish, or go elsewhere if you prefer. I know what a loyal Molthuni agent would do. And I think you do, too."

Silence fell. Then Ahrkholm sighed and said, "I shall accompany these two to the Shattered Tomb, and see that they bring you back this gauntlet, and then pass into my custody."

Telcanor smiled triumphantly. "Go, then, with my bodyguard—" He waved at the mountainous Zreem. "—who shall conduct you to suitable quarters for the night. You shall be served a fine meal, and I shall join you later for pleasant conversation, over good wine."

"Lord Telcanor, I have other business to conduct this even—"

"Cancelled. A pity it'll have to wait until this pressing mission for Molthune is done. If it's just passing on a report to a fellow spy for the Imperial Governor, I'm sure you'll manage to do so between here and the Nirmathi border. If it's dropping through someone else's skylight, well—" The noble shrugged. "—they do say that a pleasure deferred is a pleasure intensified. Though I've little personal experience of that, aside from a few private little matters of revenge ..."

"Lord Telcanor—"

The noble turned away, and said over his shoulder, "Your meal awaits. A bath, if you'd like. High Investigator Ahrkholm, you are dismissed."

"But ..."

Telcanor merely waved a denial, and Zreem started ponderously forward. Tantaerra heard Ahrkholm sigh again.

"This way, sir," the huge bodyguard said courteously. "Mind the glass ..."

Tantaerra heard a door close, somewhere behind her. The nobleman rubbed his hands together with a satisfied air, then paced over to stand before his two prisoners in their chairs.

"If you can deliver the Fearsome Gauntlet to me," he said with an almost fond smile, "I'll believe you truly are investigators from the General Lords, and we can work together. For the rest of our lives, and for the greater glory of Molthune. Even abandoning our feud with the Mereirs if need be."

Then he spun away from them—and right around to face them again, the smile replaced by a scowl. "Yet know this: if you are the imposters that high-ranking liar claims you are, and somehow slip away from him and do not bring me the gauntlet, I'll have you hunted and slain on sight, anywhere in Braganza, or Canorate, or Korholm, or any corner of Molthune. Even into Nirmathas. The Telcanors are many, and we have allies few suspect. Believe me, our reach is long—and our wealth reaches farther."

He strode to the wall of doors, struck a gong, and departed the room, leaving them still chained to their chairs.

Tantaerra swallowed. "Masked man, are you ...all right?"

From the other chair came a dry chuckle. "I've been better. Our future looks rather bleak."

Tantaerra tried to nod, found the taut chain made her attempt queasily painful, and settled for sighing instead. "This Lord Telcanor seems less than sane to me."

The chuckle from the other chair was heartier this time. When it ran down, he asked, "Are you sure you or I would really be all that different, if we never had to be polite or hide our true feelings, and had almost our every whim satisfied? Many nobles are little better than spoiled children, and this is one of them."

"Oh? Just how many nobles have you known?"

"You'd be surprised."

Tantaerra opened her mouth to say something sharp to that, but four of the doors facing them opened in unison and the armored men who'd brought them here marched into the room, heading right for them. She sighed again, and fell silent.

∗ ∗ ∗

Tantaerra felt like a prized piece of meat. The guards had been no gentler this time. They'd taken The Masked to another room, handling him even more brutally. She doubted he screamed easily—and he'd screamed more than a few times.

Once she was locked into her own chamber, however, only three of the armored guards had remained, and they'd done nothing but sit and watch as some of the largest and most muscular human women Tantaerra had ever seen had washed her, trimmed her hair and nails, then laid her on a table in a shallow heated and scented bath and gently massaged her bruises. They all had red plump fingers liberally adorned with rings, and they'd washed her wounds with mild wine and covered them with some sort of sticky, daubed gum that smelled of bruised pine needles, that they then covered with strips of new cotton cloth.

Then they'd bundled her into a much-too-long warming robe, sat her in a chair, and fed her the nicest meal she'd ever eaten, some sort of wonderful herbed cream broth over cut-up roast fowl. They'd even brought her seconds when she lifted up the bowl to lick it, then topped it with sugar-iced biscuits and a tiny glass of berry cordial.

Well, if this is how Lord Telcanor mistreated guests, he could mistreat her every night of her life, from now on.

Tantaerra winced at the vivid imaginings that thought brought her, and ruefully reflected that if this little task was half as dangerous as he'd made it sound, there wouldn't be that many more nights of her life. After all, if fetching this magic gauntlet from the Shattered Tomb was easy, someone would have done it years ago.

Yet it must be real, because if Telcanor had just wanted them dead, he could have had his guards wring their necks instead of chaining them to those huge stone chairs—the presence of which suggested he pranced and preened in front of prisoners often. She wasn't sure she agreed with The Masked about his sanity, after all.

She wouldn't be at all surprised if there weren't some secret way into this room, and that His Blustering Lordship wouldn't come creeping in on her before morning.

"Come," one of the guards said brusquely, getting up out of his chair, the other two warriors rising in his wake.

They let her keep the robe, and didn't even lay hands on her, but merely surrounded her and conducted her out of the room, down two long passages and a short one, and brought her into a smaller, cozier bedchamber, windowless but well furnished, with a fourposter grander than any bed she'd ever slept in before. There were two chamber pots, a water-ewer and basin better than the best inns provided, and even a small decanter of what looked like wine, or something stronger. With two crystal glasses, yet!

"Clothing and gear will be brought to you when it's time for you to awaken," the guard announced. "Weapons will be bundled into cloaks and given to you outside the city. Please hold out your arm."

Tantaerra did so rather warily, but all he did was give it a good long look, then ask, "Sword arm right or left?"

"R-right," she answered, taken aback. She was a dagger girl, not really a swordswinger, but—

The door slammed and locked, and she was alone. Barefoot but warm in this room of thick rugs, tapestries, and warmth coming from ...

She drew aside a tapestry.

...an honest-before-the-gods ventilation duct! With an elegant cast metal grate over it that she could have off in a trice, even barehanded, and a horizontal stone shaft far too cramped for any but the smallest human children—but quite big enough for a small halfling. Oho, yes!

Of course, she'd best also search for His Lordship's secret trysting door, not to mention any spyholes she could be watched through. In the ceiling, perhaps, or over the bed ...

No, it had a full canopy. So, the wall panels ...

It took some time, but in the end she could find no holes, and if any panels slid, were hollow, or had hinges, they showed no signs of it to her eyes.

Which of course didn't mean there wasn't a hidden way. Yet if she simply wasn't to be found when Telcanor came calling ...

She shrugged off the robe, went to the grate, and was into the dusty, cobwebby, rough stone shaft in that self-promised trice.

It ran a long, straight way before darkness hid the rest of it from her. This mansion must be huge.

Well, if she were going to get any sleep at all, the time for crawling was now. She set about it, bare-skinned but pleasantly warmed by the breezes blowing along the shaft from distant hearths and the continuous run of metal plates that was meant to carry their heat. Just a halfling doing what halflings all too often did: quietly going where they shouldn't, just to have a look around, and see what advantages might be revealed.

The shaft had gratings opening into room after room, most of them dark and empty. A row of bedchambers, none of them holding The Masked or anyone else she knew. No one was entertaining anyone abed or sorting through jewels or weapons or doing anything else of much interest, and when the shaft came to a sudden bend, she wondered if she should turn back.

Well, not until I've seen the end of it, at least ...

The bend proved to be a dogleg around an older wall of massive fitted stones, like a castle wall. It probably was a castle wall.

Light ahead. More rooms. She almost certainly couldn't do more than look, because the gratings that were so easy to remove from the room sides seemed impossible to shift from inside the shaft with anything short of a smith's hammer or vials of strong acid. But looking was what halflings did.

Someone was talking from the nearest room ahead. Two men, at least, and—

Voices she knew.

With infinite care, Tantaerra crawled forward.

The gratings in her bedchamber and the row it was part of had been down by the floor, but here she was looking down into a room. A small but palatial room.

Lord Telcanor sat at an ornately carved dark wooden table made to seat four, dining alone. There were no nearly nude concubines waiting on him, or anywhere to be seen for that matter, in this bedless room of sideboards and glorious maps and a handwoven carpet the hue of old blood.

Telcanor was being waited on by his formidable bodyguard, Onstal Zreem, who somehow looked even larger and more muscular out of armor. Zreem wore some sort of dark, high-collared jerkin, and was pouring wine and then standing beside his lord with a mouth-cloth held at the ready—but he was talking to Telcanor almost as an equal.

The noble gulped wine like a starving drover, then set his glass down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before Zreem could get the cloth to it, and said dismissively, "You are angry and suspicious—but this is hardly new. You're always suspicious. Particularly of Tartesper. I know the man's a cold and scheming worm, but so is every last sage on all Golarion—odd, every one of them, in one way or another. It's the weight of all that useless knowledge they've crammed between their ears, crushing their brains like soft cheese, I tell you!"

"Lord," the bodyguard replied heavily, "let us pretend I'd never met Tartesper before today, and knew nothing of him. So I confine myself only to what I saw and heard from him when he was in the solar, while you were confronting the two prisoners."

He refilled Telcanor's glass, and the noble swigged from it, set it down, and spread his hands. "Very well. Just what you saw, heard, and sensed in the solar, and have wildly conjectured since. Convince me."

"Lord, Tartesper recognized the man we brought in with the halfling, the one with the masks. I saw that. And he and the one who came through the skylight, too—they know each other, from before tonight. Yet he concealed this from you. For both men. This is some past trickery or unfolding plot of his own. He's using your authority and involving you in it. And it's foolish, lord, a needless risk that weakens your standing among your kin and endangers you personally. Who knows who these fools will talk to, what they'll say when they fall into the wrong hands? They'll name you, sure as—"

"I want them to," Krzonstal Telcanor interrupted firmly, setting down the roast goose he'd been biting into and using that hand to gesture grandly. "How else am I to stand out, among all my posturing and preening uncles? Or rise in the regard of the General Lords? And if they somehow succeed, with the Fearsome Gauntlet I can slay Lord Cole and the Mereirs and anyone else who defies me, and so become Lord of Braganza, in truth if not in name." He shrugged. "Or openly, if I choose to."

"Forgive me, Lord, but how is it that you know so much of this magical gauntlet? I hope you're not trusting overmuch in the details of some tavern tale. Such embellishments—"

"Zreem, Zreem, I have a map showing the location of the tomb—Runstrer's busy making three copies of it for our expendables right now—and I know all about the Fearsome Gauntlet."

"How so, if it's not overbold to ask?"

Rather than being irked at his bodyguard's inquisitiveness, Lord Telcanor sounded gleefully overeager to enlighten the man. "I know what I know, loyal Zreem, because the recovery of that gauntlet from the tomb was a task I was asked to accomplish ten years back, by one of the General Lords, to prove my loyalty and worth."

"What happened to you?"

Telcanor sneered. "I don't gallop to my own suicide because a General Lord orders me to. I never undertook it. I relocated from Korholm to Braganza instead, letting it be known I did so because my latest prayers to Abadar had been answered by a vision showing me dwelling here."

"I see," Zreem said, his voice perfectly neutral as he refilled his lord's glass.

"However," Telcanor said brightly, "no one should be greatly surprised if I take great satisfaction—in the unlikely event that any of our three dolts succeed—in having any survivor who brings me the Fearsome Gauntlet murdered, then claiming the recovery of the Fearsome Gauntlet as my own deed. Redeeming my standing in the eyes of the General Lords."

Zreem let a slow, thin smile cross his face, nodded as if in satisfaction, then asked if his lord had any other orders for him before he retired.

Smooth. Not a hint of contempt, yet Tantaerra could feel it clear across the room and through the grating. On the other side of the metal, Lord Telcanor was now dismissing his bodyguard and taking personal possession of the decanter and all that was left in it. He was well on his way to being too drunk to molest anyone whose bedchamber he got into, thank Cayden Cailean.

Tantaerra decided it was high time she returned to her room before her absence was discovered, and hastened back along the shaft. She scraped the worst of the cobwebs off on the grating, settled it back into place, and dived into bed.

The covers were barely up to her chin before the door opened without knock or warning to reveal a trio of the large women who'd bathed her, all of them warmly gowned. The foremost bore a silver tray.

"A posset for the night, lady? Warm milk from His Lordship's own herd, boiled with the finest from the cellars! No finer to be had in any palace in any land!"

The rearmost pair of women had brought a warming pan to make her toes toasty.

Tantaerra blinked. She could get used to this. And, well, it just might be the last wine she'd ever have, so boiled with milk or not ...

Chapter Nine

Go to Your Deaths

Braganza looked even more soaringly impressive when you were marching down one of its widest streets amid your very own cohort of guards.

Of course, it would likely be even nicer if they weren't also your very own jailers, but ...

At least she had her sense of humor back, Tantaerra reflected. A superb meal and a splendid bed, not to mention something warm and wonderful in the little decanter that was strong enough to drive away all taste of the posset, did wonders for fear, despair, and shame. Leaving her merely doomed.

It was a chill, clear morning, but Tantaerra was dressed in the finest clothes she'd ever possessed. They fit, too, which meant at least one of those overlarge women could judge size shrewdly, though providing footwear at such short notice had evidently defeated them, and she'd been given her own boots back. Freshly soled, shined, and repaired, mind you. Yes, she could get used to being the prisoner of a mad noble ...

She looked over at The Masked, who was wearing one of his concealing masks once again, and was terse indeed this morning. Beneath his fine new clothes—leather vest over fine tunic, and leather foresters' jerkin over that—yellow-blue bruises covered his skin. His night had obviously been far worse night than hers.

They were briskly marching, three abreast—The Masked on Tantaerra's left, and the man who was calling himself Orivin Ahrkholm on her right—because the wedge of more than forty Telcanor guards surrounding them was marching briskly, and the once-more-armored mountain Onstal Zreem was marching right behind the trio. Behind him were six Telcanor guards with spears ready to jab any prisoner who wanted to change the pace, or head in any independent direction. Tantaerra, thanks to a genuine stumble, already had a still-smarting reminder that those spears were sharp.

Onstal Zreem was marching them out of the city in obedience to Lord Krzonstal Telcanor's orders, and if there'd been any doubt in anyone's mind as to the power of House Telcanor in Braganza, it would have been swept away in an instant as Watchguard patrol after Watchguard patrol silently gave way before the marching Telcanors.

It was all rather eerie. No one was jeering, and no one was throwing things. In fact, citizens seemed to literally turn away at the sight of all the armored Telcanor marchers.

In a surprisingly short time they were through still-awakening Braganza and its westernmost gate, then along a cart-road until they were well out of bowshot of the walls, and then off the cart-road to a grassy knoll where a ring of Telcanor warriors were guarding some hardy-looking and securely hobbled saddle-horses.

"Your mounts," Zreem said flatly, removing his helm and hanging it on a hook jutting from his belt, high on one hip. "Provided by the Telcanor stables, of course. A waste of good horseflesh."

He looked down at Tantaerra. "You can ride, I suppose?"

She looked right back up at him, and managed an almost perfect mimicry of his tone. "You can walk, I suppose?"

Without a word, his unreadable expression as unchanging as the metal plates of his armor, the huge bodyguard turned away to pluck a bundle from the arms of a waiting warrior and toss it to Ahrkholm. It clanked when caught; a cloak wrapped around the self-proclaimed High Investigator's short sword and daggers.

Zreem promptly took a second bundle from a second warrior and hurled it at The Masked, who caught it rather stiffly. The huge Telcanor warrior jerked his head in a silent order as he took Tantaerra's much smaller bundle into his hands, and suddenly the Telcanor host was on the move, heading briskly down off the knoll and back toward Braganza.

Leaving the three prisoners and the bodyguard alone on the knoll with three hobbled horses, as a wind started to rise and stir the open grasslands all around.

Tantaerra's bundle caught her squarely in the face. Payback from a man who obviously didn't bother waiting long to take his little revenges.

She clawed at her knives, not waiting for her eyes to stop smarting and streaming from the blow. Around The Masked, not to mention this "Ahrkholm," things had a habit of happening fast.

Already Zreem was standing in front of Ahrkholm and proffering a small roll of parchment. "A map to the Shattered Tomb."

Ahrkholm accepted it with a half-smile. When Lord Telcanor's bodyguard turned to march over to The Masked, another map in his hand, the brown-eyed man drew one of the daggers that had just been returned to him and threw it hard at the exposed back of the bodyguard's neck.

Zreem ducked and sidestepped smoothly as if he'd expected the throw, letting the dagger sail past his shoulder and on.

He said nothing, and the almost smiling, slightly contemptuous expression on his face didn't change. He held forth The Masked's copy and announced, "A map to the Shattered Tomb."

When The Masked wasn't quite quick enough to take the parchment, Zreem let it fall through the air and strode on to Tantaerra, who had all her weapons back in place—even the picks back to exactly where in her hair she preferred to let them ride—and her cloak around her shoulders.

"Details of the route to what will become my tomb?" she asked lightly.

"A map to the Shattered Tomb," he replied flatly. The moment she took the parchment from him, he turned, deftly struck a second hurled dagger from Ahrkholm out of the air with his forearm, and announced to them all, "You are hereby ordered, in the name of Lord Krzonstal Telcanor, to set forth immediately on your mission, tarrying not near Braganza nor returning to it this day. So go, now. Go to your deaths."

The bodyguard turned to face Ahrkholm fully—just as two more daggers came whirling at his face, one right behind the other. With contemptuous ease, he plucked them both out of the air and tossed them over his shoulder into the trampled grass.

"If you're pondering the wisdom of abandoning this task and just fleeing, be aware that you'll die about a month from now. A long, slow, agonizing death, as the spells that were covertly cast on all three of you as you slept will really take hold in your innards. My master can end those spells in an instant, of course, when you return to him. Or rather, if you return, bearing the gauntlet, and freely surrender it to him."

"What?!" Choked with rising fear and terror, Tantaerra entirely lost control of her temper. "You heartless, treacherous mothershun! You thrice-poxed cur! You wormspine!"

Zreem smiled at her almost fondly. "Life," he observed, "is so unfair."

Then he put his helm back on and strode away, ignoring the last dagger Ahrkholm threw. It clanged off the crested back of his magnificent helm without apparent effect.

Tantaerra continued to shout curses at the towering bodyguard as he dwindled into the distance, returning to the city, until The Masked sighed in exasperation and came to stand beside her. "Calm yourself, little one. He's lying."

"Oh? And how can you be sure?" she snapped at him.

"He's lying," Ahrkholm agreed flatly, from where he was bent over searching for the two daggers Zreem had tossed away together. "There's a spell at work on that advisor of his, probably a disguise, but no one worked magic on us while we were in the Telcanor mansion. I would know."

"Oh?" Tantaerra asked, making the word a challenge. "How, exactly?"

He shrugged, then smiled. "Some secrets, I keep."

∗ ∗ ∗

"So why did you try to kill him?" The Masked asked, as the sun sank low and their saddles creaked under them.

"Zreem?" Ahrkholm asked, then shrugged. "I didn't like him. Still don't."

"You know him, don't you?" Tantaerra asked, letting the suspicion she felt show clearly as she peered up at the brown-eyed man. "From before yesterday."

The only answer he gave her, before he spurred away, was a smirk. He guided his mount well off to one side of The Masked and Tantaerra, to within shouting distance but too far for casual conversation to be overheard.

It was the same response he'd made earlier, when Tantaerra had asked him who he really was and why he'd followed them from Halidon.

They were an unlikely trio, riding across the rolling hills toward Nirmathas. Somewhere ahead was the Inkwater River, and all around them were farms and open ranchland, crisscrossed by winding cart tracks.

Their horses were experienced war-mounts: tough, stolid, and swift when urged with spurs, easily up to the tasks of dodging suspicious Molthuni patrols and keeping clear of the dustraisers—army units marching to participate in the latest invasion of Nirmathas. On maps, this part of Molthune was almost empty—"a whole lot of nothing," as one of Hroalund's clients back in Canorate had put it—but it was becoming clear to Tantaerra just how much that "lot" was. As in, days of riding, not a long afternoon.

This first day was coming to an end now, the sun sinking low. The few trees in sight cast impossibly long shadows across the land. The rising breeze was taking all warmth along with it, reminding her that their cloaks were not stylish luxuries or mere rain protection.

Ah, yes, rain ...

Tantaerra studied the sky, sniffed the air, and relaxed. Oh, there'd be night-damp and a heavy dawn mist, but she couldn't sense any coming rain.

Which was good, because rain would have made her misery complete.

They were riding right into a messy, long-drawn-out war, and a land ravaged by it. On a mission that looked to be, to put it gently, suicidal, if not utterly impossible. With a companion she trusted not at all.

All day long she'd been keeping a close eye on the man who was calling himself Ahrkholm, and although he wasn't as obvious about it, she could tell The Masked was, too. Ahrkholm had shown no signs of tossing any knives their way, but it was hard to forget that sudden, casual, and entirely unannounced volley of daggers the self-proclaimed High Investigator had hurled at Zreem. He'd recovered at least three of them—who knew how many more he had hidden on his person? If she herself were anything to go by ...

She couldn't stay awake forever, and neither could The Masked. Just one of those knives could end their lives in an instant—this very night, perhaps, long before they got anywhere near the killing traps and fell magics that undoubtedly guarded a wizard's tomb.

She rode nearer to The Masked. "I fear knives in the dark," she told him, nodding in the direction of Ahrkholm, who was riding off to their right, smiling his easy smile. "What'll we do?"

"Take turns staying awake and keeping watch," he replied.

Tantaerra yawned suddenly. Gods, where had that come from? It must have been hearing the word "awake."

"Stay awake how?" she asked sharply.

"We find a stream. The one keeping watch stands with one foot in it. The water will be cold, believe me. When that foot goes numb, go and step on a stone we've warmed by our fire—which we'll let burn out, but the stone'll stay hot a long time. Then take your burned foot back to the cold water. When you get bored, change feet. But make sure the wet one is unshod."

"Great," Tantaerra told him. "Well, at least footwear isn't going to get overly damaged in all of this to-do."

"Neither," The Masked reminded her, "is your throat."

∗ ∗ ∗

That evening and the next, The Masked and Tantaerra were quietly hostile toward Ahrkholm. He fell into smiling silence, and rode away from them as each dusk deepened to camp off by himself, somewhere out of sight.

Though they stood watch, neither he nor anything larger than very small prowling things came anywhere near where they slept.

The dawns were shiveringly cold, but the saddlebags of the Telcanor horses supplied kindling as well as frymeat and little three-legged cauldrons for broth.

On their second morning, Tantaerra looked up from the broth she was tending as the first wisps of steam started to rise from it, saw that Ahrkholm was still nowhere to be seen, and asked suddenly, "So ...the mask that cursed you ...they took it, yes? You're free of it?"

He laughed sharply. "No such luck, I'm afraid. When they removed the mundane mask, I managed to activate the temporary illusion trinket I carry, just in case I need to go unmasked. By the time they got to my crotch, where the real mask was stuffed down my breeches, it had already moved to my face, where the illusion hid it as well.

Tantaerra winced. "Moved? So it's alive?"

The Masked nodded grimly. "I think so."

Tantaerra paused, considering, then set the matter aside. "So how come you don't use illusion spells all the time?"

The Masked shook his head. "Do you have any idea how much an illusion spell like that costs, princess?"

Tantaerra sighed, wrapped her hands around the cauldron to warm them. "Fair enough. So what of this Ahrkholm? What do you think he's really after?"

The Masked shook his head. "Unbridled speculation can be more dangerous than not knowing, little one. Bide, watch, and listen, and perhaps he'll let something slip."

His gaze lifted to look over her. "And here he comes now."

So by day they rode as three, deeper into a deserted Molthune of burned barns and neglected fields, closer to Nirmathas.

The Masked and Tantaerra always moved their camp after Ahrkholm left them, suspecting he'd direct Molthune's patrols to find and capture or kill them—but no matter where they went or what detours they tried the next day, Ahrkholm found them before daylight failed, to silently ride beside them.

As they muttered to each other forehead to forehead in the deepening night, reaching agreement that it was now too risky to light a fire, Tantaerra whispered, "You think he has magical powers?"

The Masked shrugged. "Some magical means of tracing us, perhaps. Competent spellhurlers are rarer than all the tales will have you think."

"So what then?"

The Masked shrugged. "Await his treachery or some revelation of what he's up to. What else can we do?"

Tantaerra nodded—and then froze.

By all the gods! For the first time in years, I'm trusting a man. She looked at him, a dark shape in the gloom, lying down with his cloak wrapped around himself, preparing to sleep while she stood first watch. Trusting her.

He was only one man. Yet would this trust be as foolishly misplaced as every earlier instance?

The night gave her back no answer.

∗ ∗ ∗

Tantaerra reined her tired mount to a halt. "Is that what I think it is?"

The Masked nodded. "The Inkwater," he confirmed. "The border."

"There's no bridge, is there?"

"None. And the water's fast and cold."

"Then we can't take the horses across."

"Your tactical brilliance continues unabated."

Tantaerra made a rude sound, and gave him a rude gesture to go with it. "Suppose you demonstrate your tactical brilliance by telling me what we do now."

"Dismount. We're too close to the river as it is. Both Molthune and Nirmathas loose a lot of arrows and bolts across the Inkwater—and riders are nice tall targets."

"Back to that hollow we just rode through?"

The Masked nodded approvingly. "As good a place as any. Better than most."

"Any sign of Ahrkholm?"

"Yes. He's two hills that way. Right—there."

Tantaerra peered along the masked man's pointing arm, but could see only rolling hills, a hedge along a long-abandoned farm fence line of old stumps and boulders, and long grass swaying in the breeze. A lot of long grass, swaying in the breeze.

She waved in exasperated dismissal at the view, and turned away.

"He ducked down when I pointed," The Masked told her. "I think he's afraid of you."

"Very amusing," she muttered. "So, clevertongue, how're we going to get into Nirmathas without wearing a few dozen arrows each? Wait until dark?"

"Wait until dark. After using what remains of the day to find the best place to cross."

"And that would be?"

"A good thick stand of trees on the Nirmathi side, or better yet a forest. A forest downstream of a swamp, so we can cross level with the swamp, where Nirmathi bowmen can't wait in a tidy line to send arrows down our throats, and drift with the river flow down to where we can go ashore under cover of bushes and trees, somewhere a little drier than the sucking mud of full swamp."

"Sounds hoof-thuddingly sensible to me. I'd be happier if I didn't think every last Molthuni commander has reasoned just as you have, and sought the same things—giving the Nirmathi good training in knowing where crossings will be tried, and waiting there in force, with traps to deal with anyone seeking a way across the Inkwater from Molthune."

The Masked nodded. "So we give them a diversion."

"Such as?"

"A fire. Something on fire that's trying to cross the river, or at least floating down it. While we cross where they aren't looking because of that fire."

Tantaerra nodded. "I just knew I'd end up getting wet again. So what do we set on fire? I'm guessing any boats around here are going to be very well guarded—and I doubt that horse's hind end of a Telcanor lord has bothered to even let the soldiers of Molthune know we're coming, let alone ordered them to help us or stay out of our way."

"I share both that guess and that doubt," The Masked replied calmly. "So we'll go looking for a log, and something eye-catching to prop up on it."

"Such as?"

"Such as a screaming, thrashing, on-fire Ahrkholm—or failing that, any handy Molthuni warrior who gives us grief."

"That," a deep voice said out of the darkness very close by, "sounds almost like a cue."

Tantaerra froze, then turned reluctantly to see who'd spoken.

A dozen Molthuni warriors with mud-covered faces and tufts of grass covering their helms and shoulders were rising with menacing slowness out of the tall grass around the hollow, cocked and loaded crossbows aimed at the mounted man and halfling.

"So," The Masked greeted him calmly, "did you hear it all, or must I explain it to you?"

"I'd appreciate knowing just which horse's hind end of a Telcanor lord has sent you two doomed idiots here, and on what task," the deep-voiced Molthuni officer replied. "Oh, and draw no weapons and make no sudden moves, if you don't mind."

"There's another man nearby, somewhere yonder," The Masked said, moving his arm very slowly to point, "who was sent out on the same mission."

"And who you don't trust," the officer replied, smiling thinly. "I'm waiting."

"Lord Krzonstal Telcanor of Braganza sent us," The Masked said quickly, "to recover a gauntlet from the Shattered Tomb, in Hurlandrun, in Nirmathas. On the orders of the General Lords."

"I see," said the officer. "You don't look like the usual sort of agent the Telcanors send to do their bloody-work."

"It's a slow month for Telcanor recruiting," The Masked replied calmly. "We're something like 'found goods.'"

The officer's thin smile grew more full. "Coerced goods, you mean."

The Masked nodded gravely, and the officer looked even more pleased.

"Well, now. It's not often we gain two such splendid horses, and I'm inclined to assist you in your little plan. Both for purposes of entertainment, and because those trees armor the Nirmathi across the river all too well, and I'd love to draw some of them out to where I can sink a few bolts home."

"You'll help us?"

"We'll help you. As it happens, we've two boats that are far too rotten to repair, and the remnants of no less than three Nirmathi rafts. Not to mention some camp refuse and the carcass of a foam-jawed wolf that tried to take down one of our oxen two nights back. I'm inclined to put them all together and give you your fiery diversion. It'll give us light to shoot by."

"Won't the river just carry the flames downstream while the Nirmathi watch? What's to make them shoot?"

The officer's smile turned cruel. "Over years of patrolling, we've made quite a trail along our riverbank. The most troublesome of our soldiers will be detailed to ride along it, with ready crossbows. I doubt the Nirmathi will be able to resist the targets, given how roused they'll be by flames coming right at them."

"Right at them?" The Masked asked, eyes narrowing.

"As close to right at them as you two can manage," the officer replied. "Swimming as hard as you can and towing our fire-barges to the far bank. If you can start a fire there, and burn off some of that cover ...well, forest fire or not, I'm always happy to assist intrepid agents of Molthune."

The Masked chuckled grimly. After a moment, the officer joined in.

Tantaerra sighed. "This sort of thing is going to get me killed someday."

Some of the other Molthuni soldiers snickered at that, as they reached for the bridle of her horse.

"Masked man," she asked quickly, "do we?"

The Masked gave her a meaningful look. "Go along with this gallant, generous, and patriotic offer of aid? Of course, and with no dissembling!"

So Tantaerra let out another sigh, relaxed, and let the soldiers reach her down from her horse. They found it necessary to paw at her chest in the process, of course, but she bit back her sharp response—and caught sight of a silver ring that looked familiar on one soldier's hairy-backed hand. Where had she seen one of like design before?

In moments they were all down in the hollow, with the Molthuni going through their saddlebags, amid a ring of sentinels watching for unwanted arrivals. Two of them saw Ahrkholm even before The Masked did, and loosed bolts that hissed through the tall grasses at him, but probably didn't bite home. When several soldiers bounded hastily into that cover to look for him, drawn blades in hand, they found no one.

By then, The Masked and Tantaerra had been handed their saddlebags and invited to dine while they waited for dark.

They accepted, finding the stew and hardbread of the soldiery quite palatable as they sipped watered smallbeer and listened to the hammers and mallets of Molthuni working on the fire-rafts. During their meal, the officer politely asked them endless questions about their dealings with Lord Telcanor and their past careers, and The Masked politely supplied him with endless falsehoods as answers. And asked a few questions of his own, which is how they learned that the war had settled down into a ceaseless, fairly balanced, back-and-forth affair. Molthune mounted foray after foray into Nirmathas, seeking to slay Nirmathi warriors, burn crops, and destroy weapons and fortresses—and then withdrew, because they knew if they tarried overlong, it would mean death by guerrillas and snipers that killed and poisoned before slipping back into the trees. Still, Nirmathas had not the strength to mount any concerted invasion of Molthune, and death by death, season by season, Molthune was emptying Nirmathas of effective opposition. Someday, Nirmathas would again be part of Molthune. As it rightfully should be.

Tantaerra and The Masked nodded and mumbled assent in the right places as the officer warmed to his argument. Why did the stubborn Nirmathi refuse the good roads, better laws, and surer supplies of abundant food and wine that Molthuni citizenship would give them? No sane man would refuse such things! It must be bad leadership, bolstered by the resentment and blood-feuding of all these years of strife, it must, and...

The officer waved his hands, almost spilling his tankard, and Tantaerra saw a silver ring on his hand that matched the one worn by the soldier who'd lifted her down from her saddle. And suddenly she remembered where she'd seen it before: on the plump red finger of one of the bath women back in the Telcanor mansion.

A mark of Telcanor, then. Which meant this officer probably knew all about them, and was intended to help them across the Inkwater—indeed, had probably known it before they blundered into his stretch of riverbank. One fast rider sent out from Braganza before dawn could have forewarned him.

And Tarram had been supplying him with outrageous lies this entire meal! Oh, gods! But how to tell him, before his tongue hastened their common doom?

If she caught his eye and used one hand to rub a finger of the other—the same finger and spot on it where the officer was wearing his ...

She did, and was startled to see The Masked wink at her, then—while agreeing aloud with the officer's praise of the benefits of Molthuni society—he casually waved a hand in the man's direction. Tantaerra looked where he was gesturing, and found the officer giving her a smug smile. Damned if the deep-voiced Molthuni didn't wink at her, too!

So the officer and The Masked had both known that Lord Telcanor's mission into Nirmathas was to be aided by Telcanor Molthuni on patrol. This was all a big game to them.

She felt her face flaming, and raised her almost-empty mug to cover most of it. These damned men! They were enjoying this! Both were acting like ...

Like the very spies she and The Masked were pretending to be.

Or was The Masked pretending? Could he really be a Telcanor spy, or working for the Lord of Braganza? Or even the General Lords?

Tantaerra let a little of the thin, sour beer slide onto her tongue, held it there, and thought hard.

She couldn't tell. She just couldn't tell.

He was keeping secrets from her, details not from his long and colorful past, but rather having to do with this task they'd been set, this Shattered Tomb and the dead wizard and the Fearsome Gauntlet. But how to get him to spill them?

And did it matter, when they might both be dead before morning?

∗ ∗ ∗

Where was Ahrkholm? There'd been no sign of him since back in the hollow, but he was out there somewhere in the night, watching; Tantaerra could feel the cold weight of his sneering gaze.

Yes, even in the numbing cold that was leaving her gasping, too chilled to do more than feebly fight the rush of the river.

The Inkwater was even colder than she'd feared, and was sweeping them northeast at a great rate, as if impatient to leave its headwaters far behind and greet its end in Lake Encarthan.

There was bright moonlight and there were few clouds this night, of course; that was merely the mirth of the gods. So the river was shot through with silver here, there, and everywhere as it flowed, far too strong for even The Masked to pull his fire-raft much across the river. And then there were their clothes and weapons each lashed to one leg, making swimming in this rushing water like hauling along a heavy monster that had its jaws closed around your knee ...

Mostly, they were swept helplessly along, and had probably left behind the stretch of river under the Telcanor officer's command long ago.

Which meant, sooner or later, and probably sooner...

"Foul Nirmathi spies!"

Sooner.

That angry shout had come from a Molthuni officer, and his next words were some sort of snarled order that urged his patrol into a gallop along the well-used road that followed the Molthuni side of the river.

Either this was a ruse to make any watching Nirmathi think she and The Masked were Nirmathi—or these particular Molthuni truly thought they were Nirmathi. Her head was starting to ache again. Damn all humans and their trickery and double-dealing.

"Die!" the officer shouted, and Tantaerra ducked down under the swirling water and started to claw her way along the lashings that held her ungainly fire-raft together. It was blazing away merrily, of course, the strong reek of rotting wolf turning to the stronger stink of cooked rotting wolf, but if she could get between the two rotting hulls, or at least put one of them between her and the Molthuni crossbows ...

Bolts thudded into the wood above her with strikes she could feel, and plunged into the water around her with surprisingly loud plooshing noises. She could hear them hitting The Masked's raft, too, sharper and louder slammings like cobblers' hammers missing leather and hitting wooden lasts. She kicked and clawed frantically, starving for air now but determined to get past the first hull. They couldn't all miss ...

She came up out of the face-slapping water with a gasp, past the hull, the rope she was supposed to be towing the raft across to Nirmathas with now hopelessly tangled around her neck and shoulder and breasts. Gods damn all conniving Telcanors! Why—

Suddenly the leaping flames above her and the starry night sky above them were full of hummings, menacing racing hums, west to east, that tore through flames and charred wood and Molthuni horses and Molthuni throats.

A volley of Nirmathi arrows from the far bank! A hail of racing arrows that just kept coming, hissing and humming through the night like so many angry wasps—arrows that brought crashes and screams and hoarse cries from the Molthuni patrol. Tantaerra saw moonlight to her left, and risked thrusting her head up through that hole into the smoke and sparks and still-hungry flames, to look toward Molthune.

Riderless horses bucked and galloped, tossing their snorting heads in fear. Though the arrows had now stopped, they'd struck home; there wasn't a mounted warrior to be seen anywhere on the riverbank road. The entire Molthuni patrol was unhorsed!

Suddenly, a hand grabbed her from below.

Tantaerra let out a scream of her own that became a gargling, glubbing choking as she went under. An instant later, that same hand rammed her up against the burning boards above her, banging her head and shoulders but slamming a lot of that water back out of her. Helplessly she coughed and wept and spat, writhing in pain as the racing river slapped her across the face again, and then ...

She was blinking into a face she knew. Or rather, a mask she knew.

"How—?" she managed to choke out.

"Abandoned my raft," he panted, holding her out of the water so she could drool out the last of what had been flooding her and gasp in air again. "Let's pick the right time ...to leave yours."

Tantaerra nodded, or tried to.

She was still trying when The Masked looked into the bright wash of moonlight ahead, pointed at a bend where the Inkwater turned east to carve into Molthune, and gasped, "Now!"

And before she could even protest, he'd hauled at her, easily breaking her numbed grip on wet lashings. Her tow-rope sawed and burned under one breast, tumbling her—

And was abruptly gone, and the raft with it.

Moonlight bathed her as she bobbed, a strong arm hooked under hers. It caught the flash of The Masked's knife as he put it away. Then he was swimming strongly, heading for Nirmathas as the river bend brought it up in front of them like a wall. Dying flames were swept away off to Tantaerra's right as The Masked fought the flow, spume bubbling around them and racing on.

It seemed so close, but root after leaning tree after rock-studded overhang swept past and was left behind as the river clawed them on.

The Masked was swimming more feebly now, stroking in fits and starts and being swept along between them. Would he ...

Slimy rocks bruised their knees and hands and they were tumbling again, evil smells rising around them as they rolled in river mud, slammed into the upthrust roots of a tree that had drowned long ago, and ...

The Masked was dragging her, no longer swimming but crawling, splashing up onto a slope of mud that was studded with sharp stones and crisscrossed with weed-shrouded roots—and suddenly alive with men and women in leather, swords in their hands and angry glares on their faces as they burst from the dark trees above the riverbank, a dozen or more.

"Die, Molthuni!" one hissed, as they clambered down to meet The Masked.

Tantaerra looked up at the dripping and exhausted man she'd hired and come so far with, as he hurriedly let go of her and snatched at his daggers.

He could run, she thought. Without her short legs slowing him down, he might make it to the trees. Yet he placed himself between her and danger, time and again.

She reached up and touched his side. He looked down at her, eyes curious behind the dark mask.

Then he turned back to meet the oncoming Nirmathi.

Chapter Ten

Welcome to Nirmathas

Now!" a voice snapped, from across the river behind her.

Tantaerra whirled around in time to see Molthuni soldier after Molthuni soldier stand up amid the tall grass on the far riverbank, aim and fire a crossbow, then duck down again to bob up once more, mere moments later, with a second cocked and loaded crossbow, and fire again. Flame flared among them, and became a high-arcing bolt trailing blazing strips of cloth, that fell into the river and went out with a sigh. A second fire-quarrel followed, and a third, the last one landing high in the leaves of a Nirmathi riverbank tree, that promptly blazed up with a sudden crackle.

In its light, The Masked and Tantaerra could clearly see that of the score or more Nirmathi who'd emerged to capture two wet invaders, only three were unscathed, with five groaning wounded—and all the rest now fallen, sprawled still with bolts protruding from them, and dark trails of blood sinking into the mud.

"Thank you!" called the voice that had snapped the order to fire, and this time Tantaerra knew it. The deep-voiced Telcanor officer who'd fed them back in the hollow. He and his men must have been moving downriver under cover all this time, just waiting for Nirmathi to show themselves.

Then branches snapped and underbrush crackled, and the three surviving Nirmathi who'd been crouching and drawing back from the exposed riverbank were joined by a dozen more.

Three had bows, and died under a hissing hail of fire from the Molthuni force. The others surged down the bank at The Masked.

From the Molthune side of the river arose a great whirring of windlasses as crossbows were hastily cranked, but with seven or more swords against The Masked's sword and dagger, wielded by a man lower than his assailants and mired in the soft and sucking river mud, the Molthuni would have to reload very quickly, or their next volley would come too late ...

Tantaerra hurried to a stone she could see protruding from the mud, hoping it was large and settled enough to be stable under her as she threw daggers. Not that she had enough of them to bite all the Nirmathi now warily advancing on The Masked, even if every hurled blade counted.

The Masked didn't wait to be hewn down. He backed into the water toward Tantaerra, snapping, "To me!" over his shoulder at her.

The one Nirmathi who decided to rush him discovered the hard way just how soft and deeply sucking the mud where The Masked had been standing was. He struggled to stay upright, plunging to his knees in the wet holes the masked man's boots had left behind. It was a fight he lost.

The Masked pounced ruthlessly, slashing the back of the man's neck and then springing onto his falling body with both knees, driving the Nirmathi's face deep into the slurry of water and mud and water trying to be mud.

The man writhed briefly, then lay still—and The Masked stood on him, going into a warrior's crouch, sword and dagger ready.

The Nirmathi drew back, looking to the trees behind. They were still contemplating returning to cover when a tall, broad-shouldered man strode out of those trees, hefting a battleaxe. Grinning savagely, he stalked down the muddy bank right at The Masked. The other Nirmathi parted to let him through, and he loomed up over the intruder from across the river, let out a triumphant yell, and raised his axe high for a vicious chop.

He was still bellowing bloodthirstily when a crossbow bolt took him under the chin with a thud that rocked him, set him to gargling, and made the axe fly from his hands. It struck the Nirmathi beside him senseless and toppling into the moonlit river with a mighty splash.

Into the heart of this man, The Masked sheathed both blades, then leaned over in the mud with arm outstretched and plucked Tantaerra off her feet. Hauling her against his chest, he snarled, "Play dead!"

His other hand grabbed a good fistful of the gurgling, dying axe-man's tunic-front and pulled the Nirmathi down on top of them both as he flung himself over backward into the Inkwater.

Tantaerra's gasp was almost a shriek, but the icy chill robbed her of breath. Amid all the humming crossbow bolts, thrumming arrows, and eagerly murderous Nirmathi, it suddenly struck her just how shockingly, breath-robbingly cold it was.

They went deep, bubbles thundering and coiling around her, unseen slimy rocks bruising and bumping, then slowly rose back up toward the moon ...probably a long way downstream of where all those Nirmathi now lay dead. The Masked was hauling her face free of the river, but he wasn't thrashing about or swimming, just drifting as the racing river swept them along.

He was playing dead, just as he'd commanded her to. Well, this was one order she'd obey. Tantaerra blinked water from her eyes and let herself go still, staring up at the stars.

And promptly saw arrows speeding past over her, from Nirmathas.

Then came a hail of Molthuni crossbow bolts racing past in the other direction. Grunts and choking cries arose, then splashes, as dying and dead men toppled into the Inkwater to join her. Nirmathi casualties, all, but then she was too far from the Molthuni bank to see or hear any dead soldiers of Molthune falling in.

She started to shiver, and knew The Masked could feel it. His arm was under and around her, and he gave her shoulder a squeeze of reassurance. She felt his body twist in a slow, careful kick that sent the dead Nirmathi toward Nirmathas ...but not away from them, which meant the masked man must have his foot hooked around the corpse.

Would they get tangled, and dragged down? Did he need one of her knives? No, this must be deliberate, must be ...she felt the corpse strike something that bumped and slowed it, then hit something else, then snag.

Of course. The Masked was using the dead man like an anchor or grapple, to snag on rocks and roots and suchlike along the Nirmathi bank. While trying to look to any watching Nirmathi eyes as if they were all dead bodies being swept downstream by the river.

Suddenly the moonlight was blotted out, and the corpse, which had been rolled free of the snag by the relentless Inkwater, caught on something else.

In a trice The Masked was kicking and clawing in the river, dislodged stones rolling under them as he snatched and thrashed and finally caught hold of something, rolling them both clear of the rushing waters, into a tangle of exposed roots and heaped stones. A leaning overhang of trees that were well on the way to toppling into the river hid them from the moon—and hopefully from any watching Nirmathi.

The axe-man's body was thankfully gone, swept farther down the river. Tantaerra discovered the bundle lashed to her leg was gone too, lost somewhere in all the tumbling and tumult—and she knew from seeing The Masked facing those Nirmathi on the muddy bank earlier that he'd lost his. Which meant they were without food, wineskins, blankets, and any clothes beyond what was plastered to them now, sodden and cold.

"C-c-cold," Tantaerra hissed at him, through blue and trembling lips, just in case he was thinking of hiding here.

"We'll warm up by getting as far from here as we can before dawn," he muttered back. "Come on!"

He clambered up over the edge of the overhang, drawn sword menacing boughs, thick leaves, and Nirmathi foes who weren't there. Tantaerra swarmed up some of those branches after him, and he set off along one edge of the bushes in a cautious crawl, heading inland.

Only to freeze, as someone groaned very close by. A wet drizzling sound followed, then a man said roughly, "Ohhhh, that's better. What was in that fireguzzle, anyway? Teach me to trust Zostur!"

"Wasn't Zostur's cheap wine," another man replied sourly, from farther off. "'Twas the stew."

"The stew? I hardly had any!"

"Doesn't take much, Keln. I watered half riverside Nirmathas the last time I tried Braeron's stew. Learn this well, lad: you have to pay attention to who's doing the cooking, and eat accordingly. That's just wise strategy, that is!"

"Hunh," Keln commented, stumbling away from where The Masked and Tantaerra lay motionless. "Wouldn't it be tactics, now? Or not ...I never could keep those two straight."

"Don't bother. For us, it's simple enough: Molthuni invade, and we kill them. If we don't, we lose our country. They have all the coin—thus all the soldiers—and so we keep hidden and strike when we can get away again alive."

"Except here at the river."

"Except here. We can't let 'em cross the Inkwater too easily, or they'll arrive in force without us knowing about it. There're Molthuni armies marauding around due west of here right now, you know."

"What? Why?"

"Because they want to, that's why."

"No, I mean: why do we let them maraud?"

"Because if we stand forth in bold battle lines to stop them, they'll carve us to frymeat, that's why! Now climb back up into the watch-tree, master strategist, and stop prating. You'll have all the invading Molthuni around here awake and listening."

"Hunh!" Keln said scornfully. "There aren't any invaders this side of the riverbank, or anywhere near here. We'd hear them."

"Not over your chatter, we wouldn't. Climb."

Smiling silently in the dark, Tantaerra followed The Masked, who'd started crawling purposefully west along the edge of the bushes as Keln noisily and grumblingly strode right past them and started to climb the watch-tree, still complaining about stew.

The Masked set a brisk pace. The last they heard from Keln, as his voice faded into the distance behind them, was undoubtedly a sarcastic comment on his arrival at his post high in the tree—yet it still made Tantaerra freeze, for a startled moment.

"Welcome to Nirmathas."

∗ ∗ ∗

Before dawn, The Masked managed to club a sleepy Nirmathi camp cook from behind, leaving the man draped dazedly over his pots never knowing who'd hit him. The masked man then stole two half-cooked rabbits and a fistful of pickles.

He'd handed half to Tantaerra as they'd slipped out of the camp—all the other Nirmathi were out somewhere in the night, hunting Molthuni—and they'd eaten as they crept on into the fading night. Looking now not for any road to Hurlandrun, but rather for a good hiding place where they could sleep through the day. Preferably near one of the many small, noisy creeks that seemed to tumble everywhere in this forested, trail-crisscrossed country. The din of racing waters might mask their snoring.

Across the river behind them, westernmost Molthune was all rolling grasslands, home to scattered ranches and farms, but this part of Nirmathas was a tangled, overgrown warzone of burned and abandoned villages and farms fast being reclaimed by the forest.

Tantaerra had no idea how far from the Inkwater they'd come—it was hard to travel for more than a few strides in a straight path, for one thing—but they were certainly deep in a war-torn countryside of unburied corpses, tangled scrub forest, and scavenging beasts, where Molthuni troops encamped amid much torchlight and Nirmathi warbands crept through the trees in the concealing darkness.

She doubted matters changed much for the Nirmathi by day. The trees were their cloaks and allies. More than once, she and The Masked had come across great charred scars through the forest, the open aftermaths of recent fires where a Molthuni commander had tried to burn out lurking foes.

The dozen or so wagon-roads they'd crossed weren't much different. They were all thrice as wide as most roads Tantaerra had seen, or wider, where bordering trees had been hewn down or burned away by the invaders from Molthune, to rob attacking Nirmathi of cover. It hadn't taken long to learn these roads were the deadliest part of their night journey. Molthuni patrols with no lanterns but ready crossbows lurked—and so did Nirmathi in the nearby forest, with their own bows. If they crawled with slow, agonizing care and Desna's blessing was with them, they might make it across one without attracting anyone's attention, but even their fastest, boldest dashes were chased by bolts or arrows—or hails of both.

Which meant, as the night sky grew lighter and lighter behind them, their progress had become a wearying sequence of hiding, rushing for short swift periods, then hiding again to pant and cower as warriors of either Nirmathas or Molthune stalked suspiciously about.

By then The Masked was wearing an arrow sunk deep in his right shoulder, while Tantaerra was bleeding freely from two deep furrows across her back where crossbow bolts had just missed taking her life.

"If we get through this, why don't we just keep going, and leave Nirmathas and Molthune behind?" Tantaerra gasped. They sagged against the same tree and peered grimly out through thick foliage at the sound of a stream flowing somewhere in front of and a long way below them, at the bottom of a narrow, breakneck-deep little gorge in the forest. "That Telcanor had to be lying about the spells!"

"He was," The Masked muttered, ducking back into the dark tangle of leafy branches and drawing her close, "but there's a little matter of a mountain range ahead of us—not to mention what lies the other side of it. The corpseland of Nidal. And then there's me."

"What about Varisia? We could head north along the mountains until—"

"They were high and cold enough we'd be climbing to our doom to try to cross them?"

Tantaerra gave the dark, half-seen face looming above hers her best glare. "You could at least try to be helpful, Tarram Armistrade. And just what do you mean, 'then there's me'? What is it you're not telling me? You've been keeping secrets from me, I know you have, and—"

The sword that burst through the twigs and leaves then to pass right between their noses was daubed with something to kill its shine, but they both saw it well enough.

With a shout of pain The Masked twisted and lunged, driving his own blade back along the intruder's into something solid. He was rewarded with a sob—and the dulled blade sagging as a convulsing hand let it fall.

The unseen Nirmathi's body crashed down through bushes growing in the gorge, landing with a thud and a splash.

"Jeressan?" a voice hissed from nearby. "Jeressan?"

The Masked listened intently, and when the faintest of cracklings marked a movement on the other side of the tree they'd been leaning against, he thrust past it, hard.

There was a startled curse and a much louder fall down into the gorge, thuddings that ended with a grunt of pain and then a flurry of curses, as the Nirmathi who'd fallen discovered he'd landed on a very dead Jeressan.

A light was kindled, flint struck into a pouchload of carried kindling that flared up long enough to show a shocked Nirmathi that a gape-mouthed, unseeing Jeressan was impaled on two broken saplings—and show The Masked and Tantaerra, above, just whom they faced. In addition to the Nirmathi who'd landed on Jeressan and made the flame, two more armed Nirmathi had hold of trees on the lip of the gorge, barely an arm's reach from Tantaerra and The Masked.

Tantaerra reacted first, springing to launch herself feet-first into the started face of the nearest Nirmathi—a woman with dark hair—before she could do more than gape. That drove the woman, flailing for balance, back into her companion.

The Masked calmly slid his sword through the throat of one and into the other, then stepped forward, got a good grip on a stout tree bough, and shoved the gurgling, throat-clutching soldier down into the gorge—onto the head of the man with the flame, below.

The second wounded Nirmathi was still fighting for balance when Tantaerra, who'd landed with a crash at his feet in what had once been a formidable thornbush and was still a prickly ruin, spun herself around on her side, heedless of the pain, kicking his ankles out from under him.

His landing in the gorge below was loudly and messily rocky.

The Masked looked down at Tantaerra, and she looked back up at him.

"Let's move," he said grimly. "Before this noise draws more soldiers eager to kill us."

Tantaerra nodded. "This gorge looks a little...punishing. Not to mention right in our way."

The Masked nodded. "So we take yon path that brought the unfortunate Jeressan and his friends here. The gorge begins somewhere in that direction—hopefully we can find a way across it."

"You never stop being clever, do you?"

"It's what you're paying for, Little Princess."

Tantaerra started to snap something rude in response, then swallowed her words. The Masked had lurched and almost fallen as he turned, and he was staggering as he started along the little trail on the edge of the gorge. If he needed anger to keep him going, she'd start in on him, but just now silence seemed kinder, and more prudent. These woods were full of skulking Nirmathi.

So she followed him as silently as she could. Her back burned like fire and her torn clothing over it was stuck to her with blood, but at least she didn't have a whittled-off stump of an arrow sticking out of her shoulder, or had to endure the clumsy whittlings of a halfling who mostly used the points of her daggers, and not to carve wood.

There was some sort of night-glowing moss on some of the rocks that stood up out of the stream, and they gave just enough light to see the walls and lip of the gorge. Ahead, The Masked was moving slowly and stiffly, which suited Tantaerra just fine. She was feeling a little slow and stiff herself, just now.

∗ ∗ ∗

It had been a farmhouse, once, before someone had burned it, and its scorched roof had collapsed down atop charred walls and pillars. Probably Molthuni raiders, torching a farm in a rainstorm. Tantaerra couldn't think what else would keep a roof mainly intact, while what was beneath it burned to ashes.

Not that she was thinking all that clearly just now.

With real dawn about to break, she couldn't afford to be choosy. Nor could the exhausted, pain-wracked masked man beside her. He'd been lurching and stumbling along the way bards always said zombies did, a long and wearying way along forest trails from that gorge where they'd almost been slain.

He was done. Gasping, dull-eyed done. Nor was she much better. They had to rest.

Dagger in hand, she peered cautiously around the edge of the canted roof, half expecting a wolf or something else nasty to snarl and lunge at her.

Nothing did. The roof that met the ground on the side they'd approached from flared up overhead into a splintered ending, above a blackened, littered hole that had once been the farmhouse cellar. Most of the cellar was still covered by an intact floor, itself sheltered by the charred stub of a wall, and another corner of roof.

Right. The cellar it would have to be.

She thrust her dagger down into the darkness warily, then followed it into an evil-smelling pit full of a tangle of charred spars, old brown-rotten bones, a great heap of blackened stones—ah, a chimney—and the orange-brown remnants of what had once been a large cauldron and its hearth-hook. Tantaerra flung some of the detritus clear, clawed at stones until they were more level than they had been, then led The Masked—who'd sunk to the ground against that stub of wall, and was just sitting there shivering—down into the cellar.

When they were in, she tugged on a spar she'd squeezed them both past, and it shifted enough that some fire-killed tree branches that had been tangled above it fell untidily across their end of cellar, providing a measure of concealment.

Then she fell back with a sigh, and watched dawn break. Beside her, The Masked groaned, mumbled something, and fell silent.

So silent that she had to peer hard, her nose almost touching his mask, to be sure he was still breathing.

He was. She fell asleep wondering why humans breath smelled so bad sometimes, and not bad at all at other times. Right now, his bore the iron tang of blood, which was bad. If he started to drool blood, it would be worse.

Hah, hear the halfling princess! How could things get worse, hey?

∗ ∗ ∗

She woke to unfamiliar voices. Human men, talking casually, very close by. Just above—

Oh. Yes. The burned farmhouse.

There was a smell of a small fire, and something gamey roasting over it.

Tantaerra tried to peer upward without moving, and caught her breath when a hand touched her cheek. The Masked, telling her wordlessly that he was awake.

Even twisting until it hurt, Tantaerra couldn't see anything much up above except the heel and backs of a pair of muddy war-boots. Obviously there was a man standing in what was left of the farmhouse. The sun was low in the sky, which meant they'd slept most of the day. Or even—

The voices again, even closer.

"This is excellent wine, Captain. Where did you find it?"

"In a Nirmathi cellar half a day's ride north of here, sir. It used to have quite a grand house over it—till we burned it—but they're still using the underchambers to store food and drink. Raided from merchants of Molthune, of course."

"So this was meant for someone in Canorate with silver enough to quench their thirst in fine style ...well, I heartily thank you for bringing it along. I've not tasted better at high table feasts anywhere in Molthune."

"I hope the meat's as good, sir."

"Almost done, sir," came a hasty third voice, from farther off.

"Worry not." That was the Molthuni superior officer again. "I've learned to take what I can get, this side of the Inkwater. Good farm country, this, but going back to forest as we fight—and the Nirmathi are good at hiding their crops from us, and keeping what's left of their livestock well away from the border. I hear they have entire herds up in the high valleys of yonder mountains. Not that we'll ever push close enough to see them, and get out alive."

"Sir?"

"We're not winning this war, Captain. We rule only as much of Nirmathas as our swords can reach, and only just as we're reaching—and even then, they feather us with arrows almost at will."

"But sir! Our superior weapons ...our training ..." The captain sounded shocked.

"What you've been taught about that is all true, yes, but beside the point in the daily fighting. This is a war of regimented, disciplined—and mightily frustrated—Molthuni troops trying to find and crush fast-moving, hit-and-run Nirmathi warbands. A foe who won't stand and fight. And it's their country; they know how to move about swiftly, and hide from us. It's taking a damned long time to wear them down."

"So burn them out, and their forest with them," a fourth voice put in, from some distance.

"And what good is holding Nirmathas, soldier, if we turn it into a firepit taking it back?" The superior officer sounded testy now. "This was Molthune, and we want it to be Molthune again, not burned-out desolation. The easy way out is seldom the best way. Try to remember that."

"Yes, sir," came a chorus that sounded rather sullen. Four voices, at least, but probably more.

Dung. Molthuni, camped right on top of them. If she knew men, they'd be relieving themselves soon, thanks to the wine, and dark holes in the ground in the heart of handy ruins would be just the place ...

Tantaerra tried stretching, as quietly as possible. Then stopped and sank back down, biting back a sigh.

She still felt weak, and very stiff, and her smarting back was complaining about the stretching almost as much as it had when she'd twisted herself to peer. The only way up was through this tangle-screen opening, right into the midst of the soldiers.

She looked at The Masked, who'd somehow stealthily drawn his sword. He tilted his head to rest on one hand, miming sleep, then used that hand to point upward.

Well, of course. They'd wait until some of the soldiers went to sleep. Darkness would be an ally, making bowmen less accurate than they'd be in full light. If these Molthuni were out here in the Nirmathi forest without crossbows cocked and ready, then they were fools.

This officer certainly didn't sound like a fool. He was talking again.

"It'll be dark soon. We'll want a lantern about here, so you can all see the map. You, cut me a support—two saplings, a head taller than you are. We'll notch and wedge them here to hold up what's left of this beam, and hang the lantern from it about here. Captain, more wine!"

Rotting wood groaned as booted feet moved, there was a clink of metal as flask met flagon, and someone called, "Meat ready soon, sir!" A fifth voice. Of course.

Lady Desna, I know not what I did to displease you, but—

"Not much of a table for the map, sir."

"Agreed, but if we pin it yonder with your dagger, and here with mine, and Vrail here holds the far end, we can have a quick look before eating. Shift that tangle out of the way, will you?"

This was it. The unpinned end of the cloth map in his hand, the captain kicked at the tree branches Tantaerra had pulled down to hide them, without really looking. They didn't budge as he wanted them to, of course, so he turned, bent to tug them aside—and looked right into Tantaerra's eyes.

The Molthuni's own eyes widened, his mouth dropped open for a shout—and The Masked put the tip of his sword into it in a deft upward thrust, then pulled.

Spewing blood over Tantaerra, the captain toppled forward onto the tangled branches and the burnt spar-end supporting them. They promptly collapsed, spilling the dying man head first down into the hole over Tantaerra.

"Wha—" the startled commander began. The Masked didn't wait for him to say any more, but thrust upward through the cloth map.

The man was fast, rearing back and flinging the flagon clangingly aside to get at his own sword, but The Masked had already hissed, "Ankles!" at Tantaerra, and she knew just what to do.

She sprang at those muddy boots, one of the smallest chimney stones in hand, and slammed against the officer's ankles. When he didn't topple, but stood planted solidly, she hammered at his toes with the stone.

He howled and hopped back—and she thrust the stone right under one of his descending feet.

This time he toppled helplessly, with a yell, the stone bouncing and rolling, and Tantaerra stabbed his face and throat repeatedly and rushed on, because she had to get to the two leaning and cocked crossbows across the ruin before the three Molthuni soldiers did—and they'd left the cook-fire to charge, swords coming out.

The Masked was clambering up out of the hole in a flapping chaos of rippling, still-impaled map, and his emergence and Tantaerra's tiny stature distracted the foremost Molthuni from her for an instant.

Tantaerra used it to dive headlong into the bows, knocking them over and slashing at their strings with her dagger. She heard one part with a twang as she rebounded off the wall and rolled under the boots of the Molthuni soldier. A boot came down on her ribs, making him stumble, and The Masked thrust his blade into the man.

The man's armor—chain over stout leather—stopped it from sinking in, but the sword point drove the man's breath out of him explosively, along with some wine, and he sprawled helplessly forward, slamming into The Masked's good shoulder.

The impact made The Masked roar in pain, and reel on his feet. Which meant the winded Molthuni took the brunt of the second Molthuni soldier's vicious slash.

The Masked staggered forward, trying to use his newly acquired meat shield as a battering ram, but the man fell from his shoulder onto the legs and midsection of the second Molthuni soldier, driving both Molthuni to the ground with The Masked on top of them.

The third Molthuni had lost a few moments setting the skillet with meat sizzling in it back down on the fire-grate, and so was clear of the three men writhing on the ground right in front of him. Yet he'd been drawing his sword and launching himself into a charge, and was now just as hastily skidding to a halt to avoid tripping over the three men.

Which gave Tantaerra time enough to throw one unloaded and ruined crossbow and then the other at his face. The first missed, but the second struck home, glancing off the man's head and blinding him just long enough that his sword was down and aside and his eyes creased shut as the dagger she threw next came spinning in to bite at his throat.

It glanced off and away, too, but cut him, blood spurting. He clapped a hand to his throat and staggered, stepping on a downed Molthuni's leg and wavering, sword waving as he fought for balance—and Tantaerra's second dagger, arriving with her behind it in a leap, sliced open his throat properly and sent him blundering into a nearby tree in a choking explosion of gore.

Tantaerra saw no sixth or seventh Molthuni in sight as she landed, so she spun around, raced back to the three men struggling on the ground, and dealt with two more Molthuni throats.

Then she hastened around the ruin, panting hard, making sure the soldiers were dead. There were no war-horns or shouts from the forest around, and no sign that there'd been other Molthuni—but who knew how many Nirmathi were watching from the trees?

When she got back to him, The Masked had crawled off the dead soldiers and clawed his way upright against one of the walls.

She plucked what was left of the bloody map—southern Nirmathas, in some detail, so worth keeping—off the end of his blade, wiped it clean on the hair of the one Molthuni whose helm had fallen off, and held it out to The Masked.

"Stow and carry this, will you? I'll serve us wine and meat in a moment."

The Masked tried to laugh, but it obviously hurt, so he settled for saying, "You are a treasure."

"Yes," Tantaerra told him brightly, "but whose?"

He just shook his head, so she added, "Check them all for anything useful, will you? Belt flasks, nice daggers, rope, food ...that sort of thing."

"Searching the corpses, sir," he replied, and left the wall with a groan, heading for the body of the commander.

"We'll eat as we walk," she told him, as crisply as if she'd been giving orders for years. "I want to be far from here by nightfall."

The Masked looked up at the darkening sky, nodded, and went back to plundering the fallen.

When he was done, he sheathed his sword in favor of one still-warm skillet.

"It's a weapon," he told Tantaerra through his last piece of meat, in answer to the look she gave him.

She sighed. "No doubt we'll need it. Now, what's our best way on from here?"

The masked man pointed into the trees with the skillet, and they staggered into the forest.

∗ ∗ ∗

It was just a hollow in the depths of the forest, where a long-ago tree's roots had torn up earth when it had toppled, but it would have to do. Exhausted and near blind under the trees with full night fallen, they could go no farther. They huddled together and drank wine.

"It'll deaden the pain," Tantaerra told The Masked, passing him the last flask.

"For you, perhaps," he growled, hunched over the skillet in his lap. He wasn't even lifting his right arm now; it dangled at his side, useless, as if dead. The rest of him didn't look much better.

"Try to lie down," she told him, scrambling up. "Here, I'll help. If I—"

The thump was dull, a small and quiet sound, but The Masked fell sideways in slack-jawed silence.

Leaving Tantaerra staring at the face of the man who'd felled him from behind. An all-too-familiar face that was now giving her a half-smile over the daggers put to her throat.

"Orivin Ahrkholm, at your service," he said politely.

Tantaerra ducked away in a roll, trying to—

The thump of a dagger hilt clubbing a head is much louder when you hear it inside your own skull.

Chapter Eleven

Ahrkholm Unmasked

Her head throbbed abominably, and at the same time felt as large as a table. A table that hurt a lot. While one of her ears itched.

Tantaerra winced, watched half-seen tree branches in the darkness above her swim and mingle like schooling fish, and closed her eyes again. She was securely bound. Ankles, elbows behind her, and throat to a log her head was propped up against. At least some of her daggers weren't where they should be. Possibly—no, probably—all of them were gone.

Where ...oh. Right. Dung.

"With us again, Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra?"

The face and voice were above but behind her. Ahrkholm, of course. "The man you hired made quite a bit of noise while I cut the arrow out of his shoulder, but you didn't seem to hear us."

"Where—?"

"Right beside you. Tied to the same log. Awaiting your ...presence. He didn't want to hear what I had to say until you could hear it too. Such touching loyalty."

"What do you want with us?" Tantaerra managed to ask. She felt utterly drained, unable to move even if she hadn't been tied.

"I want you to listen to me. First, though, I want you to drink these."

"And what are 'these'? Drinks laced with hemlock, or something faster and more deadly?"

"No," the man who was calling himself Ahrkholm replied flatly. He unhooded a lantern sheathed in crimson smoked glass, that gave off a faint, ruddy light. Enough to show them his arms, reaching down. In one of his hands was a white ceramic vial about the size of his thumb. It bore a small sigil of a tankard—the sign of Cayden Cailean, the perpetually drunk, freedom-loving god so popular among the Nirmathi. Its cork stopper was securely sealed with a lot of red wax.

"This," Ahrkholm said quietly, waving it gently, "is the beginning of trust."

"As in, I have to trust that if I drink it, it won't harm me?"

"Yes, but more than that. I'm hoping that after you drink it, you will begin to trust me."

Tantaerra fought to control her face—it felt numb, and her vision kept sliding back into echoes and doublings. She managed to raise one eyebrow and give him a disbelieving glare. "After I drink it, I could be dead."

"If I wanted you dead, I could easily have killed you when you were lying senseless," he pointed out. "Instead, I only tied you up and removed your weapons. For my own protection."

"I take it you enjoyed searching me," Tantaerra spat.

Their captor sighed. "Not particularly. I know you mistrust me, but I want very much to be your friend—both of you. I ...admire you. Nirmathas has need of you."

"So you serve Nirmathas, mystery man?"

"I do. I spy for them in Molthune—as I hope you will, in times to come. Which is why I want you to drink this." He held the vial closer.

"I'm aware that I haven't a lot of choice," Tantaerra told him, "lying here trussed like a fowl ready for the spit, but I do want to proclaim my dislike of being asked to do something by a man about whom I know nothing, who won't even tell me his name. Let our trust begin there, hey?"

"Very well. My name is Orivin Voyvik, not Ahrkholm. I spy for Nirmathas, and I want to recruit you to my country's cause. You've both been mistreated in Molthune—you, Tantaerra Klazra, were enslaved for years."

"I had not, in fact, forgotten that," Tantaerra told him. "Yet I am what minstrels might term 'bitter with mistrust.' For all I know, you may be asking me to trade one enslavement for another. After all, how do I really know what's in that vial?"

"You don't," Voyvik replied simply. "That's where the trust comes in. In this small measure, you have to trust me."

"My life may be a small measure to you," Tantaerra told him sharply, "but it's rather more than that to me, I assure you!"

"If I drink it, will you gentle your tongue for a bit?" The Masked rasped, from beside her. He sounded terrible, a hoarse, hissing whisper. "Or better yet, shut up?"

Tantaerra gaped. "Uh ...ah ...yes. I suppose." She looked at Voyvik, who shrugged, got up, and moved over to The Masked.

"Swallow it all. It will help, not hurt."

"If I do that, how will there be any left for her?"

Voyvik smiled, dug into a pouch, and displayed a fistful of identical vials.

The Masked chuckled, or tried to, but it turned into a racking cough. "Feed me the damned vial," he husked, when he could speak again.

Voyvik sliced away the wax with infinite care, using one of Tantaerra's smallest, sharpest knives, and poured the vial down The Masked's throat. When the prisoner erupted in coughs again, the Nirmathi spy clapped his jaw up and held his mouth closed with swift, deft strength.

Then he let The Masked sag back against the log—which the trussed man did with a long, shuddering sigh of relief.

"Another one?" Voyvik asked, holding up a second vial.

"See to the lady first," The Masked replied.

The clear, minty liquid was accompanied by a cleansing warmth, a tingling relief so immediate it was almost a rapture. Her aches faded, her pain was sluiced away, her headache vanished, and she felt strong and contented and ...comfortable. Her vision was sharp and clear, the doubling and blurring gone.

She was fine. Just like that.

"Better?" Voyvik asked, as gently as any mother bending over a sickbed.

When Tantaerra nodded, he smiled as if he meant it and went back to The Masked. "Another, now?"

"Another," The Masked agreed, in a voice that held more satisfaction than pain, and received the contents of another vial.

Well, damn the man! He'd healed them both—using magical potions that likely cost more than a cottage and the farm that went with it. And he'd just expended three on the two of them!

It felt good to have the pain gone, and no longer be stiff and sick and hurting. She was whole, hale, hearty—and dumbfounded.

Tantaerra knew she should feel grateful that this Voyvik wanted to be a friend. Yet somehow, she couldn't warm to the man.

And they were still tied up, with their weapons taken from them. Lost in the dark heart of a night-shrouded forest, somewhere in Nirmathas.

"So," Voyvik asked her gently, "am I still a villain?"

"I ...I thank you, Orivin Voyvik. I am ...very grateful, and must confess I begin to feel I could trust you," Tantaerra said slowly, "but as my ...companion here will tell you, I'm not easily convinced of matters new and strange to me. I like proof, and need convincing. So convince me."

Voyvik nodded, leaned close, and fixed her with intent eyes. They glinted like copper, as if there were a fire behind them, brighter than their usual brown. "If this healing counts for anything, let it persuade you that I am not a foe. I have never been your foe—or your foe, sir." His burning gaze turned to The Masked for a long moment, then returned to Tantaerra.

She tried not to shudder. That stare made her feel as if she were being transfixed on the point of a knife.

"What I have been, and am, is a man with a dream. A dream of Nirmathas strong and triumphant, free of war and mighty enough to dissuade Molthune from daring to make war across the Inkwater. Molthune can turn from endless warfare and soldiering to making a stronger, greater land of forges and building and innovation—while Nirmathas becomes the verdant garden it was meant to be, breadbasket to many lands, peaceful and beautiful and a haven from want and hunger."

He spread his arms wide, impassioned, and looked at The Masked again, then back at Tantaerra.

"This is a dream. There are years of work ahead to make it real, and it needs more than just me and the few hidden ones who work with me. It needs bold, trustworthy sorts who can make their own fortune, who can survive in the midst of strife, and win through danger without fleeing in fear or abandoning the cause. It needs heroes. And I believe you are two of those heroes."

"And I believe," The Masked said slowly, "that you've been drinking deeply from different vials than you offered us. I admire your zeal, and I think your dream is wonderful. Yet forgive me, Orivin Voyvik, but I cannot see the road from here and now to the dream you seek. Nor do I see how a rogue like me could ever help build one."

"Great achievements are seldom accomplished with single deeds," Voyvik replied quickly. "Such abrupt attempts are apt to be a bit ...messy. For now, I seek only to recruit you. I know you've fought and slain both Molthuni and Nirmathi, but when every man's hand is raised against you, of course you defend yourself. I want you to be the strong hands at my side as I work for Nirmathas—and, in a way, for Molthune as well. I can train you, I can lead you, and although it will take many small steps, many missions, we can achieve this dream of mine."

"Perhaps so," The Masked said slowly, "but our memories are not as bad as you might hope them to be. We've seen you in action. I'm not sure I can trust you to be our leader, to obey you without wondering always as to your true intentions."

Voyvik waved a dismissive hand. "I realize this is abrupt for you," he said, rising and starting to pace, "and that trust is never won so swiftly or easily. But what I have done, I've done for the cause. It justifies all!"

Justifies all, Tantaerra thought. Well, now. That really meant he'd do anything to them, to get closer to his dream, didn't it?

Tantaerra recalled Voyvik's smile as he'd brought the Telcanors across the rooftop to fall on the Watchswords, and the gleefully murderous look that had risen onto his face during his vicious battle with The Masked.

"How can we believe you?" she heard herself snapping. "How can you prove, or stand by, a single word you've said? No. A thousand times, no. If such as you serve Nirmathas, then I reject Nirmathas utterly."

Voyvik frowned. "Please understand," he said earnestly, "that I'd do anything for my cause. Anything. My life is dedicated to so weakening Molthune that it can no longer make war on Nirmathas, so we can build this land—a land at peace—into greatness. A Nirmathas free of tyranny, of oppression! You endangered all I'd worked for in Halidon, by killing the investigator the General Lords had sent there before I could mislead him into making real trouble for the fools who squabble in Braganza. That meant I had to get out of Halidon, and what better way to do so than to chase you? I had to learn who you two were—and whom or what you were working for. You are formidable. Nirmathas needs you. Surely you've felt the hard hand of Molthuni authority, time and again? Well, I work to weaken that authority, in ways large and small. Preventing Halidon from felling the Backar Forest at will is one—and bringing down Braganza, with its warring local families and insane governor, is another."

"Words, words," The Masked said dismissively.

"Deeds," Voyvik countered, snatching up the empty potion vials and waving them.

"Heal us so you can use us?" Tantaerra flung at him. "You want praise for treating your intended slaves well?"

"I want no slaves! I want to free all Nirmathi from the bitter choice of death or slavery!"

"That," The Masked said grimly, "sounded just a little bit rehearsed."

"Well, what can I do to convince you? Does the healing, your freedom from pain, count for nothing? You were dying. If you'd gone on walking and fighting and not resting, with that arrowhead still in you, festering ..."

"I know," The Masked replied. "So I've listened, and largely kept quiet, and thought hard on this. And come back, again and again, to this: I don't trust you, Voyvik. I don't believe you. I don't know that you can change that. You wanted to kill me, on that rooftop. I looked into your eyes as we fought. I saw your eagerness to slay, your hatred. I see it now, even as you ask us to trust you. We, your bound captives."

Voyvik shook his head. "You misjudge me. I—"

He stopped speaking and cocked his head, listening intently.

Then he bent, plucked up the dagger of Tantaerra's he'd used earlier, sliced the ropes binding their throats to the log, then drove the dagger into the forest loam right beside one of her hands.

"We'll continue this discussion later," he breathed, "when there isn't someone creeping closer to interrupt it. All your other weapons are piled on the other side of the log."

The crimson glow winked out as the lantern was rehooded and snatched up.

And then he was gone, a few branches swaying in his wake.

Tantaerra allowed herself time to spit out just one heartfelt curse, before she snatched up the knife and rolled toward The Masked.

∗ ∗ ∗

"You move quickly when you need to," The Masked whispered approvingly, as they caught their breaths atop a rocky ridge well west of the hollow.

"That potion left me wide awake and full of verve," Tantaerra replied, "and I did not want to have to fight another Nirmathi warband. Or a Molthuni patrol. After all, one or more of them just might have decided to put another hole in you. Or me."

The Masked winced at the memory, shook his head to banish it, and admitted, "I feel fresh and full-rested, too. What say we devote ourselves to some serious travel? Quiet and wary, but getting ourselves a good long way away from here."

"Certainly," Tantaerra agreed, "after we stop over there, where the moonlight's strong, and have a good search and feel to make sure our Nirmathi zealot didn't put anything on us that he can trace us by. A magic pebble, or some such. I do not trust that man."

"I'd gathered that—and it's just possible, after all you said to him, that he might have gathered that," The Masked joked, heading for the moonlight.

They spent some time at it, keeping low so they'd not be seen from afar, but couldn't find anything new, or that looked amiss.

"He does know where we're headed," The Masked pointed out, and Tantaerra granted that point.

"Haul out that map," she ordered. He obeyed, displaying it with a flourish. Whereupon she was forced to admit that not having the slightest idea where they were now made it less than useful.

The Masked circled an area with his forefinger. "We're somewhere hereabouts," he murmured, "and have to get to there." His finger pointed out Hurlandrun. "Not all that far off."

He lifted his hand to indicate the rocks around them. "And I can't help but notice," he added, "that this ridge curves a little north of true west, taking us more or less toward where we want to end up. So, it being a nice starry night, and that star marking north to tell us where we're heading when we get down into the trees again ..."

"Such a clever masked man," Tantaerra told him. "Lead on."

The Masked gave her a little bow, the first she'd seen from him in a while, and did so.

∗ ∗ ∗

The sun was low in a golden sky, a few fingers of cloud near the horizon but nothing overhead, when Tantaerra and The Masked paused wearily in a clearing in the seemingly endless forest, looked at each other, and agreed it was time to seek somewhere to hide and sleep out the night.

They'd walked all night, and now all the day after that, finding many clear springs and fast-flowing streams to drink from but little beyond a few unripe berries to eat. Now it was almost sunset, and they were tired and growling-stomach hungry.

It seemed they'd come far beyond where the boldest Molthuni had penetrated into this part of Nirmathas, right now—and past most of the Nirmathi warbands, too, into a backland area where there was still farming going on, and some measure of peaceful daily life. A countryside of small clearings and valleys amid the deep forest, linked by cart-tracks that still hosted creaking carts, and not just men stalking along with swords and bows looking to deal death.

The armies of Molthune had reached this far in the past, they could tell. More than one burned homestead had been reduced to a fire-blackened chimney standing half-cloaked in vines amid the trees, and they passed slightly less ruined homes standing abandoned, with once-tilled fields rapidly disappearing under saplings, high bushes, and creeping vines.

The Masked pointed to one derelict house, ahead. "Let's pass that, then circle around it and have a good look before it gets too dark."

"I'm not sleeping in there," Tantaerra told him. "Humans and halflings aren't the only critters that like being sheltered from the rain. Most of the forest ruins I've poked through have been full of snakes. And spiders, some of them bigger than my head."

"I wasn't thinking of spending the night inside," The Masked told her. "I was thinking of sleeping up on the roof. If it's still sturdy enough."

"Now that," Tantaerra agreed, "is a notion that has promise."

There didn't seem to be anything either lurking or lairing in the house. It was an overgrown but sturdy skeleton of its former self, cloaked in all manner of leafy bushes. The roof was rotten and canted in at one corner where beams beneath had given way, but in the main looked strong enough to sleep a large Molthuni patrol. Several pines growing up one wall made a dark rampart of sorts that concealed the highest corner of the roof from anyone on three sides of the ruin, so they settled down on their backs in that corner and tried to ignore their hunger by chewing spruce needles and the green underbark of certain trees The Masked had sampled before.

"My, what an interesting life you've led," Tantaerra told him, as the sun slipped below the horizon. It started to grow cool, and the tapestry of stars shone clearer overhead. "If we both survive into our dotage and end up bored by the same hearthfire, suppose you tell me how you came to sample tree underbark. Tell me then, not now."

The Masked chuckled. "Then it shall be. Yet you always want to talk, so what would you prefer to converse about now, Tan?"

"'Tan'? Not 'little one'? Who is this 'Tan'?"

"Lady Halfling Patron," came the reply, "I await the telling of what you're interested in discussing—so long as it not be food." The masked man's stomach promptly growled. Loudly.

It was her turn to chuckle, a little ruefully. Looking up at the stars rather than at the man beside her, she murmured, "I think we need to decide some things. Such as whether or not we should just forget this 'quest' Lord Telcanor sent us on. I don't trust him to treat us well, even if we should somehow succeed and bring him this Fearsome Gauntlet. And who calls their enchanted bauble a 'Fearsome Gauntlet,' anyway?"

"Agreed," The Masked muttered back.

The stars were bright and glorious now, the moon not yet full-risen. They looked up at them in companionable silence for a time until he added, almost grudgingly, "Then again, he just might be telling the truth about having some sort of magical hold over us. I doubt he does—but he might have a pet spellcaster who could strike at us from afar. We both had our hair washed, which meant he has some of our hair from the combs, and I've heard of spells ..."

Tantaerra sighed. "Me too." She stretched and changed the subject. "This Nirmathas is a beautiful land. Though I mistrust Voyvik as the sort of utterly ruthless zealot who would slice his granddam's throat."

She let her words trail off, but The Masked picked up the sentence very much as she would have continued it. "His dream of a free and peaceful Nirmathas still seems worthwhile, doesn't it?"

Tantaerra gave him a smile.

And discovered that he'd fallen asleep, there in the moonlight, mouth still open.

She regarded him thoughtfully, her smile not leaving her. Not a bad companion, for a human. Not bad at all ...

∗ ∗ ∗

It was his bladder that woke him.

The Masked blinked up at a sky that was no longer clear and star-girt, but a great sheet of mottled gray cloud from horizon to horizon, the sort of dour overcast that could easily persist all day. It was a bright enough gray that dawn must have come, but the chill in the air was still as sharp as a knife, as a bard might say.

Right now, he needed to set aside such lyrical prattle, find a handy bush, and let fly.

He raised himself on one elbow, and discovered he was cramped and stiff—and that a whisper-snoring Tantaerra was once more curled up against him like a cat.

Ah. That would be why the cold hadn't roused him before his need to relieve himself. The Masked shifted away from the sleeping halfling as gently and quietly as possible, stretched, then stood up, swaying for a moment, and looked around.

The birds had awakened long ago, and their calls reassured him that no one was on the move immediately around their ruin. He'd water the greenery just there ...

He took two stiff strides, planted himself, and—

The roof gave way beneath him.

He barely had time to go from upright to falling onto his back before he was plunged into the damp green gloom of the empty rooms they'd explored the night before, rotten beams disintegrating around him in a swirl of dust, as he slammed down onto—

Something large and meaty and alive, that convulsed beneath him with a great gasp and emitted a wild shriek.

The Masked bounced and rolled off whoever it was, ending up with his feet thrust up into the air and his neck in the dirt where the floor had once been, one of his shoulders against a support post that now leaned alarmingly, as wood groaned overhead.

He found himself staring across the windowless, overgrown rooms at a tousled, staring Orivin Voyvik, daggers in both hands and looking very much like he wanted to bury them in someone.

He blinked, focused on The Masked, then let out a rising snarl of rage and stalked forward. "So! You try to kill me! Wel—"

His words were lost in a sudden tumbling roar as a lot more roof fell—and Tantaerra tumbled helplessly down on Voyvik's head, smashing him to the floor and sending one of his daggers tlanging off a post.

He roared, this time with real pain, and staggered to his feet to face a tousled and furious Tantaerra, with two of her daggers raised to menace him.

He blinked at them—and then whirled and fled, out through an empty window frame and into the forest, at top speed.

The Masked looked at Tantaerra, and she looked at him ...and then they both burst into laughter, shouting out helpless mirth that left them doubled over, before hastily departing the ruin to relieve themselves.

It was some time before they could cling to silence again, and join each other with attention for anything else. The Masked produced the map, and Tantaerra held up Voyvik's lost dagger, arching an eyebrow.

"My first trophy."

The Masked shook his head. "Drop it. Or leave it thrust into a post or beam for him to find. He might be able to trace his own weapons, from afar."

Tantaerra nodded soberly, then flung the dagger away across the room, to thunk into a post. "So," she asked, "did he track us here, or can he trace us—or did he just happen upon the same ruin, through sheer happenstance?"

The Masked spread his hands in a helpless shrug.

Tantaerra sighed. "Show me the map and let's get walking. To someplace where food hangs ready from the trees, cooked and plentiful."

Both of their stomachs rumbled then in loud complaint, which set them to chuckling again.

"If he's out there listening to us, he's going to be furious," Tantaerra warned.

The Masked shrugged again. "True, but that's far from the greatest of my worries."

"Oh? Am I the greatest of your worries?"

"No. Not anymore."

∗ ∗ ∗

Tarram Armistrade knew he shouldn't show himself on this lofty height of rocks, but he was long past caring. This was not a mission either of them was going to live through. What he needed was a wagonload of riches to pay some wizard he could trust—if all Golarion held such a thing—to make sure he and Tantaerra were free of spells that would locate or kill them if they just walked away from this fools' task.

So they could do just that, and at least save their necks.

They'd been stealing food and skulking, then trudging, for days now. Hurlandrun was less than a day away—if they'd been able to fly, rather than clambering through trackless forest trying not to be seen or heard by anyone, while at the same time trying to steal food.

Nirmathas, green and rolling, stretched away below him in all directions. It was a beautiful country, but deadly; after all these years of war with Molthune, the Nirmathi treated every stranger as a spy or invader to be killed on sight or led into prepared traps. When he and Tantaerra weren't being shot at—every local seemed to have a bow, or at least a crude crossbow—people were trying to draw them into snares, pit traps, or ambushes. Even the damned innkeepers.

And Tantaerra was in a particularly foul mood this morning.

"Finished gazing out over your domain? Or are you contemplating leaping off, because death will be just so much easier than what we're going to have to try to do?"

When he didn't reply, she added tartly, "May I remind you, masked man, that you still owe me my ten silver weights back—as you've done such an execrable job of hiding me and abetting my escape."

The Masked rolled his eyes. "And have we not escaped Braganza? After escaping Halidon? I'd say you owe me another ten silver weights," he replied, not turning.

The halfling sputtered at him, one of her sudden rages choking her so severely that she fought to find words.

He ignored it, turning and transfixing her with a steady gaze.

"Seriously," he told her quietly, all playfulness gone from his voice. "If anything happens to me, do not try to loot the Shattered Tomb by yourself. You'll die. Horribly."

"You think so little of my skills?" she flared, predictably enough.

The Masked quelled a sigh. "It's not what I think, it's what I know. I know you don't have the magic, or the familiarity with the ways of magic, you'd need to stay alive."

"Oh? And just how do you know this so unerringly?"

Beneath his mask, Tarram smiled. "Magic."

"Ah. Of course. How convenient. Magic, that splendidly glib explanation for everything!"

"Tantaerra Klazra," he said patiently, "let me tell you a story."

"Why not? Deceitful men always do! Pray make it a good one, Sir Armistrade, for I have heard a fancy-tale or two before in my time."

Ignoring her scorn, he chose a sloping rock to sit on, waved her to another that faced it not far away, and began. "Far away and long ago," he said, "I was once as brashly confident as you. If a little taller."

"Until you stole a certain mask," the halfling retorted.

That earned her a glare, but she merely said, "Suppose you begin with this tomb and how it came to be, back when the world was younger and a certain masked man was still brashly confident. Tell me a fireside tale. After all, it's about time."

The Masked nodded. "Very well. Once there was a mighty wizard named Mahalagris, who dwelt where we're headed. He was known for transforming squirrels and rabbits and the like into ferocious beasts under his command, and summoning monsters to do his bidding. He was not a nice man."

Tantaerra's lip curled. "They never are, are they?"

But The Masked wasn't listening to her. He was thinking about Karm, and masks, and his greatest mistake ...

Chapter Twelve

Wizards, Scripts, and Secrets

Tarram Armistrade cleared his throat, looked at the halfling who'd hired him seemingly half a lifetime ago, and warned, "After I finish telling you this, we should move. Far from here, and fast."

Tantaerra looked disgusted. "Magic."

He nodded. "Wielded by one who can kill us as easily as snapping his fingers."

"Say on," the halfling commanded, giving him a shrug to let him know what she thought of his warning.

The Masked grinned. Feisty to the last, this one.

"Mahalagris had an apprentice," he told her. "Araungras Karm, a younger and more ambitious man whose spells were paltry compared to those of his master, but who learned fast, and was bold beyond prudence. Not to mention greedy."

"He wanted the magic Mahalagris had, and killed him for it," Tantaerra said flatly. "Not a unique tale, Tarram."

"He wanted power over men, and wealth, and all the good things in life," The Masked continued patiently, "the very things Mahalagris scorned in favor of isolation and study and the crafting of new magic."

"This Karm wanted it all, without having to work for it."

"He did."

"And so?"

"And so, when Mahalagris stayed in his backland home and refused to involve himself in the strife between Nirmathas and Molthune, Karm met secretly with Molthuni who paid him well—and went to war on behalf of Molthune."

"Starting by murdering his master."

"I see you're familiar with minstrels' scripts. Karm's first strike against the foe was indeed to treacherously murder Mahalagris, in hopes of gaining his master's power—but his first mistake was to think that the Nirmathi regarded Mahalagris with the same fear and contempt he did."

"Oh?" Tantaerra looked up, and her eyes held real interest at last.

"Wracked—and pursued—by the spells loosed by his dying master, Karm managed to bear away from his master's abode just one thing. This mask."

The halfling's full attention was on him now.

"It took months before Karm was healed in body and confidence, and well-girded enough in replenished magic to dare to return. When he did venture back into Nirmathas, well disguised, he hoped to gain the spell-tomes of Mahalagris and his master's things of power, including a blade that whispered and a gauntlet that blasted men in battle. The first had been borne by a loyal bodyguard who died in Karm's attack, and the second by the wizard himself, though Karm's swift savagery robbed him of any chance to use it. There was much wealth, too."

"So did Mahalagris rise from his grave and murder this Karm, or did Karm replace him and become the same fell and mighty wizard his master had been?"

"Who's telling this tale?"

The halfling rolled her eyes, but nodded and waved at The Masked to continue.

Bowing his head gravely, he did. "Karm found his master's abode much changed. The Nirmathi had interred Mahalagris with honor—possibly out of respect for what good he'd done Nirmathas, but more likely out of fear of reprisals from his ghost. And they were right to be afraid. Mahalagris's spirit had indeed risen as a mighty undead creature, adding his own magic to the tomb's already extensive defenses. Karm's second attempt failed as well, and he had to flee for his life, leaving Hurlandrun a smoldering ruin behind him."

"Just how do you know all this?"

"Some I learned by listening late on nights when drink had loosened tongues, but most of it I've had from the mask itself. Visions, unexpected and beyond my bidding. I've paid attention, in hopes of staying alive a little longer. And there's more."

"I'm sure. Say on."

"So Karm's pride was in tatters, and his fear—of a master risen and implacable as a terrifying, undying thing—ruled him. He wanted to keep his Molthuni riches, so he staged his own glorious battle-death, going down fighting in a blaze of spells.

"A year or two later, a nameless backchambers wizard quietly surfaced in Braganza, casting spells in private for those who could afford them. He later hired a particular thief, a far-traveled loner, to carry out an, ah, acquisition for him—but really to be blamed for something else."

"And would this particular thief have enjoyed the name Armistrade?"

"Among others. In my profession, changes of name are a frequent necessity. So is travel. I've been...traveling a fair while."

The halfling gave a wave that said she was aware of such things, and asked, "And so?"

"And so, not finding the taste of a wizard's betrayal any more to his liking than any other betrayal, Armistrade decided to get even by learning the wizard's true name and story and stealing Karm's most precious possession: this mask."

"And that was your big mistake."

"You know scripts frighteningly well, Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra." He sighed, then leaned close and muttered, "I'm a prisoner of this thing. What happens to it, happens to me—and though I can wear a mask under or over the mask, or take it off when the need arises, it has to be on my face a lot of the time, or else I sicken. If I hire a wizard to cast an illusion on me or on the mask, it soon melts that illusion away. It eats any undermasks faster than I can afford to have them made. And it has some connection to the Tomb. I think it was made there—and I'm hoping it can get unmade there, or else its hold over me weakened, or something of the sort. I'm sorry to be so mysterious—I feel more about the mask than I really know. It's not as if it's ever come with instructions—though I suspect Voyvik knows something."

"Voyvik!" Tantaerra exclaimed. "Where does he come into this?"

"Karm hired him to hunt me down," The Masked replied. "Or so Voyvik hinted."

"Voyvik told you that? When?"

"Hinted, I said. Gloatingly, over crossed swords, as we fought in an alley a year or so back, long before I met you. He said someone I'd stolen from had hired him to see that I went to where I was supposed to. He's been shadowing me across Molthune—but could have trapped me long ago, and hasn't. There's more to him than a wizard's hireling. Even a crazed hireling—and he's definitely that. Wanting us to trust him, yet attacking us whenever he thinks he has a good chance. He delights in acting mysterious—cold and calculating one moment, then manic the next. I doubt he's entirely sane." He shook his head. "Wizards' meddling, perhaps ...yet I feel there's something more to him, too."

"So his patriotism," Tantaerra asked. "It's an act?"

The Masked shook his head again. "No, I believe that's genuine enough. If the rumors are true, then he certainly did much for Nirmathas, before he ever came after me. Perhaps his goals are tied into this whole business somehow. But if so, I haven't unraveled yet."

"And if you don't unravel it before we get to the Shattered Tomb?"

He shrugged. "We'll most probably die."

"Well, that's cheerful." Tantaerra frowned. "So all this time, you've known who he is, and you were heading for this Shattered Tomb eventually, anyway. And you said not a word about either to me."

"I didn't want to scare you off accompanying me."

Tantaerra's eyes widened. "Scare? Scare?"

"Dissuade, if you prefer. Adventures are better shared ...and I've discovered I like sharing them with you. Sharp tongue and ten silver weights and all."

Tantaerra's expression didn't change. "So you thought you'd lie to me. That's how you treat those you like."

The Masked sat up sharply, as if struck. "It's not like that."

"Oh? Isn't it?" She stood. "I trusted you, Tarram. I should have known better. You're no different than your friend Voyvik." She began to make her way down to the woods.

"Tantaerra! Princess!" The Masked rose hurriedly to his own feet. "Where are you going?"

"To the Shattered Tomb," she spat. "You said we needed to move after your story, so I'm moving. Let's get this over with."

Sighing, The Masked slid down off the rock and followed her into the trees.

The gods take women, he thought. Of all sizes.

∗ ∗ ∗

He'd lied to her.

After all they'd been through, all the trust they'd built, he'd turned out just the same as every other human—too wrapped up in his own affairs to think about anybody else. How could she possibly have been so stupid as to think that he was different?

Tantaerra stormed through the bushes in silence, purposefully choosing a route that led her under low branch after low branch, forcing The Masked to scramble over or under them to keep up. He'd quit trying to talk to her, which was a plus, and now saved his breath for grunts and quiet curses as he thrashed his way through brambles and dense thickets that were only mild inconveniences for someone her size.

It wasn't that he had secrets—everyone had secrets. It was that he'd deliberately misled her. She'd thought them both prisoners of circumstance, caught up together out of coincidence and doing the best they could to muddle through. And now she discovered that he'd been working toward this the whole time. He wasn't her partner—he was using her.

And yet...

Even as she reminded herself of these things, fanning the flames of her anger ever hotter, she found herself remembering the river. The way he'd put himself between her and the charging Nirmathi. That couldn't have been part of his plan—in fact, it was counterintuitive. Why risk himself like that for a companion of convenience? In fact, why help her in the first place? It wasn't for the ten silver weights, that was sure. And if he'd wanted someone to help him break into this tomb, surely he could have hired or conscripted someone more capable than an undersized halfling. And one who had something of a temper, at that.

She looked back at him again. He had to be as tired as she was of this whole stupid quest, yet he wasn't complaining. Instead, he was tearing his cloak and applying a fresh coat of mud to his knees in order to follow her wherever she went.

Follow her.

The fire in Tantaerra's chest cooled.

Yes, he'd lied to her. He'd misled her. But what had his options really been? If he'd told her he was being hunted by this Voyvik, and maybe a mad wizard in the bargain, would she have gone along with him? Probably not, she admitted. By waiting, he'd given himself time to get past first impressions and prove himself. To her.

So had he?

Tantaerra reached up and grabbed the branch she was walking underneath, then stepped to the side, pulling it out of the way.

The Masked looked up in surprise. He turned to gaze at her warily, as if expecting her to let the bough spring back to whip him as he passed. She waved him through.

"Thank you," he said, when he was safely past her.

"Don't mention it," she replied, letting go of the branch and falling back into step beside him. "After all, it's not your fault you're big and awkward."

∗ ∗ ∗

Their journey was unusually peaceful. This stretch of Nirmathas seemed to be far more forest than people. Yet the woods were studded with clearings enough—places where huge old dead trees had, when their time was done, crashed down and taken smaller trees to the ground with them. From these, The Masked could catch sight of the landmarks he'd spotted up on that height, and so keep heading for Hurlandrun.

Tantaerra—who'd spontaneously decided to start speaking to him again, just as suddenly as she'd stopped—told him they needed to concoct a fictitious past for her to share with any Nirmathi who wanted to talk before loosing arrows, thanks to certain less fictitious things she'd done in the past.

So they walked, talked, and settled on both of them being Nirmathi. Tantaerra would be a slave escaped from longtime Molthuni captivity in Canorate seeking to find kin she'd long been sundered from, and who'd just days ago found them gone from their farm near the border, their stead burned and abandoned, but was told by surviving neighbors that they'd fled deeper into Nirmathas. The Masked would purport to be a Nirmathi whose family fled the country when he was but a child, and who'd wandered Golarion trying his hand at many a living before freeing Tantaerra in Molthune and was helping her to find her kin. The mask they'd explain as covering a terrible burn suffered in childhood, when Molthuni soldiers burned down his parents homestead.

These tales were accepted with sympathy by the few Nirmathi who gave the travelers a chance to share it. More often, they received arrows instead.

The Masked couldn't really blame them, but took some comfort in the fact that most of the real aid he and Tantaerra received was from the Molthuni armies, who'd mounted an unexpectedly bold foray deep into this backcountry. Their attacks and movements time and again interrupted and distracted Nirmathi from the business of eliminating small and unlooked-for travelers, including a masked man and a halfling.

One Nirmathi wanted to know if The Masked was a slaver, snatching small children like the one with him.

Tantaerra had eyed the man balefully. "I'm a halfling, man. We're born small, and we die small. I'm not a little girl, and I'm neither younger than you nor less experienced. I'm probably older than your mother. I certainly possess better judgment than she obviously did, and I've hired this masked man as my guide and bodyguard. So keep your distance from my body, or it'll go ill for you."

Muttering, the Nirmathi had gone for his bow, so The Masked and Tantaerra had taken their nearest escape route—but not before relieving the man's untended smokehouse of a large and well-smoked goat carcass they both knew they were going to get tired of before they saw the Shattered Tomb.

If they ever saw the Shattered Tomb.

There came a time when the trees thinned and they were looking out across a broad, shallow river valley that flooded often enough to drown large trees. The reeds were many and tall, but real cover was scant. The watercourse looped in muddy bends, and the open valley stretched for miles. They were going to have to cross it in the open, and all that water and the likelihood of sucking bogs or great stretches of quicksand meant that doing it in darkness would be far more rash than crossing when the sun was high.

The Masked looked at Tantaerra, and she looked back at him. They sighed, shrugged, took good note of a leaning tree they could use as a landmark on the far side, and clambered down into the valley to start across.

Any Nirmathi within miles would see them, and they couldn't outrun arrows. They also knew that Voyvik was likely lurking somewhere near, but there wasn't much of anything either of them could do about that, either. So they started their crossing, keeping low and not talking so they might have some slender chance of hearing the hiss of approaching arrows before they felt any actual arrowheads.

They'd made it along one loop of the river and were trying to decide on the best place to swim across it when the first arrows tore past them. They flung themselves flat, noses to the nearby water, and twisted to try to see where the archers might be.

They turned just in time to see uniformed soldiers of Molthune burst out of the trees to hack at the Nirmathi bowmen, who were clustered atop a knoll where they could look down on several riverbends.

"Now might be a good time," Tantaerra murmured. "Both sides look a little busy for feathering us with arrows, just now."

The Masked nodded and waded into the water, keeping to a crouch. "Climb up my back," he ordered.

"So I can play pincushion for arrows?"

"So you won't have to swim, and we can be across and into cover faster, O Princess of Thieves." There was no time for debate or hesitation. Those Nirmathi back there would either have fled or be dead very soon now.

Tantaerra evidently reached that same conclusion, for she turned and hurriedly climbed his back without another word, and he launched himself into the river.

It was far shallower and slower than the Inkwater, but not much warmer. Tarram clenched his teeth and swam hard, trying to get to where his feet could find bottom again before he was entirely numb and his strength started to go, at which point the current would start winning the battle for where he was headed.

The cold wormed its way up his arms and legs, and he snarled and fought the water harder, trying—

His knee banged an unseen rock, and then he was crawling in foul-smelling mud, up the far bank and stumbling toward the all-gods-blessed trees.

With a sudden hail of plashings right behind him in the water: Molthuni crossbow bolts hitting the river as they reached the end of their range. It seemed the soldiers back on that side of the river didn't want anyone alive in Nirmathas right now who didn't wear the blood red of Molthune. Or just the red of their own spilling blood.

The Masked crashed through a tangle of branches and into a thicket of saplings and tall grass, mud wallows, and untidy clumps of bright wildflowers. He was halfway across when Tantaerra's weight suddenly vanished from his back, overbalancing him into a near fall. He heard grass rustling behind him, heading back, and whirled around.

The waving grass started to calm, then stirred anew, dancing and swaying as it disgorged Tantaerra.

"They're crossing the river," she told him glumly. "Let's move."

They moved, The Masked taking the running, branch-snapping lead and the halfling scuttling after him. Around this tree, under the boughs of the next, across a little hollow of tallgrass, up a little bank, and on ...

"Still coming after us," Tantaerra informed him tersely, landing with a crash. She'd climbed up one of the trees in his wake, to look back.

"My," he told her, between pants, "this is like...having my very own ...bard. Commenting, as the...adventure unfolds. There'll be a ...dragon, next."

"Bite your tongue, masked man!"

Tarram found he had wind enough left to chuckle. Then he ducked under a leaning tree that was fairly armored in shelf fungus, and found himself facing a steep uphill climb, into darker, denser trees. They had crossed the valley.

They were in too much of a hurry to go looking for landmarks, with these Molthuni after them. Just when would the soldiers start to think plunging into thick forest in a land of foes was too foolhardy to continue with?

An arrow whined out of the trees like an angry hornet, heading not at The Masked, but back whence he'd come.

Suddenly the air was full of a whistling, singing volley.

Well, that answered that question.

Which didn't mean these unseen Nirmathi archers wouldn't decide to take care of a running man in a mask and a halfling. Tarram kept right on sprinting, Tantaerra at his heels and sometimes beside him.

They raced over a gentle wooded ridge, and into older, deeper trees whose leaves hid the sun, where bushes were few but toadstools more numerous, and tiny pairs of eyes stared at the running intruders and then scattered. And on, down a slope where the trees thinned and The Masked had a good glimpse of distant mountains that probably weren't all in Nirmathas, ere the trees closed in again and—

The ground suddenly gave way under his hurrying boots, and he was falling, landing heels-first with a jolt on rocks, then sliding on his back on loose stones and rolling dirt, a high voice spewing curses above him that he recognized was Tantaerra about the time he came to a stop, amid dust and a sporadic but painful hail of small stones.

She landed on his head and bounced off again, head over heels forward and down, to land with a yowl in a clump of dark maroon thorns.

The Masked shook his head to clear it, then rolled onto his side and peered up and behind him.

A small stream of dirt and stones were still tumbling over the lip where he'd run off the edge of this gulley and brought some of that edge down with him, four or five times his height down this slope. Into what looked to be a small forest of thornbushes. A thicket, at least. Almost absentmindedly he plucked a groaning Tantaerra off her painful perch among them, then ducked down below them and peered around. It was like looking across a vast but low-ceilinged warehouse, dark thorns above but emptiness studded with thornbush trunks below.

He'd never seen this sort of shrub before, but it looked to be home to nothing but birds. Gnarled, stunted trunks rose out of a drift of brown dead thorns where seemingly nothing grew or lived, a painful, spiky carpet of dried, brittle thorns and old guano. He swept some aside with his hand and beheld bare dirt.

"Come," he told Tantaerra, and started crawling and raking, using his forearms and a dagger. "We'll hide here. Hide, so stop talking."

"Yes, sir," she snarled back, but thereafter said not a word. They crawled along under the dark, dense thornbushes, thrusting aside shed thorns until they reached a little ridge, then a hollow beyond.

The hollow ended in another drop-off, a rocky cliff that looked down on treetops. The Masked decided not to run over that edge.

"So, now," he whispered to Tantaerra. "We rest and wait. Hopefully the Molthuni will weary of the chase."

"Hopefully we'll be made monarchs and showered with gems and coins until we roll around on gleaming hills of them," she whispered back. "Hope is powerful but usually futile, Tarram."

He shrugged. "You have a better plan?"

She gave him a sour look, then settled down on her back, seeking to get comfortable.

And almost instantly fell asleep.

The Masked regarded her with some amusement. Cats and halflings; both could nap just like that.

Well, when it came to it, so could humans—if they were sufficiently exhausted. He yawned. Only his wet, clinging clothing was keeping him from drifting off ...

He froze abruptly, and listened hard.

There it was again: a faint rustle, well back behind him, in—there, again—that direction. He got two daggers ready, turned to face the sound, and shifted gently sideways to where the hollow was a little deeper, giving him more room to move in his crouch beneath the thorns.

There. He could see something now, a dark bulk, moving. A human, or at least a four-limbed creature, crawling nearer.

Then the crawler came over a little rise in the ground amid the thornbush trunks, and he knew who it was.

Orivin Voyvik.

The man must have a way of tracking them, some magic or other. The mask?

Or he'd been trailing them all day, skulking along just out of sight, tracking them like a hunter.

Neither alternative was all that reassuring.

The Masked nudged Tantaerra awake with his foot, not letting his gaze leave the approaching man.

The moment he was aware of her bleary-eyed glare, he asked Voyvik grimly, "And what do you want?"

"To recruit you, friend Armistrade. To ask you again to join me, to work toward the dream." Voyvik crawled nearer. "Isn't this a beautiful country?"

"I've not had much leisure to admire or judge its beauties, since last we spoke," The Masked told him. "Too many people have been trying to kill me. Are you going to be one more of them?"

"Now would I be crawling up to your ready daggers if I was?" Voyvik asked, sounding almost petulant. "When I could just take a bow from someone and loose two arrows from back yonder, without all of this hard-on-the-knees travel?"

"Our answer," Tantaerra piped up, "is still no. For now, at least. Are you fleeing those Molthuni too?"

Voyvik shook his head. "More Nirmathi archers persuaded them to prudence. When I saw them last, those few still alive were running back east faster than you were heading in this direction. Giving you some leisure to entertain my offer."

"We want to sleep on it, and ponder. Find us late on the morrow, and ask again," Tantaerra told him crisply. "Now go away."

"But—"

"Go away, or you'll be leaning me into another refusal."

Voyvik shot an entreating look at The Masked, but Tarram curtly pointed him back the way he'd come. "You heard her."

The man with a dream for Nirmathas spread his hands, bowed his head to them, and turned away.

Tantaerra rolled to where she could whisper into The Masked's ear.

"Block his view of me, if he looks back. Stay here."

Before he could reply she was gone, scampering back along the way they'd cleared as swiftly as a bounding rabbit.

The Masked watched her go, and permitted himself a slow smile.

Voyvik just might be in for a surprise.

Luraumadar, the mask commented.

Of course. The Masked quelled a bitter laugh. Luraumadar, indeed.

∗ ∗ ∗

Tantaerra was beyond tired of feeling hounded. Shining dream for Nirmathas or not, she didn't like this Voyvik. He was one of those grinning dungpiles one couldn't trust in the slightest, about anything at all, ever. Infuriatingly cocky, as if the world always bent to his will and he knew it would.

Bastard.

This time, she would skulk and spy and pounce on any small ways she could harass him. She didn't know how, yet, but it was high time for Orivin Voyvik to be unsettled. Perhaps subtly ...say, with a sledgehammer.

Tantaerra scuttled to the edge of the thorns, where the eroded cliff side rose like a wall, and slowed to creep onward as stealthily as she knew how, one fat little spider moving along the base of the cliff, listening hard.

Voyvik didn't make much noise at all, but she heard enough to know when he got out from under the thorns and straightened up. Then he turned away from her, took three or four swift steps—probably into cover, between trees—and froze.

She froze, too, listening in silence and waiting patiently for him to move again.

There. Time to scuttle and close the distance between, to lessen his chances of being able to slip away.

She almost ran into his heels as he stopped to listen again, yet managed to sidestep behind a tree trunk just in time.

Thereafter, they moved in unison, Tantaerra matching her movements—and the little noises she inevitably made—to his.

Voyvik cut through a small wood that filled a hollow, then climbed a rocky ridge beyond those trees. From a broad belt of tumbled stones and bushes, it rose to end in a high, sloping rock like the fin of a gigantic shark.

Tantaerra ducked down into a bush, then tucked her feet up. The one good thing about being her size was that you could hide where no human had even the slenderest hope of—

Voyvik stopped, spun around and down into a crouch, then slowly surveyed Nirmathas all around him, in every direction, looking and listening.

There was nothing to hear but the wind stirring leaves, and after a long and rather suspicious listen to them, he rose out of his crouch, turned, and slowly strode up that topmost rock, peering here and there.

He was obviously looking for someone, so Tantaerra stayed right where she was. After all, that someone could be lurking anywhere.

Satisfied at last, Voyvik sat down on the edge of the rock and sighed.

Whereupon the empty air right behind him erupted in a momentary flash of silent swirling sparks, and an old man stood where there'd been nothing at all a moment earlier, wearing robes and dusty black boots.

The face was new to Tantaerra, yet reminded her of someone she couldn't recall.

He was shortish, wiry, and vigorous, thin on top but not yet balding, with a short gray-white fringe of a beard beneath a sharp-pointed nose and dark, glittering eyes.

That mouth shaped a sneering smile as Voyvik whirled, dagger flashing out.

"Don't do that!" he snarled, seeing who it was. He sheathed his dagger. "This is a land at war! I might've killed you!"

The old man shrugged. "You might have tried. Well?"

Voyvik sighed. "It's no use. They'll have nothing to do with me."

The man nodded. "So stop trying to recruit them. Kill them."

"But the halfling is Nirmathi! Was a Molthuni slave! Surely she should see the sense—"

The old man shrugged. "Do with her what you wish; she's nothing to me. The important one is the man who calls himself The Masked. You've brought him within my reach. Now kill him. And be sure to carry the gem I gave you when you do it."

Voyvik's hand went reflexively to his pouch. "Why?" he asked suspiciously. "What does it do?"

"It lets me see what happens, right after whenever you draw blood. Every time. The rest of the time it does nothing—I cannot trace it or spy through it. Worry not; I can't speak to you through it, or harm you, or send spells through it, or make it explode."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"Trust, Orivin Voyvik, trust. You must trust someone—and Araungras Karm does not lie, or cheat, or indulge in deceit among those who enter his trust. Not every wizard is evil, or lacks all principles and scruples. The man you are to slay stole a mask from me, and has it yet. He must pay."

"Then why not blast him with your spells?"

"That would risk the mask. I need not gloat over his passing, nor slay him myself. I'll do it if I must, but I'd much rather have you do it, bring me the mask, and accept your rich reward."

"How do I know you won't suddenly learn deceit right then, and trick me out of my pay?"

"Trust, Orivin," the old wizard sighed. "Trust."

∗ ∗ ∗

"So if we see him again, he's been told to kill us." The halfling sounded bitter, as if she'd really been hoping Voyvik had been telling them the truth. "No matter what he says about recruiting us to help him pursue his dream."

Tarram nodded. "I find myself less than surprised."

Luraumadar, the mask murmured approvingly, inside his head.

"Let's get going," he told Tantaerra. "No doubt he'll try to ambush us, when he can catch us at a disadvantage."

"The wizard called himself Araungras Karm," the halfling muttered, "just like you said. I know I've never seen him before—but he still reminded me of someone. I just can't think of whom. It's driving me crazy."

"In my experience," Tarram said, "wrestling with memories is futile. Turn to something else, and the answer will unfold in your mind. Trying to hurry it won't work."

Tantaerra sighed. "True enough. So, how far from Hurlandrun are we?"

He shrugged. "Not far—but then again, in this forest and keeping off the roads, 'far' is a rather empty word, yes?"

"Yes," the halfling agreed—then hurled herself hard at the backs of his knees. He went over backward with a startled curse, a crossbow bolt humming through the air above his descending nose.

When he hit the ground, he wasted no time trying to see who was attacking, but rolled away from the source of that bolt, to where the land fell away in another rocky cliff—and over it, snatching at roots and clefts in the rock to keep from plummeting. Tantaerra was nowhere to be seen.

He clambered sideways along the cliff face to where he could get under an overhang, and clung there, waiting.

So, some Molthuni? Or Voyvik again?

Voyvik, for any coin he might wager. The crazed Nirmathi—or agent of Karm—had become far more than a passing annoyance. It was beyond time to deal with him.

"Tarram Armistrade, I have a proposition for you."

It was Voyvik's voice, of course, coming from around the bulge of moss-stained rock to his right.

The Masked smiled sourly. "Let me guess," he replied. "You want me to hand over the mask in return for some generous blandishment or other—so you can then kill me. Or has Karm something new in mind?"

"I've no intention of killing you."

"Are you aware that Karm probably intends to kill you? Through that gem he gave you. The moment he knows you have the mask, he'll set its magic on you."

Sheer bluff, but if Voyvik had dealt long enough with Karm or any wizard, its little worm of doubt should sink into waiting soil ...

"So you eavesdropped on our meeting? Then I suppose the time for deals is past. Hand over the mask, and I'll let you live."

Voyvik's voice was closer now. The man had obviously been climbing cautiously along the rock face as they spoke.

The Masked backed into a cleft that he hoped he could sit in and keep his balance, if he had to hurl several daggers. One old root curved past him, and he drew a dagger and planted it in the spongy wood. Then he slid home another beside the first, lining them up ready.

He was reaching for a third as Voyvik came into view around the rocks. Climbing carefully, with no sign of a crossbow, but with daggers strapped to his forearms that hadn't been there before. Unsheathed daggers, their blades coated with something purplish, buckled to stout bracers.

Poisoned. So one scratch—even a clumsy throw—and death would follow.

Tarram deliberately drew forth his third dagger and held it ready, awaiting the right moment for a good throw into Voyvik's face. An eye would be best ...

"Last chance," Voyvik said with a smile. "The mask, Armistrade."

The Masked hefted his dagger. Voyvik kept climbing closer.

Then things happened very quickly.

A flurry of dark cloth whipped around Voyvik's head from behind. Startled, he tried to turn, shaking his head to try to get clear—and a small hand clubbed his forehead with the pommel of a dagger, then slammed at his knuckles, twice and thrice.

Then the man was falling, clawing futilely at the rocks he was plunging from, snarling a furious curse as he left them. He slammed into an outcropping farther down, let out a roar of pain ...and was gone, leaving behind only the whispering breeze.

That, and a halfling hanging one-handed over the same drop, rather critically inspecting a ragged piece of dark cloth transfixed on the point of her dagger.

"The old underkirtle over the eyes ploy," she commented, "is harder on underkirtles than I recalled."

"Where," The Masked asked her, "did you get a spare underkirtle?"

"I didn't," she snapped, "so kindly spare my dignity, and look elsewhere for a moment or two. I was getting so tired of that man."

Tarram chuckled. "You sound like a jaded lady of pleasure."

"You sound like the sort of pig who'd patronize them, so thank me nicely for ridding us both of Orivin Voyvik, and kindly rise out of your cesspool of lust and get us to the Shattered Tomb before we both die of hunger or a hail of Nirmathi arrows."

Luraumadar, the mask said gleefully, inside Tarram's head.

"I thank you," he told Tantaerra. "I'd thank you more handsomely if I could see Voyvik's body safely burned to ashes, his bones shattered and gone so no wizard could send him after us as some sort of horrid skeleton afire with deadly magic, but ..."

"That'll do," the halfling replied, her voice more distant now as she climbed back to wherever she'd come from. "Tell me, how're you at sewing?"

Chapter Thirteen

Deep in Nirmathas

Aren't you finished yet?" Tantaerra hissed. "It's cold, sitting here with the wind whistling up my legs."

"The light isn't the best," Tarram told her irritably, "and no, I'm not. Damned thread keeps bunching."

"Next time, steal finer stuff," the halfling hissed back.

"She was going for her bow. I only had time to grab what I could see," he replied. "Are those groundchokes roasted yet?"

The halfling probed into the ashes of the dying fire with her belt knife. "No," she replied disgustedly. "I suppose I'm condemned to wait for everything, tonight!"

"Not your death, Molthuni!" The voice roared at them out of the trees, followed by three arrows.

One tore the underkirtle from Tarram's fingers, needle and all, leaving behind stinging blood. Another sent torn leaves swirling beside his ears, and the third sent embers, ashes, and half-done groundchokes spraying up into Tantaerra's face.

She went over backward, sputtering, as Tarram kicked hard at the ground and curled over into a backward roll in the other direction, clawing out daggers.

"I'm getting more than tired of this," he snarled aloud.

Luraumadar, the mask chirped helpfully.

He ground his teeth in irritation as he arrived behind a tree and found his feet in the same moment, coming up in a sprint. If there were more archers with shafts ready, he and Tantaerra were dead anyway, but if he could get to the bowstrings of those who'd just loosed before they could see someone to take down ...

A wild shriek and some crashings of dead leaves and branches off to one side told him Tantaerra was trying to provide him with a noisy diversion.

I'll not waste it, he told himself fiercely, sprinting around tree trunks and ducking under branches—only to plunge right into the heart of the Nirmathi warband.

There were only five—no, six—of them, and one was cursing a snapped bowstring while two others lacked bows and were raising large, rusty old swords to hack at him, faces tightening with the effort. He slammed into one swordsman, not bothering to launch an attack, and used the solid crash of their meeting to deflect himself into the nearest bowman, where a slash of his dagger severed a bowstring while the man was frantically fumbling to defend himself. Tarram spun away from him into a headlong charge at the next bowman—who fell precipitously before he could get there.

He heard rather than saw Tantaerra rolling out from under the falling man's ankles, grinned savagely, and slashed at the face of the next Nirmathi, who ducked away with a yell.

"We make a good team!" he announced cheerfully, spinning and ducking down to batter the head of the fallen man with both dagger-pommels. Then he sprang back up to meet the second swordsman, whose wild swing sliced the bark of a defenseless and innocent tree—before a leaping ball of halfling arrived in the man's face, feet-first. The Nirmathi staggered back, into the man with the snapped bowstring. They both groped for balance, the bowman trying not to put the dagger he'd just drawn into his fellow Nirmathi, so Tarram raced right past them, trying for the last bowman before the man could raise his bow and aim.

He got there as the bow came up, knocking the arrow away and getting his elbow into the man's throat. The man went over with a choking sob, and Tarram rode him to the ground and clubbed him solidly with a dagger-pommel.

Behind Tarram, a man groaned. He spun around again, in time to see a triumphant Tantaerra striking a pose atop two senseless Nirmathi—that second swordsman and the man whose string had parted.

Which left two Nirmathi still on their feet, and no bows intact. The soldiers were now backing uncertainly away through the trees, with two daggers each raised and ready in their hands.

Tarram gave them his coldest smile and stalked toward them, Tantaerra trotting to his side.

He took another menacing step, then spun and fled from them, heading on in the general direction of Hurlandrun—only to stumble and almost fall as Tantaerra sprang and wrapped herself around his right shin, dragging at him.

"Hold, masked man!" she panted. "I want my underkirtle! Where'm I going to find another my size, here in the middle of this oh-so-beautiful wilderness?"

Tarram hopped to an awkward halt, aided by a handy tree he could carom off, and snarled, "All right! But—"

Tantaerra let go, sprang high, caught hold of his belt, and pulled.

She was too small to overbalance him into a face-first fall, but he stumbled, trying to keep his eyes on the two Nirmathi—now mere dark, distant shiftings amid the leaves, slipping away into the trees—and snarled, "All right, I said!"

"Tarram," the halfling said, eyes not leaving his as she let go and fell to land on both feet, "look behind you."

The Masked whirled.

And saw the faintest of glimmers. A fine, sharp wire was stretched across where he'd been about to run, at just the height of his throat.

"There's another one, about three strides on," Tantaerra told him.

The Masked turned and looked at her. "The Nirmathi are getting nasty," he said slowly.

"No. I'm thinking Voyvik is. I'd say he guided that warband to us. I'll have to do a better job, next time I knock him off a cliff. Let's get away from here, before he finds any more soldiers."

"No disagreement from me," The Masked told her. "Find your kirtle and let's be gone."

Luraumadar, the mask purred in the depths of his mind.

"Be silent," he muttered at it, aloud.

The dirty, half-cooked groundchoke Tantaerra presented him with, a short but panting forest trot later, tasted surprisingly good.

∗ ∗ ∗

They blundered across a trail heading roughly in the right direction, and walked along it the rest of the day and all that night, Tantaerra's mood cheerful thanks to her recovery of her kirtle with thread and needle intact, and only a meager spattering of Tarram's blood on it.

"I can pass that off as battle scars," she said brightly.

"Oh? To whom?" he asked pointedly, rousing the merriest laughter he'd heard out of her in quite some time.

Then they sank back into silence, belatedly mindful that not only Voyvik but all armed Nirmathas was out there in the trees on all sides, only too eager to do harm to intruders.

They walked on, listening tensely, hearing rustlings all around them—some distant, but a few close indeed.

Yet no daggers came, and it seemed their apprehension had been misplaced, because they heard nothing but hooting night birds and small rustling things until morning, when they were both staggering along yawningly seeking a place to hide and sleep for the day.

That was when the faint, distant din of a pitched battle came to their ears.

Wearily walking on toward it, they came to a long valley that narrowed to the north. In the distance, they could see a bridge that carried the best road they'd seen thus far in Nirmathas from one bank of a shallow, rock-studded river to the other.

What was left of quite a large Molthuni army was scattered across the valley floor, their numerous dead all around them.

By the looks of things, Nirmathi bowmen had harassed them from the wooded heights on either side of the valley, turning the bridge into a slaughter-chute until the Molthuni had broken ranks and fled down into the valley—whereupon a line of Nirmathi had formed across the valley and sent a withering storm of arrows down Molthuni throats until the soldiers of Molthune had reached them and started hacking.

"Hurlandrun's somewhere the other side of this valley, isn't it?" Tantaerra asked glumly.

"One ridge beyond what we're looking at, if the map can be trusted," Tarram told her. "I keep looking at it so that if we lose it, my mind will still hold what's left of our way to the Shattered Tomb."

"It might happen sooner than you think," she said. "Look."

A little stream ran down the slope next to them. Below, Nirmathi were following it up toward where she and The Masked stood, a few Molthuni soldiers trudging after them.

Sighing, she bent low for a drink. Tarram joined her at the bank, keeping watch over the trees behind them for Voyvik as she drank her fill.

"Next time we have to take down someone trying to murder us, choose the ones with waterskins at their belts, will you?" she asked. "Your turn."

By the time he was finished drinking, some of the foremost climbers had seen them. "Friends!" Tarram called, waving hands empty of weapons.

Some of the Nirmathi faces looked less than convinced, so he and Tantaerra backed well away from the lip of the valley, and stood back-to-back watching the forest around warily for anyone approaching.

"Nirmathas forever!" Tantaerra called, when the first men reached the top.

"A halfling," one of those Nirmathi told another, then peered again and added, "A female halfling!"

Luraumadar, the mask commented airily.

"We were just going to kindle a fire," Tarram called. "Care to join us?"

It was too much to hope these warriors would be carrying food enough to share, but if he and Tantaerra could pass themselves off as Nirmathi displaced from afar in all the fighting ...

"And who, before the bleary eyes of Cayden Cailean, are you?" a heavyset, grizzled Nirmathi in rusty chainmail demanded, limping toward them with a notched sword ready in one hand. He had the air of command, and the best armor they'd seen on a Nirmathi since the riverbank.

Which turned out to be a good thing a moment later, when the poisoned dagger that came hurtling through the trees at The Masked missed and glanced off the officer's shoulder with a tling.

Everyone turned. Voyvik was a dark, distant figure hurrying away through the forest, but Tantaerra leaped into the air to draw attention as she shouted, "There he is again! The Molthuni spy who's been trying to kill us!"

A few Nirmathi jogged off into the forest after him, while the rest continued their exhausted limping up the hill. Foremost among the latter camp was the Nirmathi commander, who eyed The Masked and the halfling narrowly, and lurched over to pick up Voyvik's dagger.

"Don't touch it!" Tantaerra warned him quickly. "It's poisoned!"

He halted, giving them an even more suspicious look.

"Narandur!" a Nirmathi called, from the lip of the valley. "The Molthuni are all retreating south along the river. None coming after us, any longer."

"Good," the grizzled commander called back. "Muster to me, here!"

As armed men in motley armor and leathers began to converge, he stumped up to Tarram and the halfling. "You two are coming with us. I need to hear all you've seen of Molthuni these last few days—where, and how many, and what they were doing. Truth, and leave nothing out."

"Gladly," Tarram said quickly, before Tantaerra could say anything sharper. His empty stomach chose that moment to rumble so loudly that Narandur grinned.

"Well, you're no Molthuni, that's for sure." He headed for a stone that looked as if it could serve as a seat. "Never met a hungry one yet."

∗ ∗ ∗

By nightfall, The Masked, Tantaerra, and their Nirmathi hosts—or were they captors?—had moved a long way north along the heights above the narrowing valley, to make camp far from any surviving Molthuni who might think to steal after them.

Their campsite was a hilltop in the forest, and on that wooded height, within the shattered, tumbled, overgrown remains of a long-ruined fortress watchtower.

Luraumadar, the mask told Tarram approvingly, as he looked around at the head-high ring of massive, ivy-cloaked stones, dark tree trunks thrusting up through and around it like pillars.

Sentries had been posted and fires lit. Tarram had offered to take his turn standing sentry, but Narandur curtly refused.

"You stay here by me, the both of you. I've need of your honest tongues."

They sat.

Tantaerra hadn't let her behind touch the ground for an instant before she asked, "Aren't you worried about the fire? It'll be seen for miles, up on this height. Won't it bring Molthuni creeping here, with ready bows and drawn steel?"

Narandur looked across the flames at her, but his wasn't the only cold grin to be seen. All of the Nirmathi sitting or standing within the ring wore the same expression.

"We hope it does," the grizzled commander told her. "Any Molthuni who dares to draw near—and we don't expect many; we've taught them the hard way not to blunder around our forests by night—will walk right into the night blades."

He hesitated for an instant, to see if either of his two guests would betray themselves as liars about their professed Nirmathi heritage by asking what or who "night blades" were, but neither was foolish enough to step into his trap. It took no particular brilliance to figure out that "night blades" would be Nirmathi who'd been sleeping all day and patrolled the dark hours, awaiting Molthuni trying to blunder through the dark forests.

"This is our land," Narandur added quietly, "and we defend it night and day. Nirmathas is our cloak and our armor, and fights with us."

"While I've no desire at all to see us become part of Molthune," Tarram spoke up, following Tantaerra's lead—for the more time Narandur spent answering them, the less time they'd spend scrambling to answer his probing questions—"two things worry me increasingly, as the years pass and this war drags on." He held up one finger. "How long can we last? Or rather, how long before Molthune bleeds us dry, outslaying us until there are no fit warriors still standing to defend Nirmathas?"

He raised a second finger to join the first. "And less talked-of, but as grave: as we fight them, doing what we must to survive, how much are we slowly changed to become what we are fighting against? To become more like Molthuni and less and less like what we're fighting to preserve?"

The old Nirmathi commander leaned forward, eyes kindling with interest. "We don't talk about the first. Despair is easy, and talk of numbers aids the enemy. But the second is something we should speak of. Many of us fight because our homes or kin are attacked, it's true. But this war isn't about revenge. It's about freedom. The freedom to—"

Narandur broke off as sudden tumult arose under the trees. Swords clashed and clanged, someone shouted, someone else danced in agony and then fell with an arrow through him—and suddenly Nirmathi were charging from behind seemingly every tree, blades ready.

Men standing in the ring rushed to kindle torches in the fire, swords rang against swords in deafening earnest, and Tarram and Tantaerra stood up to watch—only to feel Narandur's iron-hard grip above the elbows of their sword-arms, seeking to drag them back down.

Yet already the bladework was slackening, as angry shouts abounded.

"Fools!"

"'Twas all a mistake! A mistake!"

Men were hurrying to Narandur now, to report. It seemed the attackers were Nirmathi, a warband insisting they'd been told Molthuni invaders posing as Nirmathi were to be found encamped here—a force led by two spies sent from Braganza in Molthune, a female halfling shorter than most, and a masked man who was her constant companion.

More than one of the Nirmathi hastening to the fire found themselves looking at Tantaerra and then at Tarram, frowning hard.

"Sit," Narandur commanded curtly, doing so himself and dragging Tarram down with him, "and answer me this: are you two from Molthune?"

Luraumadar, the mask said gleefully, in the back of Tarram's mind.

"No," he said simply, giving the Nirmathi commander a level look. Then he looked across the fire at the growing row of angry Nirmathi faces and asked, "Just who told you all these lies? This is no band of undercloak Molthuni, and we aren't from Molthune. Who told you otherwise?"

Faces turned to look at one of the men, a leader of the attacking warband.

Who gave Tarram a hard glare and said, "Orivin Voyvik. Yes, that Orivin Voyvik. The war hero."

Murmurs arose in the darkness, and a ring of sword points suddenly gleamed all around Tarram and Tantaerra.

"Suppose," Narandur said grimly, squinting up at them from where he sat, his own blade back in his hand, "you both tell us again your names, heritage, and business in Nirmathas—right here and now."

It was not a suggestion.

Luraumadar?

It was the first time the mask had sounded quite that uncertain.

∗ ∗ ∗

Tantaerra lay on her back and looked up at the few stars she could see through the thick leaves overhead. Certain death had been averted yet again, and with surprising ease. This time.

Not that there weren't watchful sentries between her and the open forest—sentries who looked her way from time to time and not just out into the wild night. Yet she and The Masked weren't bound or even disarmed, let alone dying in agony.

Which meant, all in all, it had gone rather well.

They'd given their names and the backstories they'd decided on, and as for right here and now, they'd claimed to be seeking Tantaerra's mother and aunt, who'd fled their homes in Graybanks—a small Nirmathi village not far from the Inkwater that they knew had been utterly destroyed in the war—to resettle in the ancestral family farm, hard by the ruins of Hurlandrun.

"Where the Shattered Tomb stands," one older Nirmathi had said grimly. "That's all monster-prowled country, that is."

"Well, that settles it," another had put in. "No Molthuni spy would be wanting to go thereabouts. Unless they want spend their last handful of days fighting monsters, that is."

"That settles it if that's where they're really headed," a third and younger Nirmathi had pointed out sharply. "We have only their word for that."

"Go with us and guide us," The Masked had snapped back, "and you'll not have to trust our word. You'll know."

That eagerness had decided Narandur, saving their necks. For now.

Three tall, strong young Nirmathi had agreed to guide The Masked and Tantaerra.

She hadn't been pleased at having hale and unfamiliar companions who just might be slayers in league with Voyvik, but saw—still saw—no real alternative but to accept their guidance.

Before lying down on the far side of the dying fire with his drawn sword in his hand, the grizzled old Nirmathi commander had handed them a sack that held a wheel of cheese, two round loaves of hardbread, and the bowl-like half of someone's recently shattered helm that could serve as a water-scoop, and gruffly told them to be on their way to Hurlandrun "by dawn on the morrow." The three guides had settled down just beyond him with their swords drawn, too.

Tantaerra wondered how long it would be before Voyvik's attacks killed one or all of them. Or if they'd join him against The Masked and herself, when the Nirmathi dreamer's next attack came.

She fell asleep wondering about that.

∗ ∗ ∗

Tantaerra winced. Again.

"Urgh!" The Masked snarled, lifting one boot out of muck that bubbled and reached to his boot tops. Its reek was almost visible, and had already set Tantaerra gagging. What sort of foul decay could make such a smell?

The three young Nirmathi were all backing away, yellow-faced and retching.

"This is not," Armistrade told them, "what I meant by 'deeper in Nirmathas,' really it wasn't!"

"Har har," Tantaerra observed, heading away from him as fast as she could.

"Don't come close to me!" the fair-haired guide—Raldon—warned, almost falling in his haste to retreat farther. "That's ...that's just evil!"

He thrust his sword into the ground and used that hand to grab for his nose and pinch it shut.

Raldon was so distracted that he never saw the dagger that flashed out of the trees to slice open his throat. It bit deep, and he stumbled two choking steps and fell, his clutching fingers doing little to stop the blood spurting in all directions.

"Down!" the largest guide roared, but rather than heed his own command, he charged into the trees, heading for where the dagger had been hurled from.

"Nesker, come back!" the other guide shouted. "You'll only—"

There was a heavy crash, through a tangle of dead branches, and Nesker came staggering back, his face now more green than yellow. His skin was an ugly purple low on his neck, where blood trickled from an open gash.

"Behind you!" The Masked shouted, throwing one of his own daggers. The figure looming up just behind the wounded guide ducked down and to one side as fast as any darting night bird, and the hurled dagger missed him.

The Masked ran after the assassin. They were all running now, converging ...

"Surround him!" Tantaerra cried. "Don't let him get away!"

"He's a ...man in a mask," Nesker panted, lumbering along and quickly falling behind. "Just as Voyvik ...warned ..."

"He is Voyvik," The Masked told him sternly—just as a crash in the distance marked their quarry's heavy fall.

Voyvik came up out of another reeking, sucking bog to whirl and face them, breathing hard, his mask gone and blood on his forehead. He'd obviously stumbled in the muck and slammed into a fallen tree he'd been about to leap over—and, as the four survivors closed in warily around him, he just as obviously had no intention of surrendering. Daggers glinted in both of his hands as he looked swiftly from target to target.

"Out of poisoned daggers yet?" The Masked snapped. "Just how many Nirmathi are going to die for your dream for Nirmathas, Voyvik?"

The only reply he got was a snarl—and a dagger flashing at his face.

The Masked flung himself down and then up again instantly to sprint at Voyvik, bellowing, "Shall I use the mask on you?"

The cornered man flung a frightened look at him, then turned and threw his second dagger into Nesker's face, following right behind and slamming into the other man.

Nesker fell heavily under that trampling, rolled over, and went still. Voyvik ran on into the forest.

The last guide, Farstrel, gave chase for a few panting strides, then gave up and returned to where The Masked and Tantaerra were turning Nesker over.

"You scared Voyvik right proper," she muttered. "Just what can the mask do to him?"

Her masked companion merely shrugged.

The big Nirmathi was already dead, unseeing eyes staring. There was foam around his mouth, and his face had gone all bone-white and purple.

"Poisoned," The Masked told Farstrel grimly. "You'll find Raldon was, too. We should find those daggers and lose them in one of the bogs, before we move on. Voyvik doesn't want anyone but us to reach Hurlandrun, or alive to spread word of our journey to it."

Tantaerra met her masked companion's gaze, and knew he was thinking precisely what she was. That they'd not seen the last of Orivin Voyvik.

He'd be waiting for them in or near the Shattered Tomb. With more poisoned knives, no doubt.

They took the time to find the poisoned daggers and drop them in the bog that The Masked had blundered into. Then they took food, weapons, and belt-lanterns from the sprawled and already fly-surrounded heaps of Raldon and Nesker, and turned away.

"We leave the dead unburied here," Farstrel said bleakly. "It keeps the wolves from coming for the rest of us."

He led them north rather than west.

"Friend," The Masked warned him, "Hurlandrun is west from here. Is it not?"

Farstrel stopped, turned, and looked at them both. "You can trust me," he replied gently. "The question is, can I trust you?"

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and went on. The Masked looked at Tantaerra, then west, then back at her.

She shrugged, then started after the Nirmathi. The Masked followed suit.

Soon they saw scattered bones. Human bones. Then a sprawled body that was more or less intact, if they overlooked the gaping ribcage where prowling beasts had gnawed.

Beyond, the trees were fewer, and they could see what looked like the remnants of a trail. It was only when they spotted a leaning stone wall that they realized they were walking into an overgrown, long-abandoned Nirmathi village.

"That body was recent," The Masked commented, "where this is not."

"The wounded and dying seek home, even if home is no more," the guide replied bleakly. "Beasts dine on what they find, wherever they find it."

"Do wolves and worse lair in the Shattered Tomb?" Tantaerra asked him. "And prowl out from it?"

Farstrel looked at her. "The Tomb is one of too many haunted places in our land that sane Nirmathi shun. Many dweomercats prowl there—and something worse."

"What's a dweomercat?" The Masked asked.

"And what's worse?" Tantaerra added.

"Dweomercats—most dweomercats—are small. Forgive me, lady, but ...as you are small. And blue. But fast and sleek. Betimes their pelts glow. Yellow eyes, big fangs, and they swarm. Magic draws them, so they stray not far from the Tomb. They are many."

Farstrel shrugged. "As for what's worse, I know not truth, just wild tales. Many Nirmathi and Molthuni bands have tried to plunder the tomb—it's said to hold mighty battle magic—but all failed. And died. Now, folk foolish enough to try it are few indeed."

He smiled, and looked from one of them to the other. "These last three seasons, just you—and you."

Farstrel had stopped on a mound that had once been a home. Now he held up a spread and open hand, bidding them stop and stay where they were.

And drew his sword and dagger.

Tantaerra tensed, and knew The Masked was doing just what she was. Reaching for daggers to throw.

Then their Nirmathi guide tossed his weapons to the dirt at their feet.

He drew a second, hidden dagger from somewhere down his back, and dropped it to join them.

"The truth, now," he said quietly, eyeing them both as he spread empty hands. "You're after the magics in the Tomb. Are you from Molthune?"

Silence fell.

Tantaerra and The Masked both looked at the man. She tried to show nothing at all on her face. Her partner's mask gave him an advantage in that regard.

Her partner. Well, that's what he was, wasn't it?

"Word came of three sent out from Braganza, who should be helped to reach the Tomb," Farstrel told them carefully. "Telcanor word."

The Masked and Tantaerra looked at each other, then back at the guide—and nodded.

Farstrel relaxed visibly. "This one who tried to slay us, was he the third?"

"He was," The Masked confirmed.

"So now you know. What will you do about that?" Tantaerra asked the guide pointedly. She had quietly gotten out her smallest knife and was holding it ready to throw.

The guide only smiled and began retrieving and sheathing his weapons. "Nothing. I work for the Telcanors. Raldon was a bright, perceptive Nirmathi who was all too suspicious of me. and stuck to me like my own shadow. Now that he's dead, I can go back to trying to carry out my work, here in what was Molthune and will be again."

Abruptly he darted away from them, behind what was left of a wall. From the far side of it, he told them, "Go straight on, the way you're facing now. What's left of Hurlandrun is right over the next hill. May you taste success. My guiding is done, and I must be elsewhere."

A brief scrabbling followed, then the sounds of dislodged stones clacking and rolling ...and then silence.

When they went up to peer around the ruined wall, there was no sign of Farstrel.

∗ ∗ ∗

Hurlandrun was right where their vanished guide had promised it would be.

Or at least its ruins were, stretching across the land below them. Fallen roofs, overgrown streets, and tall trees thrusting up through heaved and buckled stones here, there, and everywhere.

A domed building at the heart of it all caught the eye. It was far larger than anything else—almost certainly either a temple, or the Shattered Tomb. Perhaps it had been built as a temple, and later made over into the tomb of Mahalagris.

Its thick dome was cracked right across, with a huge gap between the two halves where they'd sagged apart over the years. It looked as if the walls that held up one half had started to lean, and so torn the dome asunder.

"Behold the Shattered Tomb," the halfling murmured. "Or shattered something, at least."

"Some proud herald you'd make," Tarram told her with a smile, and glanced up at the sun. It was late afternoon, and they had only the small, battered belt-lantern they'd taken from Nesker—a glorified oil lamp with a windshield cage, brim-full. "So, do we go down?"

Tantaerra nodded. "I suspect you've as little taste as I have for camping and awaiting morning. Given whatever beasts may prowl hereabouts—and Voyvik, who's certainly lurking near."

"Probably watching us right now," he agreed.

They headed cautiously down into the ruins, and soon saw bones. Lots of bones, gnawed and strewn widely. Cracked open and yellow-brown with age...and including more human skulls than either of them cared to count.

Then they saw the wolves.

A score or more, streaming down tumbled stones to lope quickly and fearlessly in their direction.

"Oh, dung," the halfling spat. "Too far to run."

"The wall," Tarram replied, scooping her up one-handed with more haste than regard for her dignity. "Perhaps ...just perhaps ..."

He ran, whooping for breath, the wolves bounding to meet them with jaws swinging wide and eyes gleaming with eager hunger ...

Then something huge, green-scaled, and winged surged up from between two roofless houses, for all the world like a shark leaping from the waves of the Inner Sea, and pounced, skidding across the ground in a cloud of churned-up dust, great fanged jaws agape. Startled and yipping wolves tumbled into that dark maw and were torn apart.

The immense beast ripped through the yelping, scattering pack, biting and gulping. Then batlike wings beat once, the forest drake's long serpentine body and tail undulated, and it plunged down a hole behind a tumbled building, into unseen depths below.

Tarram looked at Tantaerra, still cradled in his arms, and said a word much harsher and nastier than "dung."

Then his running feet tripped and stumbled, and he fought wildly for balance as human skulls rolled and crunched underfoot.

The wall he'd been running so desperately for loomed up, ahead, and they could see a trio of human skeletons rising from behind it like warriors staging an ambush, reaching out with rusted blades—

Tarram ran right through one of them, not slowing. Bones clattered and cartwheeled in the air.

He drew what had been Nesker's sword and hacked. Tantaerra, still under his other arm, hammered with her dagger-pommel at reaching, raking skeletal fingers—and then they were past the skeletons, with new skulls rolling on the ground in their wake.

They turned a corner, beyond the wall, to step at last into the streets of abandoned Hurlandrun.

Streets that suddenly filled with a new and larger pack, streaming toward them. Not wolves this time, but tiny blue tigers or panthers, each about a foot long, plus another foot of tail. Scores of gleaming golden eyes, with grinning fangs beneath, and long, swept-back ears. In the distance, prowling unhurriedly to join their smaller brethren, strode a few larger ones. And a handful of much larger ones.

"Hunters of magic," Tarram announced, a little wearily. "Dweomercats."

"Lots of dweomercats," Tantaerra agreed. "Jaws and fangs and no doubt a propensity to regard us as dinner. And keen noses that can sniff out anything magical." She sighed, then pointed at a particular large, low rectangular stone building. It had an impressively ornate arched doorway, but no windows at all—and far more importantly, climbing one outside wall ... "Stone stair, still a roof at the top!"

"I'm running," he told her tersely, sprinting for the squat square building she'd pointed out.

Jaws and claws raked at his legs and ankles. Small blue bodies crunched underfoot, only to bounce upright again, seemingly unhurt. What were these things?

Then he was pounding up the stone steps, seeing cracks and green mold all over them, and names, or rather writing he hadn't time to read but that was spaced like names, lone names and paired names, and—

The great stone slab of roof was cracked right across, with smaller cracks radiating star-like out from that main wound as if a giant's fist had come down on the building. Yet right here, where he'd just skidded to a halt, the roof felt solid under his feet.

Which would have to do. He spun around, set Tantaerra down, and slashed with his sword across the top of the stair in perfect time to sweep the first yowling rank of dweomercats off the roof.

The second rank sprang, the blurred and rushing third right behind them. Tarram cursed and hacked at the roof around him like an enraged thresher trying to hammer a rat flat—and then the stair was suddenly empty of leaping blue-furred bodies.

They'd all turned to stream toward something else, down in the street. Something glowing and therefore magical, that the swarming press of their bodies now hid from view.

Something that had been thrown there by a man who was all too familiar—and who was now stalking up the stair.

Orivin Voyvik.

He was wearing a cruel little smile.

"I'd planned to spare you," he told Tantaerra, "but no longer."

He sprang, stabbing at her. The halfling frog-leaped aside, to land facing him in a crouch, her own daggers ready.

"I see you've finally learned to quit throwing away your weapons," she taunted.

Not all of the dweomercats had taken the bait. Across the roof, Tarram smarted under the raking claws and jaws of a dozen-some dweomercats, hacking ineffectually just to stay alive.

Voyvik sprang past Tantaerra, landing in a shoulder roll and coming up to his feet between them. The roof groaned—then suddenly, sickeningly, gave way, plunging Tarram and the vicious blue cats down into darkness below.

Tarram clawed desperately to catch hold of something—anything. At the last moment, his fingers finally found purchase, and he swung and swayed in the darkness, cats gnawing at his legs, the eyes of many more gleaming up at him from the room below.

Voyvik had flung himself at the stair to avoid going down with the roof, and landed on all fours on the stairhead. Now he launched himself at the halfling.

As Tarram struggled to climb back onto what was left of the crumbling roof, Tantaerra and the murderous Nirmathi fought.

Their dance was a flurry of frantic leaping, tumbling, and hacking, daggers against daggers. An agile slayer against a halfling a third his size, the roof cracking and sagging underfoot.

A fight that came to a sudden halt as Voyvik overbalanced in a leaning double-dagger slash. Tantaerra sprang over one of his arms to get inside his guard—and triumphantly stabbed Voyvik in the chest.

Only to have her blade scrape across the armor hidden beneath his shirt.

Voyvik shook his head and gave her a cold smile.

His return thrust was into her chest, right to the crossguards.

With a snarl, he lifted her up on his dagger, then flung her off the blood-drenched blade.

Spewing blood, Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra fell helplessly through the broken roof, into the darkness below.

Chapter Fourteen

Into the Tomb

Tantaerra had never hurt this much in all her life.

If she'd been human, she'd be dead already, drowned and choked on her own fountaining blood. Yet Tantaerra was small even for a halfling, so her heart wasn't quite where Voyvik thought it was.

Scant consolation, that, as she crashed helplessly down through a dry-rotten wooden lid and into the coffin beneath it, sobbing in helpless agony.

She landed on cold, hard bones amid spicy-smelling dust. One snapped under her, but the rest started to shift and heave, as she curled up and clutched her knees to her torn-open chest in an effort to keep from rupturing utterly.

The skeletal remains beneath Tantaerra shoved her aside as they rose up, spilling her onto a lot of small, hard, hissingly shifting things.

Ceramic vials, a heap of them, with rotten threads like a net of dark and seaweedy fingers among them. They'd been sewn onto a shroud or burial blanket laid over the skeleton, but whatever it had been was mere sighing black cobwebs now.

The skeleton rose and stretched a bony hand toward her.

Well, she was bleeding out anyway, so ...

Fighting hard not to sneeze, Tantaerra grabbed the nearest vial, bit away the crumbling dry wax that sealed it, and spat the stopper aside.

Red agony. Her chest was a sucking storm of pain, a drain she swirled down and out. Above her, the skeleton swayed, stooping now to regard her with empty eye sockets as its bony arms reached for her.

Tantaerra poured the contents of the vial down her throat.

And tasted that lovely clear, minty tingling. It slid into her, healing, the pain fading ...

Even as she gasped in satisfaction, skeletal fingers dug into her painfully, low on her uppermost flank and cruelly about the back of her neck, seeking to slide around to her throat.

Tantaerra hunched her head low to hamper any strangling attempt, jerked her body and arched it to try to shake the skeleton's grip on her, and kicked out hard. One of her feet struck a bony ankle, but the other found what she wanted: the thankfully still-solid inside wall of the coffin. Planting both feet against it, she wormed her way behind the ankle and shoved.

Fresh pain flared as her half-healed gutting opened anew. Yet few two-legged creatures on Golarion could have kept their balance against such a back-of-the-ankles shove. The skeleton swayed, arms flailing wildly, then toppled over backward, upflung feet kicking vials high as it crashed down out of sight, off the dais that held its coffin.

Amid the fountain of vials now tumbling in the air above Tantaerra was a still-handsome lacquered plaque. Writhing and moaning as she rolled across the now-vacated coffin, she had a seeming eternity to read its descending inscription.

Valorn the Prankster

Whose healing was matched by his humor.

He who saved so many could not save himself.

Then the plaque and all the vials crashed down on her in a bruising, bouncing rain. Tantaerra screamed and rolled, clutching to try to hold her ravaged innards together, aware of being covered in dark stickiness that was almost certainly her own blood. A lot of it.

She clawed up another vial, fought to bite it open, managed that with almost the last of her strength, drank again—and relaxed in the rapturous flow of cool-to-warm healing.

Something vast, dark, and heavy crashed down, obliterating the end of the coffin and shattering most of the potion vials in an ear-splitting instant. Whatever it was continued on, falling from the dais to slam down against the floor amid squalling, shrieking dweomercats.

A pointed piece of roof had fallen like a titan's dagger to destroy one end of the coffin, pinning Valorn's skeleton to the floor. All that could be seen were its bony arms clawing the air futilely, the great wedge of roof lying between them like a replacement coffin lid.

Tantaerra was hurled into the air, amid vials whole and broken. She crashed back down into what was left of the coffin, now a mess of vial shards and a thick, glowing, pulsing goo. Through this latter she slid helplessly, down one inner side of the coffin and up the other, getting a huge dollop of goo up her nose and down her throat during that slippery journey.

Tingling began within her, and the gloomy chamber around her went misty, dweomercat snarls fading to mere squeaks. The hollow clinks and rattles of the vials moving around her in the coffin were muted, and even the grating squeals of fingerbones on the coffin, as the skeleton scrabbled to climb back in, became brief and faint sounds.

What, by all the gods—?

The tingling was now a burning inside her. A warm rising pleasure, roiling through Tantaerra, making her very blood sing. Her body was stirring, arms and legs twitching, wordless song bursting out of her as she rose to stand, swaying like the skeleton had, reaching for she knew not what, but ...

Tantaerra fought to concentrate, to govern her exulting, dancing body. She tried to bend and snatch up a handy vial, but her hands went right through it—ghostly, translucent hands that thrust through the solid sides of the coffin as if nothing was there.

The skeleton could still see her, and so could several springing, snarling dweomercats, but their raking bones and fangs went right through her ...and Tantaerra's body went right through them. And through the vials, and the solid walls of the coffin, drifting wherever she thought about going.

Which in her initial startlement was through one side of the coffin to the floor of what was obviously a mausoleum.

She could see through herself as she thrashed about, trying to stand on a floor she was sinking through.

Up, she demanded fiercely, trying to shout but managing only gusty silence. Up.

And up she rose, drifting higher—but glowing now, too, as brightly as a good strong fire, flickering and writhing as she got higher.

And larger.

Tantaerra blinked down at herself. She was still a halfling—a ghostly halfling, her body like empty, glowing smoke—but she was now the biggest, tallest halfling she'd ever seen. Twice as tall as The Masked, and getting taller.

Though she could feel nothing at all, and apparently say nothing anyone could hear. Pouncing and leaping dweomercats sprang right through her, frightening and enraging their tail-switching, agitated fellows. They fled, first one or two and then all of them, rushing away as swiftly as they'd first swarmed into view when she and The Masked had arrived in overgrown Hurlandrun.

Tantaerra watched them go as she continued to ascend, growing more slowly now, up ...up ...and past the roof.

As her head and shoulders rose through the hole where the roof had collapsed, Tantaerra flung up one ghostly hand.

Through her phantom fingers she saw The Masked and Voyvik fighting, rolling around together on what little was left of the rooftop, punching each other, grappling and clawing. Barehanded, their knives gone, their faces twisted with effort and anger, snarling as they rolled over, saw her—and gaped in astonishment.

Tantaerra gave The Masked a wide and embarrassed grin, and a little wave—and was pleased to see that Tarram recovered from his surprise a moment earlier than Voyvik, and managed to land a good, hard punch to the crazed Nirmathi's throat, driving Voyvik into self-clutching agony.

She willed herself to join her partner, and drifted closer to the two entwined men.

Tarram tried to kick himself free and reach for her—but those kicks made small chunks of roof break free of the edge, right under him, to crash down on the spires and catafalques below. He had to catch at the roof edge frantically and cling with all his white-knuckled might to keep from plunging headfirst after them. Voyvik, still lost in pain, launched a feeble kick at The Masked's backside.

"No!" Tantaerra shrieked at Tarram in warning, but nothing at all came out of her mouth. The tingling became almost a buzzing, between her ears, and suddenly she was—

Halfway across the nearest overgrown street of ruined Hurlandrun, just like that. And about the height of four or five tall men above the ground, gaping down at dweomercats who looked just as astonished to see her as she felt, finding herself in midair above them.

Then, just as abruptly, she was somewhere else, somewhere dark and dank and enclosed in moldy stone, a room in a building whose floor was studded with mushrooms and rivulets of lazily running water.

A room that went from dark to an eerie rosy and then a bright, pulsing, lurid pink glow in a flaring instant—a glow Tantaerra realized with some horror was coming from herself.

Her still-translucent, floating, insubstantial self.

Abruptly she was outside again, still aglow, this time hard by a dark curve of stone that she recognized as the sturdier half of what was probably the Shattered Tomb. She tried to will herself around it to where she might be able to look down in and see its interior, and started to drift in that direction, but was snatched away again by the wayward magic roiling inside her—back to the mausoleum, but at the far and gloomy end of it from the riven coffin and the gap in the roof, where dweomercats were perched on catafalques looking toward the light.

Until they saw her: pulsing bright pink in midair not all that far from their noses, a ghostly and irritated halfling who suddenly swooped away from a swiping dweomercat claw, looked astonished as she raced upward again to hover in the air well out of reach of all unenergetic cat attacks ...and started to grow fur.

Pink fur, of course.

Fur that even as she gazed at it and tried to wipe it away—with a hand that felt nothing and plunged right through her ghostly arm—burst into flames, flames that started pink but turned a deep, rich royal blue, fire that warmed her not in the slightest but scorched her newfound fur into acrid smoke that set her to sneezing as the world blinked around her again and left her high above Hurlandrun.

Not that she had time to get used to the view.

Even as she started to swoop and fly in loops in the air, just to see if she could, and the pink glow started to fade to feeble sputtering white, one last teleport took Tantaerra to just above the half-roofless mausoleum again, her current loop through the air almost becoming a spectacular collision with the roof.

Tantaerra groaned and shut her eyes, curling her arms around herself tightly, just trying to hold her wounds together, hoping this would end.

The glow was gone entirely now, and the fur was fading, taking its flames with it. Then Tantaerra struck something that sent her tumbling through the air like a child's ball—which meant she must be getting solid again!

She was falling now, not flying, that magical effect fled, and ...

Crashing down into vials and slippery goo. She was back in the ruined coffin! There were unbroken vials under her as she kicked and flailed and slid, catching a glimpse of the healer's skeleton still struggling to lift the massive piece of roof it was trapped under.

At last she managed to claw herself up onto her hands and knees. At the far end of the crypt, a row of dweomercats stood gazing at her, all of them looking mightily impressed. Then they exploded into action, racing along coffins, trying to get at her.

Tantaerra clawed up a slimy handful of vials, bit one open, and tossed down its contents.

The taste was a little like spiced fruit, nothing she'd ever known before, and she was suddenly flying again.

She soared up out of the mausoleum, blinking in surprise—and out of the corner of one eye caught a glimpse of Voyvik in his brawl with Tarram.

She turned and swooped at him, in hopes of distracting him long enough for The Masked to take him down. Voyvik, however, had got a knife from somewhere, and was holding The Masked at bay, driving him back with vicious slashes. He turned as she swooped in, shrieking.

The gleaming blade came at her—and The Masked was there, tackling him, the knife gliding over her head.

She strained to turn in the air, kicking, and her left toe caught the mad Nirmathi in the ear and spun him around with a roar of startled pain.

Then she was past, tumbling in the air, curling up to bite at her next vial.

It slammed into her lower lip painfully, splitting it open. Tantaerra tasted blood, spat it out, and bit into the vial's seal.

The healing tingle, when it came, was still one of the most wonderful sensations she'd ever experienced. The pain in her gut faded, and she flew high into the air. She was whole again.

There was no way to know how long this flight would last. With the other potions already fading, it was past time to end this. Tantaerra turned in midair and hurled herself down at the mausoleum again.

On the roof below, Voyvik and Tarram were locked in a struggling clinch, the Nirmathi's blade held well out to one side with the masked man's hand locked around the wrist that held it. They strained against each other, throwing themselves from side to side to try to overbalance each other. And then they toppled together, with spectacular slowness, into the mausoleum below.

Tantaerra swerved to arrow after them.

They smashed down atop the pinned skeleton of Valorn the Healer, shattering one of its arms. Voyvik ended up on the bottom and took the brunt of the fall, landing on his back amid riven shards of bone, as The Masked tumbled away.

The Nirmathi rolled slowly to his feet and came up staggering, bent over and clutching what were probably broken ribs.

Tantaerra stopped in front of him, floating. "My turn," she spat.

Voyvik ran.

Well now, Tantaerra thought with surprise. Inspiring that sort of fear was a pleasant change.

Then she saw his destination: Valorn's broken coffin, and the healing vials lying in it amid the goo. He scrambled up into it just as Tantaerra's power of flight faded, sending her to the ground in a bruising landing she could feel all over. She rolled, slammed into the dais that held the healer's coffin on high, and ended up with her feet up it and the back of her neck on the mausoleum floor, looking up.

It was the perfect position to watch from as The Masked leap down out of the darkness, from atop another raised coffin he'd scaled, and slammed into Voyvik's back, ramming the Nirmathi face-first against the stone sarcophagus.

It didn't yield, but Voyvik's face did.

The Masked gave him no time to recover, but hauled the Nirmathi up by the shoulders and threw him forward, across the top edge of the coffin. He dragged him back until his neck was on that stone lip—then leaped high and came down on it with both boots.

Voyvik's body bounced and spasmed, arms and legs flailing, then went still. His head lolled loosely, drooling blood, the eyes dark and unseeing.

The Masked turned away from what was left of Voyvik without another glance. "How many vials can you carry?" he asked Tantaerra.

Tantaerra, still looking at Voyvik's corpse, fought against a sudden surge of nausea, then shrugged and started fishing unbroken vials out of the goo. The seat of Voyvik's breeches served to wipe them more or less dry, and she started stowing them. They all looked the same, so there was no knowing what each one did, but any magic was better than none at all.

She managed to stow eleven in places where they might not break if she took a hard fall, then started handing them to The Masked, who managed to put away ten, on various places on his person.

That left more than a dozen.

They exchanged looks. "Right here is as good a place to leave them as any," Tantaerra told her partner.

He nodded. "Remember how to get back here, then."

They turned and looked into the gleaming yellow eyes of countless dweomercats.

"Oh, yes," The Masked said slowly. "Our escort."

Tantaerra eyed the swirling radiance playing over eerie blue pelts. "Can we eat them?"

The Masked chuckled. "Gods, but you're a great partner."

Tantaerra looked up at him. "Thank you," she said quietly. "I—thank you."

The remaining arm of Valorn the Healer lifted, perhaps in salute.

She gave the feebly moving bones a good hard kick.

∗ ∗ ∗

As the masked man and the small halfling walked the overgrown streets of Hurlandrun, dweomercats stalked them—yet this time did not attack, even when The Masked stopped to cut a sapling. As they went on he trimmed off its branches to fashion a crude pole. None of the cats ever ventured quite near enough to bite or claw, or to be reached by the drawn daggers of the pair. Rather, the sleek blue panthers surrounded the two intruders in a ring, in the end almost herding them up to the doors of the tall, hulking building with the cracked dome. Like the mausoleum, it was windowless.

"One needn't be a sage to know this is the Shattered Tomb," The Masked muttered.

"How old is it?" Tantaerra asked, eyes on the great rift in the dome and the leaning half of the building.

"About fifty years," he replied, "not ancient."

"So what did that?"

"Spell battle between Mahalagris and Karm, perhaps. Or mice."

Tantaerra sniggered. "They have big mice, hereabouts. All right, Masked One, let's be about this."

They were standing in a wilderness of weeds and grass sprouting between great square stones, underfoot. A wilderness that had grown a crop of more human skulls than Tantaerra had ever seen before. Raised stone platforms jutted up like gigantic teeth here and there, either plinths for vanished statues or the sort of ancient communal tombs she'd heard were sometimes called "bone boxes." Dweomercats slunk watchfully among the ruins on all sides.

Facing them across this desolation of weathered stone, centered in the wall of the building, was a tall, arched double entrance door of carved stone. Two carved, snarling lion's heads adorned the doors where handles should be, their fangs carved in arcs that touched each other, to form jutting rings of stone. A stout tree trunk had been thrust through these to keep the doors together—a bar that certainly hadn't been there for more than a year, let alone fifty.

Tantaerra looked at The Masked. He looked back at her for a moment, then led the way. They turned their backs on those doors and walked all around the building, seeking other ways into and out of it. They found none that they could recognize. Not a window, not a seam among the stones that suggested a doorway—and no damage of passing years that was more than bird droppings or stained stone.

Along the way, The Masked had picked up a fist-sized fragment of old stone. He used it now to poke the tree trunk out of the stone rings.

The wood fell and bounced on the flagstones underfoot with the ringing crash of falling timber.

"So much for stealth," Tantaerra muttered.

The Masked shrugged. "Wizards know when visitors intrude." He gave her a sidelong look. "And if they happen to be asleep, flying halflings that glow pink and trail flames are apt to awaken them."

Tantaerra's reply was as a gesture as rude as it was wordless.

With his pole, The Masked thrust at the lion's fangs on the right-hand door. The great door swung open—outward—easily and in eerie silence. Clearly counterweighted and well maintained, with nothing unusual to be seen in its frame, and the hinges on the inside free of rust and freshly oiled.

"See? Expecting us," The Masked commented.

"As it happens, that does not fill me with joy," Tantaerra murmured.

The Masked smiled tightly and swung the other door open.

Beyond lay a rather bare hall with a high, vaulted ceiling, stretching off to unseen endings left and right. Flagstone floor and unadorned stone walls, with another pair of arched doors centered in the far wall.

And three stone blocks serving as tables, arranged in a line just inside the doorway they were looking through.

On the table to their left lay a single silver coin that was as large as a grand circular serving-platter. On the center table stood a lone ceramic potion vial, stoppered and sealed just like the ones they were carrying. The right-hand table displayed a glowing sword. No scabbard or belt or anything else, just the gleaming blade.

Tantaerra's lip curled.

"Are we thought to be greedy children, or merely fools?"

The Masked made no reply, but looked up warily for falling blades or anything else in or just within the doorway, or on the ceiling beyond.

There was a vast stone dragon up there with a long, sinuous tail, curled around the bosses of the vaulting, but it looked to be a carving, and certainly wasn't moving. It and all the rest of the ceiling gave off a gentle white radiance that lit the room below dimly.

"Keep an eye on that," he muttered to Tantaerra, pointing at the dragon, and strode through the door, turning sharply right and hastening along the wall for six or seven paces. Then he stopped to look and listen.

Silence deepened. Nothing happened, nothing moved. The dweomercats had stopped outside the doors and were standing in a silent, watchful line, shoulder to shoulder, barring any retreat.

"Try not to get into any mischief while we're gone," Tantaerra told them, and darted through the doorway after The Masked, following his route along the wall.

The dragon on the ceiling hadn't moved in the slightest, and continued to not do so.

The Masked waited for her to join him, then proceeded along the wall with caution, tapping and probing each new flagstone with his pole. Every one proved to be solid, and to react not at all to either the pole or The Masked's cautious booted strides. Around the walls he proceeded, to stop short of the inner doors.

Neither he nor Tantaerra made any move toward the three tables, now some seventy feet or so away across an empty, dusty floor. Crude, obvious traps.

So were the keepers of the tomb of Mahalagris just seeking to kill anyone intruding into it, or had they other purposes in mind? Collecting magic from adventuring wizards, perhaps?

"I dislike the look of these doors," The Masked told Tantaerra, waving at the closed inner doors—and then at some dark stains on the dusty floor about halfway to the tables. She peered at those marks, then up at the doors. They were even taller than the outermost doors, some sixty feet or more, and were apparently fashioned of single slabs of stone. They loomed up impressively over anyone trying to read the writing graven across them above each door handle:

Mahalagris the Mighty

sleeps at last.

Tantaerra read those words, then looked back at the stains on the floor again.

"No," she agreed, "I don't like the look of them, either."

The handles were massive knobs of stone, shaped as if someone had found a matching pair of gigantic dewcap mushrooms and had them petrified.

The Masked looked at the nearest one for a moment, then down at where its door met the floor.

Aha!

He peered back along the wall in which it was set. "See if you can find even the slightest trace of a concealed door, anywhere along there."

Tantaerra nodded and set to work on that—and once she was safely down the far end of the wall, The Masked slid his pole behind the flange of that nearest doorhandle and gave a gentle tug.

Nothing happened. It was as if these doors were solid stone, mere ornamental carving that could never open.

He pulled a little harder, planting his feet and hauling.

The door didn't budge.

With a sigh, The Masked went into a crouch and put his back into a huge heave.

And as he'd expected, the doors moved suddenly—toppling forward together, with an ominous roar.

He flung himself headlong toward Tantaerra the moment they started to shift, hurling himself and then rolling, clawing the air to keep himself moving just as fast as he could. So he was well clear when the heavy doors crashed down against the floor. They were solid blocks of stone, pierced through their backs to take massive chains—chains that even now were beginning to haul them back upright again with a slow clack, clack, clack, covering the narrow hole behind them, through which The Masked caught a glimpse of another large room.

No hinges at all, unless one counted the little trench in the floor that the bottoms of both doors could move about in. Both doors fixed together ...

"Not an unfamiliar trap," Tantaerra murmured, beside him, as the doors rose back to their former position again, settling into the wall. "By far the largest of its type I've seen, though."

"Large budget," The Masked replied. "Much coin—and nastiness, too."

Tantaerra glanced at the bloodstains again, then told him, "I found the door. Opens readily, and no traps I could find—but there's hard fighting ahead of us if we go on. When yon smashflat doors fell, they pulled open another door, farther in, letting guardians into the chamber we'll have to traverse next. It's the same room as the smashflat doors let into, and it's lit just like this one."

"What sort of guardians?"

"Metal men. Three of them. Striding along, all whirring gears and puffs and jets of steam. Green steam. Huge bulbous forearms."

"Clockwork," The Masked muttered. "I've heard rumors, wild tales. They explode when destroyed—blasting metal shards and those gears in all directions."

"So do we turn back?"

The Masked shook his head. "Of course not. We find a way to lure them to where those doors can fall on them. Or some other nasty trap will take them down for us."

"Surely they'll know to avoid it."

"'Surely' nothing. Maybe they will—and maybe they can't think at all. Maybe their orders are stronger than whatever sentience or self-preservation was built into them."

Tantaerra frowned. "I don't like maybes."

The Masked shrugged. "I've yet to find anyone that does. Me included. Yet we do what we can with what the gods give us, yes?" He hummed for a moment, thoughtfully, then asked, "How quick are they?"

"Faster than I am. But then ..."

"Many things are faster than halflings—who specialize instead in wit and charm. Not to mention, in your case, sharp tongues and good looks."

"Flattery, hired brute, will get you nowhere with me. And even less far with these men of gears."

"Did they see you when you opened the door?"

"Of course. My opening it caused another of these stone blocks displaying treasures for the gullible to rise up out of the floor, just inside the room. The treasure is an open chest of old coins—silver, gold, and some metals I've not seen before. Bluish, and greenish, and a few that are redder than copper, too."

"You have been busy. Hmm. Did the gear-men charge at you, or seem interested?"

"They seemed interested, and were moving my way. I didn't enter the room, and they might well be waiting for that."

"So we have a pole, a rock, our daggers, and our wits," The Masked muttered.

"Some cord, too, remember. With a grapple."

"Ah. I wonder, if we used the pole to whack that coin flying—to, say, almost out of the Tomb—do you think it would lure the dweomercats in?"

Tantaerra gave The Masked a dubious look. "The cats must be able to feel magic coming from this place, yet stopped—in a neat line, mind you!—well back, instead of streaming inside when we opened the doors. Nor do I particularly want your ankles and all of me, from heels to head, gnawed and scratched down to bare bones by more dweomercats than I can count, let alone fight. Unthink that idea and provide some better ones, hey?"

The masked man nodded slowly. "You have the right of it. Hmm. What else could you see of the room that has these clockwork men steaming around it?"

"It's rectangular, long axis across our path, fifty feet or more across and at least three times that long. There's a narrow opening in the center of its far wall that looks to be a long, narrow passage. High ceiling, room and passage both."

"Windows, perching gargoyles, anything on the ceiling?"

"No. Bare and bland—from where I was standing, mind, not in the room yet to trigger any interesting nastinesses into appearing."

"Did you leave the door wedged open? And is it large enough for these metal men to walk through?"

"No, and I've no idea. If they can't bend and stoop, no, but they looked to me very much as if they can."

The Masked paced slowly away, then turned and came back to Tantaerra. "So we'll have to do this the hard way. Triggering the big doors to fall again and seeing if we can't wedge them open somehow."

"To ...what? Give us a way to climb into the room of death on the other side of this wall? Or give those metal men freedom to depart it to come in here, with us?"

The Masked shrugged. "Either will do."

Tantaerra stared up at him. "May I remind you that it's just the two of us, and neither of us are wizards with spells that can blast down castles, or even plate-armored knights with some decent swords? You do like to live dangerously, don't you?"

"It's what's got me through life so far. To end up here in this ruined city, inside the front step of what looks like a formidable death trap, with you."

"You, masked man, are crazy."

The Masked shrugged again. "That has been said before. And is almost certainly correct. So what are we waiting for?"

Chapter Fifteen

Death, Death Everywhere

We're looking," The Masked announced, as they walked out into the dweomercats—and watched the blue horde melt away from them almost magically, leaving them a clear space to walk in—"for a stone block or spar at least as long as my arm, that doesn't look cracked or as if it will easily crumble. It will be heavy."

Tantaerra gave him a withering look. "Halflings are small, not stupid. Of course it'll be heavy! And if it doesn't wedge those doors open?"

"We try something else. This isn't a race. Oh, and if we find something hard that looks like it will fit through one of the links of the chains that hauled the doors back up, we bring it, too."

"Jam the chain-spool if we can't wedge the doors," Tantaerra interpreted. "I just hope we aren't going to have to go trotting out here on new scavenger prowls with every new room we reach. Tell me—though I suspect those metal men will stay inside the Tomb, what if they come trundling out here after us?"

The Masked chuckled. "Remember what happened to Valorn the Healer? And his coffin?"

"We collapse a roof on them. Why doesn't that sound as tidy and easy to me as it obviously does to you?"

"You're halfling crazy, not Tarram Armistrade crazy."

"Ah. Well, as long as there's a reasonable explanation. Wh—there!"

Tantaerra pointed at what she'd just caught sight of, behind some tall and tangled weeds. A broken cylinder of stone, probably a section of fallen stone pillar.

The Masked eyed it. "Either we roll it, or I drag it with your cord. There's no way I'm hefting and carrying that back to the Tomb."

"Heavy," Tantaerra agreed.

So it proved to be. The Masked was sweating by the time they were standing in front of the Shattered Tomb again.

He was sweating still more by the time he'd muscled the cylinder of stone through the doors and around the corner, along the wall.

"From here," he announced, "we roll it. Right across the floor."

He undid the improvised harness and returned the cord to Tantaerra, then sat down against the wall, drew up his legs, and straightened them in a hard kick.

The cylinder rumbled across the floor toward the inner doors.

Halfway there, a flagstone sank under its passage. There came a grating sound from two places in the ceiling, and rather rusty axe-blades swung down on chains to crisscross at about the height of a man's torso in the center of the room.

"Such bright imagination," Tantaerra commented, watching them. "It'll be a big rolling ball chasing us, next."

The blades went back and forth tirelessly as The Masked struggled to stand the stone cylinder upright against the wall, beside the doors.

"I'm going to ...have to move pretty sharp-like...to not get crushed by the doors yet get back to shove this in time," he panted.

"You won't have to," Tantaerra told him. "If I stand atop this, rest assured I can make it fall in the right direction when I jump off."

The Masked looked at her a little disbelievingly, then nodded, grinned, and replied, "Let's be doing this, then!"

So do it they did.

The doors toppled as before, Tantaerra got the cylinder to fall almost before The Masked was clear of the falling doors, and the air was filled with the grinding, whirring, and ticking of countless gears as three lumbering metal figures came to the doorway to stand in a line, trailing puffs of green steam.

"So they stay in their room," The Masked panted. "Right."

Tantaerra eyed the three metal guardians. They looked huge, this close. "So, Masked Brilliance, what next?"

The doors started to rise again, chains rattling.

The Masked said a dirty word, then snatched up his pole and trotted along the wall. "Where's this door of yours?"

"Right here, and opens thus. Now, what are you—"

"Don't know yet," The Masked informed her merrily. "Now, those things can outrun you, so it'll have to be me. Wait here."

And he burst through the door, ducked around the stone block and treasure chest, and sprinted across the room patrolled by the clockwork men, heading straight for the narrow passage opening out of the far wall.

He was almost halfway there when the men of gears saw or sensed him. They swung around, let out huge snorting gouts of smoke like old men blowing hard to get their pipes to catch alight, and charged.

Clank whirr wheeze tiktiktik. Clank whirr wheeze tiktiktik. CLANK whirr wheeze—

The floor was fairly shaking underfoot as The Masked raced down the passage, keeping as low as possible. When he felt flagstones give under his boots, he flung himself forward in a skidding dive that left the concealed crossbows in the walls hurling bolts at empty air, and came up in a racing crawl that brought him to the expected plain, ring-handled door at the end of the passage. He flung it open and moved with it, keeping just behind it.

Which was a good thing. The edges of the doorframe suddenly sprouted a row of sword blades with a loud clakkk.

The Masked ducked low to the floor and peered around the door. If this was anything like that old tomb in Cheliax, all was well and good. If not, he was likely to be very dead, very soon ...

He caught sight of heavy chain, up at the ceiling of the space beyond the blade-adorned door, and hope leaped within him.

A moment later, there was a loud clacking sound from beyond the door, and what he'd dared to hope would happen started to unfold.

The men of steam and gears—clockwork golems, they had to be—were all in the passage now, heads leaning forward, arms drawing back to deliver hammer blows, legs striding hard.

And swinging to meet them, in a great arc that would make it sweep through the doorframe from ankle level up to chest level on these metal men, was a huge spiked iron block, tallish and with flattened sides so it would fit through the door and swing a long way down the passage. It was easily three times as thick as one of the metal men—and it smashed into the foremost one with a satisfyingly teeth-shaking crash.

The Masked ducked behind the door, but kept on holding it open, just as the shattered golem exploded. The door shuddered, and him with it.

The blast caused the second golem to whirr and click and start to unfold itself across the passage, into a wall of moving, spinning gears that looked impressive for a few moments—until the swinging hammer smashed into the midst of it.

Gears shrieked and rang like bells off the ceiling and back along the walls of the passage, out into the room with the treasure chest as the second golem exploded, too, erupting in a great spray of interlocked cogs and teeth and oil.

All of which smashed holes in the final golem even before the iron block slammed into it and sent it flying in a spray of myriad cogs and gear fragments that flew all over the treasure chest room.

The golem struck the bottom of the jammed double doors with a boom, and broke The Masked's section of pillar in two. One half fell out of the doors, which resumed closing with a snarl of straining chain—and the other rolled under the remnant of clockwork golem and slid it back out across the floor in a grinding and shrieking of bent and battered gears.

That lurched laboriously upright again, belching steam from a dozen ruptured joints and valves, and started to stump back toward the passage.

The iron hammer had preceded it, swinging back through its arc past the door The Masked was so considerately still holding open. It reached where it had come from, another dimly lit room deeper inside the Tomb, and headed back out through the door while the golem's slow, lopsided progress was still bringing it back inside the passage.

The two met with a satisfyingly solid impact.

Solid for the hammer, that is. The golem exploded in a death burst that peppered the walls, floor, and ceiling of the passage and the treasure chest room with shrapnel, gears and their axles and the interlocking sockets in which axles had so lately been mounted.

As they bounced and ricocheted, The Masked kept his attention on the swinging block. If he shoved the door closed again now, wedged it that way with his pole, and raced back along the passage like a wind in a hurry to be elsewhere—

Along the way, he rediscovered the sinking flagstones worked into the passage floor. The first sent crossbow bolts raining down from directly above, too slowly to catch a man in The Masked's sort of hurry. The second brought them up from directly below—and one shot right up his leg and agonizingly into him. The third caused them to fire down at an angle from the ceiling of the treasure chest room, into the passage.

Luckily the swinging hammer intercepted that last volley—and as The Masked staggered out of the passage and fell, rolling sideways and clawing out a vial, the pendulum slammed into the stone door he'd closed with a room-shaking BurOOOUM.

The door shattered, causing a fresh rains of crossbow bolts in the passage.

The Masked lay on the floor, gulping the contents of a vial that seemed intent on making him glow pink rather than healing him, and watched the mayhem. Specifically, he peered hard at whatever was beyond the door. It seemed to be another room or passage very like the one he'd just redecorated.

He was glowing pink. Damn it.

He bit open another vial, gulped down its contents, and knew blessed relief. Got to tug out that bolt, before the healing was done ...

Ahhh. Much better.

An errant cog rolled past him, making little burping bounces as its teeth struck the stone floor. The Masked chuckled. Must remember to scoop up a handful of those, to jam other things we meet with, deeper in.

"We're coming, wizard," he told the ceiling, tossing the blood-drenched crossbow bolt aside and shaking drops of his own blood off his fingers. "And here goes your mighty and menacing stronghold."

∗ ∗ ∗

"You are so noisy," Tantaerra had complained, when the rather battered masked man had trudged up to her. "Next time, I'm not waiting."

He'd merely shrugged and waved his hands, indicating she should please herself. That had been three rooms back, now.

The chamber beyond the passage had held nothing but the huddled bones of what looked like a party of adventurers. Tantaerra had been pleased to augment her collection of lockpicks with some that were much better than her own, and they both now had swords, helms (though Tantaerra's was large enough for three of her heads, and was being carried along more to serve as a bucket than anything else), and spears.

The room after that chamber had featured more sinking flagstones, tied to visible waiting crossbows. Which meant they were obvious misdirection. Tantaerra had almost missed the massive stone deadfall waiting beyond them, by the exit door—but neither she nor The Masked had been fooled in the slightest by the knotted-every-three-feet climbing rope dangling invitingly from a hole in the ceiling, from which soft light streamed.

"Ten silver weights yon rope is attached to a block of not quite your weight," she'd told him. "That'll shift as you climb—and when you're halfway up, come right down on your head."

He shook his head. "That's not a wager I'll take. You're not getting your silver back that easily."

It took six handfuls of gears to make a heap heavy enough to trip the stone piston trap, but at least the thing rose again very slowly. Giving them almost enough time to deal with the annoying door beyond it.

It had a small, ordinary-looking knob rather than a ring or another large flared mushroom handle—but when Tantaerra reached for it, the knob moved, skittering silently away from her across the surface of the door. She'd grabbed for it much more quickly—and her fingers had closed on a razor-sharp blade that turned and moved away from her with sickeningly sharp speed, leaving her trying to hold badly sliced fingers in place.

The Masked fed her vials until she was healed.

Of course, by then she was naked, having hastily doffed her clothes to keep them from being destroyed by her fresh pelt of burning fur, but waiting for that to fade away again gave them ample time to collect gauntlets from the dead adventurers, renew their choice collection of gears, and trigger the stone piston trap several times more. Thanks to the smoke from Tantaerra's burning fur, they discovered a faint breeze coming from inside the tomb and lower than the floor they were standing on, drifting past to where they'd come in. The fur that hadn't fallen to ash finally faded, its flames with it, and Tantaerra got dressed again—adding the smallest pair of salvaged gauntlets.

This time, when they grabbed the illusion-cloaked blades with their borrowed gauntlets, it took only a moment of straining to twist, undo the catch, and fling the door wide.

As they hurled themselves back against the walls, of course.

The war ballista set up in the room beyond to fire large metal spears in a deadly volley the length of their room let fly noisily but harmlessly. The Masked was particularly intrigued by the way the floor back there dropped to let the spears slide down out of sight, presumably for reuse.

"Must be nice to have the coin to waste on mere tidiness," he murmured. "I've always had to pick up dropped things and trundle them back where they go with my own two hands."

"You should've been a wizard," Tantaerra murmured. "Still got that rock?"

"Yes."

"Well, toss it through the door so it angles around the corner, to land in the part of the room where we can't see."

"As you command," he replied, almost fondly.

The rock bounced on hard floor, skidded—and nothing happened.

So The Masked risked leaping past the doorway, from side to side rather than across the threshold, to peer at whatever might be hidden from view.

Nothing. Aside from the rock, lying there on bare stone floor, there was just the ballista. Bare ceiling above. No doorway onward, either.

"Well, now," he pondered aloud, "I think we should tie my waist to the stone piston with your cord before I step over this threshold."

"No doors?"

"No doors."

"I agree. If we have to search all around the room, there's probably some danger or other, waiting in some part of the floor. A pit trap or something nastier."

"Death, death everywhere," The Masked agreed. "And our supply of little vials that give us burning fur and make us pink is not inexhaustible."

Tantaerra held out one end of the cord. "Be quick. This hammer is going to reset itself again—and you'll look rather comical, dangling from it in midair."

∗ ∗ ∗

Their precautions proved to be wise. After Tarram moved beyond a certain point, the entire floor started to descend in front of him and rise up behind him, becoming a ramp down into a forest of rusty spikes that looked to be salvaged sword blades and spearheads.

Secure against sliding down into them for the moment, he looked to left and right along the creaking pivot-point. One of those spots almost had to be a secret door.

Ah. The one on the left. He poked, pulled, rapped, tapped, and finally kicked at the door—and it sprang open, outward into his face, revealing a dark, narrow passage with a low, arched, stone-block ceiling.

Ah, dank and sordid at last. This looked promising.

He mistrusted large rooms that seemed to be watching and waiting for intruders—to entrap them, sneer at them, and spit them out. Dirty little back passages were somehow more reassuring, as if one had penetrated to the backstage areas, where servants scuttled and workers ...well, in a dungeon, reset traps.

It also hinted reassuringly that this Mahalagris wasn't all-powerful. Dead or alive, he couldn't do everything with mighty spells. He relied on servants, like everyone else grand and airy. Passages like this were ducking behind the wizard's cloak, so to speak.

Only a real dark-hearted bastard would put traps in servants' passages. But then, if even half the tales could be believed, Mahalagris had been a real dark-hearted...well, nothing to be done. Tarram reached the end of the cord, undid it, and tossed it back to where his halfling partner was watching. And starting to glare at him. "Don't you leave me behind again, you—" Without waiting to hear the rest, he gave her a cheery wave and set off down the narrow passage.

Only to come to an abrupt halt. Damn.

The passage widened almost immediately, to end at two identical doors.

He hated pairs of identical doors. Usually one led to safe passage onward, and the other to a series of deathtraps.

The Masked let out a long sigh, then turned and went back the way he'd come.

He had a partner, they were in this together, and by all the sneering, laughing gods, they'd triumph or go down together.

∗ ∗ ∗

"Open them both," Tantaerra decreed. "At the same time. One door each and we leap back out of the way."

"Potentially letting two horrible beasts in to devour us," The Masked sighed. Then he shrugged and smiled. "All right. Both doors at once it is."

The two plain stone doors stood almost mockingly in front of them. The battered oil lantern that had belonged to Nesker flickered repeatedly, almost as if it was warning them of time's fleeting nature. It sat where they'd put it, on the floor well behind them.

"One of us has to carry the light. Leaving it there, right in the way of whatever charges out, is pure fool-headedness," The Masked commented.

"And we never indulge in fool-headedness, oh no." But Tantaerra still fetched the lamp. "I'll hold it. I'm closer to the floor, so less chance of anything breaking in a longer fall."

"Agreed. Stop stalling and open your door."

Tantaerra made a rude sound, lifted her chin in a defiant gesture, and swung her door wide.

Nothing happened.

By then, The Masked had his door open, too. Displaying the same dark, motionless silence.

"Lamp forward," he suggested gently, "and tell me what you see."

"Stone floor, walls, ceiling—a room much larger than this passage. Bare and empty, with no grinning beastie waiting for us. I'd have to go in to see more. Your turn."

The Masked leaned warily across the dark open doorway for the lamp, then peered in.

And almost immediately drew back and closed the door again, taking great care to make no sound.

"Six of those clockwork men," he reported. "Standing like statues, no smoke—but I'm not wagering any silver they'll stay that way if we go in."

"My door it is," Tantaerra concluded dryly. "Not that we shouldn't expect a trap or two. The wizard, or his trapmaster, or the scrape-knuckles who reset all the traps here all knew where to step and what not to touch. We don't."

"Granted," The Masked agreed. "Lead on."

The halfling peered warily at the doorframe, then gingerly stepped over the threshold and into the room. The first flagstone under her foot sank a little, and she heard a hiss.

"Dung," she snarled, drawing hastily back. "Poison gas!"

"Jetting from the ceiling out here, too," The Masked hissed in her ear. "Run forward, Tan! Get gone!"

The halfling launched herself across the new room, lantern swinging wildly. It was a big open space. How big she wasn't sure because she was looking only for doors, ways onward—

With a thunderous rattling of metal that ended in an ominous boom, a portcullis slammed down in front of her. It was a lattice of not-all-that-rusty metal bars, each of them thicker than a large man's leg, and seemed to stretch clear across the room, from wall to wall.

Tantaerra skidded to a halt to avoid running into it, because she'd heard of portcullises that had silent lightnings playing along them. There was another rattle and boom from behind her, a curse from The Masked, and ...

It seemed a cage was beginning to form around them.

A shorter portcullis came down to the right, forming a side wall. The stone wall of the room wasn't all that far off to the left. Both Tantaerra and The Masked peered up at the ceiling, but it appeared bare and unbroken—even as yet another portcullis slammed down through it, narrowing their prison.

So it was an illusion—the ceiling, that is, not these mighty bars. Tantaerra shoved against the newest one, finding it cold and very, very solid.

"So this is it?" Tantaerra snarled. "Gassed in a cage? Not very spectacular! Where're the mighty magical effects, the chance for the wizard to gloat, the—eeeep!"

The latest portcullis narrowed their cage to a tight passage between bars.

"Wall!" The Masked shouted. "Get to the wall, and check for hidden doors!"

The halfling flung him a disgusted look but launched herself at the wall as she was doing so, with Tarram right on her heels.

The smallest portcullis yet just missed them, slamming down across the narrow passage right behind them, dividing it into a small chamber next to the wall, and a larger central one—whose floor promptly fell away into a shaft opening down into darkness.

By the dank breeze that promptly wafted up, stinking of mildew and decay, he guessed the shaft went a long way down.

"Good," The Masked commented, "that'll take care of the gas. Any luck?"

"If you can call it that," Tantaerra murmured, as the wall swung away in front of her, revealing a dark way onward. "We could have just downed potions until we turned to ghostly gas, and got back out through all those bars and right out of Hurlandrun and then Nirmathas, like slightly less crazy people, but ..."

"Less talk, more walk," The Masked told her, almost shoving her through the secret door. "And give me the lamp."

"So you can get a better look at what's falling down on our heads to kill us?"

Tantaerra was still flinging those words at her partner when her foot came down on a flagstone that sank a little. "Uh-oh."

The Masked caught hold of her shoulder with one hand and pulled, even as he flung himself over backward.

They both bounced on their backs as, mere feet away, a block of stone the size of a large wagon plummeted from the ceiling to almost kiss the floor. It swayed, in a creaking of chains, perhaps the width of The Masked's hand above the flagstones, and then started to rattle slowly up into the ceiling again.

The Masked looked thoughtful. "You were heavy enough to trigger that. So if you wear the cord around your waist this time, and I stand ready to haul you back, and you traipse across the rest of this room ..."

Tantaerra sighed. "Let's do it."

Four flagstones and four falling blocks later, the room ended in an archway filled with a curtain of hanging chains. There was a strong, steady glow of light coming from beyond them.

"Those look all too much like tentacles to me," the halfling commented.

"Agreed. So let's start throwing gears into them, and see if—aha!"

The Masked's first missile had caused the chains to writhe and coil around it. He flung a second, and a third, and the chains were now darting about just like the tentacles of a hunting squid, stabbing and encoiling and—

They flung all the gears they'd salvaged, more than a dozen cogs and gear fragments in all, into the chains, which convulsed into crushing, strangling knots about them, leaving only three chains to wave and quest about. Tantaerra and The Masked slid under them feet-first at top speed ...

And found themselves in a room floored in gleaming black marble, that rose up in sweeping curves into a central plinth, on which stood the source of a steady pearly glow: an ornate catafalque of chased and carved white marble, grander than any coffin they'd yet seen.

Once safely out of the reach of the archway chains, the two partners peered at it hard and long.

It was a box carved out of one massive block of marble, with a sculpted lid that rose in arches and domes, into a narrowed replica of an ornate royal crown, its spires and winking gems rising almost The Masked's height above the upper lip of the coffin sides.

"Someone certainly thought a lot of himself," Tantaerra commented. "Those jewels are huge. I wonder if they're real."

The Masked wasn't looking at gems or carved furbelows. His attention was on a half-hidden iron frame under the lid, which thrust forth thick rings beyond the edges of the lid. From those rings stretched chains rising up to large pulleys affixed to the ceiling, and continuing from those pulleys around smaller pairs of guide-pulleys to run toward each other and down from ceiling to the far wall, where they came together in a winch affixed there, beside a plain, closed door.

"Freshly oiled," he noted. "I wonder how often Mahalagris emerges for a stroll?"

"You want us to be stupid enough to lift the lid, don't you?"

The Masked shrugged. "Do you see a Fearsome Gauntlet anywhere? These gauntlets we've borrowed aren't even close. It's got to be on his body or with it, and ..."

"He's got to be lying in his coffin," Tantaerra sighed.

They kept well away from the coffin on its upswept plinth as they gingerly passed it, seeing nothing in the darker corners of the room except carvings of smiling human faces spaced around the room above the height of a tall door. No one wearing crowns or anything of the sort, and no faces they recognized. There were more women than men.

"Apprentices?" Tantaerra asked.

The Masked shrugged. "Who knows? Mahalagris, yes, but he's probably beyond asking. I hope."

The winch beside the door was the sort that had a spike an operator could thrust in through holes in the winch, to stop what had been winched up from falling again as its weight undid the winching.

"I want to open this door and just move on," Tantaerra muttered. "What are we going to do when we get the lid up, hey? Are we ready to battle some sort of undead wizard hurling the-gods-alone-know-what sort of horrid spells at us?"

"Of course not," The Masked replied. "So we'll just...improvise." He laid hands on the winch handle.

And as he started cranking, his mask started to glow.

∗ ∗ ∗

Tantaerra peered at the mask on her partner's face—now blazing an eerie blue—and backed away.

"Tarram?" she asked. "Masked man?"

He kept on cranking the winch, the oiled chains rattling smoothly.

"Tarram?" Tantaerra asked, more sharply.

"Yes?"

"Your mask."

"Is glowing, yes. I did notice; my eyes are looking out through it, remember? Worry not—I'm still Tarram Armistrade, not some mind-mazed minion of a dead wizard. So far."

Tantaerra didn't laugh.

The next turn of the crank caused a chime to sound somewhere nearby beyond the walls, metal clashing on metal. Then another. And another.

Silently, in the far corner of the room, one of those carved faces started to glow. Tantaerra watched it intently, but it didn't move or change expression or anything else, just started to glow as brightly as a lamp.

Her partner kept on cranking, and another face started to shine.

She spun around with a little chill of fear. What was she doing staring at glowing faces when she should be watching the catafalque—and what might just be starting to rise out of it, as the lid ascended?

Nothing was, that she could see. The lid was rising slowly but steadily as The Masked worked the winch, but the coffin just seemed to be ...sitting there.

Which was very much a good and favorable state of affairs, she reminded herself, though what she felt was disappointment.

Around the room, face after carved face started to glow, forming a row of rather eerie lamps.

"High enough?" the masked man called, dog-spike poised to jam the winch with the lid at its current height, about twice his height above the coffin, and not far beneath the pulley.

"I'm no palace decorator," Tantaerra replied. "Looks fine to me." She went on staring at the coffin for a moment and then added, "You're going to want me to climb up and look inside, aren't you?"

"Stand on my shoulders," The Masked told her. "Seeing as we've lost both pole and rock."

She gave him a wry grin. "Isn't it your turn to smile fetchingly at evil, rotting undead wizards?"

"Not with what I'm wearing on what's left of this face," he reminded her darkly, and strode to a stop right beside the plinth. "So start climbing."

"I'm not going to be tall enough," Tantaerra complained, on her way up his back. "I'm going to have to jump high—so step back and catch me, hey?"

"Done," The Masked replied, turning sideways on to the catafalque and backing to one end of it, so her jump would give her a good look at its inner depths.

"I'm afraid we might well be," she replied grimly, standing up on his left shoulder. No, she was much too short. This was going to have to be a spectacular jump—or a grapnel, cord, and climb task. "Ready?"

"For what? Standing here?"

"Ha ha," Tantaerra replied—and leaped high.

The Masked caught her neatly by the hips and set her down gently on the floor. "Well?"

"It's empty."

A door closed—the door, beside the winch. They both whirled.

"Of course it's empty," said the tall man who'd just come through it. "I'm much too busy to spend time lying in my own coffin in the dark, wallowing in endless boredom. There is, after all, so much still to do."

He took a step closer. "So many scores to settle."

Another step. Mahalagris the Mighty loomed over them, seven feet tall or more, hollow-cheeked and sallow, his eyes blazing brilliant blue. One of his hands was hidden in a copper-hued gauntlet that had rubies inset into every knuckle joint, but the other had impossibly long, cruel-taloned red fingers that held a curved, naked sword glowing with emerald light.

"Right, Tarram Armistrade?"

Chapter Sixteen

Unmaskings

The Masked did not answer the wizard, but took a step back from that curved blade and muttered warningly to Tantaerra, "Undead. Don't let it touch you."

"Gee, you think?" Tantaerra spat.

Mahalagris lifted his blade and took another step forward, its point following the retreating man—whose mask was now a steady blue, as bright as any beacon.

Fear me not, the sword whispered, both aloud and inside Tantaerra's head. I heal, not harm.

Tantaerra looked up at its wielder, tall and grinning, his eyes gleeful.

And full of hate.

"I—I don't believe we've been introduced," she observed as she backed away, too, managing to get the words out with only the slightest of quavers.

Mahalagris looked down at her for a moment, then returned his attention to The Masked. "An amusing pet," he croaked. "Housebroken, no doubt, but truly preferable to a human wench, when nights are cold? Hmm?"

"How is it that you know me?" Tarram asked softly. "Do you watch the world outside this tomb of yours with the mask, or magic of your own?"

"Both," Mahalagris replied smugly. "I've been waiting for you for some time, Tarram Armistrade. Or do you prefer Dusker Bellowbar? Morim Jalosker? Or perhaps Taluth Markant? I knew you'd have to come here. A properly crafted curse is like a hook no fish can shake loose. You took your time, though. Schemed, thought up stratagems. Then threw them all away when seeming mischance handed you an excuse to visit ruined Hurlandrun."

"Mischance?" The Masked asked, almost mockingly.

Mahalagris smiled and took a step closer. "At last."

My touch will make you tall and strong, the glittering sword in its hand murmured. My kiss hurts not at all.

"I'll just bet," Tantaerra told it bitterly, backing away. "Does the Fearsome Gauntlet talk, too?"

The corpse ignored her.

"None have reached me, all these years," he told The Masked, almost mournfully. "None have got farther than the third chamber. I have been so bored."

The wizard wasn't even looking at her when it lunged, that whispering blade lashing out with a swift suddenness that terrified her.

Tantaerra flung herself headlong. An instant later and she'd have lost an ear, not just the tress of neatly severed hair that was now sighing floorward.

Guts and garters, but the sword must be sharp!

Mahalagris could have beheaded her, she realized with a chill. He had let her escape being slain. This time.

So the dance begins, the sword told her, as tenderly as a lover.

"At last, after so long idle ..." Mahalagris purred. "Fresh foes, excitement once more ...sport that must be made to last."

"And if we don't play?" The Masked asked the undead wizard.

Mahalagris shrugged. "Then you die faster."

"Faster?"

The wizard sighed. "Dullards, just as I feared." He raised his sword, and explained as if to a child, "A slaying stroke, rather than slowly hewing you to pieces." Then he raised the Fearsome Gauntlet. "Or I'll use this, rather than just wearing it."

Tantaerra took three swift steps sideways, farther from The Masked. Was the creature now far enough from the door that she could scuttle past it and have time to get the door open?

The Masked sidestepped too, moving farther from her. Giving her a better chance to try, she realized.

Instead, she rushed at Mahalagris.

At last, the blade purred, gliding up into an almost liquid arc to race down and across at her in a wicked slash.

The Masked charged Mahalagris, and the corpse-thing turned with frightening speed, the slash becoming a parry that—

Tantaerra didn't wait to see more, but swerved away from the creature and launched herself into a pounding run, faster than she'd ever sprinted before.

The door seemed to rush up to meet her, as blood pounded in her ears. It didn't look to be locked, and the handle was a simple protruding lever, metal cast in the shape of an undulating serpent. She was going to manage this!

She caught hold of the lever, pulled it sharply down, felt the latch disengage, kicked off from the wall to propel the door open—

And found herself slamming hard into the floor and rolling, sudden burning agony in her left wrist. There was blood everywhere, spurting and glistening wet and dark, and she was—she was—

Lying on the floor, writhing in pain and clutching at her wrist, where her body now abruptly ended.

Her left hand was missing.

Four fingers fewer, and a thumb, the wizard's blade whispered gloatingly, as it glided over her, trailing drops of her own blood. A triumphant reddish-purple light was flaring from it.

Mahalagris was floating above her as well, wearing a gleeful smile as wide as the door she'd failed to open. "Such a valiant little fool! Need a hand, halfling?"

Tantaerra wept, rolling over and over and curling up around her pain. Her hand was severed and gone, somewhere in the room behind her, but she could feel pain in her lost fingers, a burning that—

The Masked shouted something wordless and furious. Then tortured metal clanged, shrieked, and clattered, a sound that became the dying tinklings of many shards on stone.

Mahalagris laughed.

"Your paltry fangs are no match for the Whispering Blade! But please, keep trying. Come at me with your broken hilts and your stumps!"

Someone—The Masked, she could tell by his panting—came running, scooped Tantaerra up around her waist, and ran with her.

Gods, the pain! She howled, waving her ruined arm. It felt as if it were on fire, and blazing from her elbow on down.

Down to the fingers she'd never have again.

Mahalagris was roaring with laughter now, a booming, gloating bellowing that echoed back from something large and solid just ahead. The Masked skidded to a halt and set Tantaerra down against it, in a half-sitting slump. The wall.

"The winch," he muttered in her ear. "Pull its spike when the moment is right."

And he was gone, sprinting away across the room.

Through a chaos of hair and tears Tantaerra saw her partner reach the catafalque and swarm up it. Still laughing, Mahalagris swooped, not bothering to use his wicked blade. Instead, he raked The Masked's back with his long red talons, baring shoulders and spine in long, bloody slashes that trailed tattered clothing.

The Masked roared in pain, driving his attacker into fresh bellows of laughter.

"Trying to entomb yourself before I slaughter you? How considerate! So thoughtful of you, mask-thief!"

The undead wizard whirled in the air and slammed into The Masked like a charging bull, sweeping him off the catafalque to crash back down to the floor. Mahalagris swirled around him tauntingly.

"Up! Up, fool! Up and lose a finger! Just one at first, I think ...oh, I foresee us dancing together a long while yet!"

Dance together, the Whispering Blade echoed eagerly. Dansssssse.

The Masked got up and ran a few strides away from the catafalque, then skidded to an abrupt halt. Mahalagris was in front of him again, blocking his way, grinning from ear to ear, his eyes two blue flames of malice, his blade drawn back to slash.

"The smallest finger of your left hand," Mahalagris announced calmly, and flew backward, whirling his purring sword above his head in a grand flourish.

The Masked backed a step and planted himself—and the wizard swooped at him, slashing viciously.

Tantaerra's partner dodged, flung away his shattered dagger with enough force to reclaim his balance into a low lunge in the other direction that made the Whispering Blade just miss, and snatched off his glowing mask.

As Mahalagris whirled around in midair and hacked at his quarry, the unmasked man swept the glowing mask through the air in a slash of his own, a parry that met and caught the curved sword.

Tarram snarled in pain as the tip of the Whispering Blade caught in one of the mask's eyeholes—and his own sliced eye, cheek, and brow erupted in a spray of blood!

Yet he'd intended this, Tantaerra saw, for he was already twisting the mask in his hand to bind and capture the sword—as he flung himself over backward.

The startled corpse-wizard didn't let go of his blade, and was vaulted helplessly over The Masked. An instant before he would have slammed headfirst into his own catafalque, Mahalagris let go of the blade and flew upward. His shoulder rammed the edge of the open marble coffin and sent him into a hard, tumbling meeting with the opposite lip of the catafalque.

"Now, Tantaerra!" The Masked roared unnecessarily.

Tantaerra was already leaping into the air, her surviving hand slapping around the dog-spike protruding from the winch. With a snarl of her own, she tugged with all her might.

Then she was falling away, holding it, to the roaring rattle of racing chains.

Halflings bounce well. She turned in the air as she rebounded from the jet-black floor, in time to see the lid of the catafalque smash down on the undead wizard, crushing limbs into flopping ruin.

Mahalagris fought against the massive lid for a frenzied moment, head obviously shattered and broken ends of bone protruding from his shoulder and back, and then sagged, pinned under it.

Only to flinch in helpless spasms an instant later as The Masked landed atop the lid, the Whispering Blade in hand.

Blood streaming down his smooth ruin of a face, Tarram Armistrade hacked at every bit of Mahalagris he could see, dicing the undead wizard as his victim shrieked horribly. The curved sword in his hand flared brighter and brighter, a reddish-purple blaze too bright to look at as the curved steel rose and fell relentlessly.

Soon the screams ended and the glowing blue eyes went dark, but the man with the sword kept right on chopping and slicing for a long and terrible time, until there was nothing left of Mahalagris but an unrecognizable heap.

He stood panting above it, glaring down, until Tantaerra managed a weak cheer.

That died in her throat as he turned to glare at her with one wild eye, peering out of a mask of dripping blood, and sprang down from the wizard's catafalque to stalk toward her.

Your turn, yours, the blade whispered. Death at last, halfling princess.

"I'm not—" Tantaerra mumbled, as she scrambled up, bumping her stump and sending fresh pain racing up her arm.

She staggered back against the wall, feeling sick and beaten, watching the unmasked man coming to kill her.

"Tarram! Tarram Armistrade!"

He wasn't stopping, might not even be hearing her.

Still shrieking his name, Tantaerra rushed desperately to the door and tried to claw it open. She succeeded with almost mocking ease this time, revealing a dimly lit room beyond that seemed to open away to the left.

She didn't have time to see more; the reddish-purple glow rising right behind her told her that much. So instead of plunging through the door into the half-seen unknown, she ducked away along the wall beside it, tugging out one of her vials as she went and swigging it.

The taste that filled her mouth was the minty healing tingle—thank Desna—and she dared to turn and look back.

The Masked was still pursuing her, but was well behind her, staggering like a drunkard. With every stride his body trembled violently, muscles rippling in spasms. Time and again he almost fell, swinging the Whispering Blade clumsily and aimlessly as he lurched and swayed. He seemed to be fighting against his own sword arm.

Come now, the blade chided him aloud. Slaying with me should be simple. Bloodletting is what we do together.

Watching the sword, Tantaerra caught sight of her stump. It was dribbling blood rather wearily, like a half-opened cask spigot, but as the healing she'd drunk stole through her, it stopped. The burning pain ebbed, but the blue healing glow that momentarily flared around her arm darkened as a reddish-purple radiance also blossomed, and wrestled with the blueness. That reddish-purple was the same hue that blazed around the Whispering Blade in a now-sullen aura.

She still couldn't quite believe her hand was gone. Her stump was healed, the dark blood that had been wet mere moments ago now dry and falling off in tattered flakes. Healed, but still a stump, no new hand sprouting, no new fingers reaching for the ceiling as she wriggled them.

Her hand was gone forever.

She stumbled over something on the blood-slick floor that might have been her hand as The Masked came closer. She fled from him, throwing her empty vial in his face and feeling for another.

If he slashed open her throat, could the potion get through the welling blood to heal her?

She'd backed most of the way around the room now, slipping once or twice in blood that was probably her own.

Suddenly—she didn't know how—she was caught in a corner, with The Masked looming up in front of her. No longer glaring, but shaking his head and muttering grimly, looking down, the curved sword wavering in his hand.

And even if he collapsed at her feet, what then? She'd be alone at the heart of this murderous maze, one-handed and weak ...a two-bite meal for most of those dweomercats waiting outside. Doomed.

The Masked raised his head and the sword in his hand in one slow, grim movement.

"Tarram!" she screamed. "It's me! Your halfling princess!"

His mouth crooked through the dripping blood, his one eye fixed on her—and then he turned and flung the Whispering Blade across the room.

It hit the wall with an almost musical crash, bounced off, clattered to the black marble floor, and slid lazily across the room.

It came to rest touching—very gently, almost caressingly—something that looked like a dark, oversized arachnid.

Something that rose on legs to scuttle like a spider. Five legs, two of them shorter than the others. Her severed hand. It scuttled away across the room.

"Sorry," The Masked growled, whirling away from her to run raggedly across the room again, scoop up the sword, and hack at the dodging, scampering hand. He chopped at it as savagely and thoroughly as he'd served Mahalagris, not stopping until it was diced to tiny fragments on the bloody marble.

Then he flung down the sword again and came back to her.

"Tantaerra," he gasped, "I'm sorry. I ...that blade was clawing at my mind." He put his arms around her, lifted her to his breast, and leaned against the wall with his forehead, just holding her. "Your poor hand."

Tantaerra burst into tears. And found herself clutching at him and sobbing, all control fallen and fled, while he stammered out incoherent, useless apologies.

It was a long time before her weeping was done, and she could choke out words again. "Drink one of your vials," she hissed at him, when she could. "That eye of yours ..."

He set her down again, got out a vial, drained it—and slowly went pink.

His resigned, lopsided grin made her burst out laughing, broken laughter that soon died. The next vial made him smile in earnest—and his ruined eye glowed faintly blue and was an orb once again, though a deep gash still creased his ruined forehead above and cheek below it. It took another vial before he could see out of it again. The gash stayed just as it was.

When two eyes gazed on Tantaerra out of a mask of drying blood, she asked softly, "You didn't chop up the gauntlet, did you?"

The unmasked man shook his head.

"Then get it, and let's get the hell out of here," she told him fiercely. "Before anything worse happens. Like that wizard rising again."

Armistrade turned, crossed the room, and took up the Fearsome Gauntlet from where it had fallen when he'd chopped the arm that wore it to pieces. Then he bent and plucked up a ring from among the gore. Then another.

"May not be magical," he muttered without looking up, "but they're gold. Oh. Nice gems on this third one."

He turned, took two steps back toward Tantaerra—then stopped in mid-stride, looked over his shoulder, hesitated ...and went back for his mask.

"I don't dare leave it here," he murmured. "Not still linked to Karm, and Mahalagris, and this place ...and me. I just wish I knew more as to how."

Its glow had faded. As he held it up, Tantaerra could see that its entanglement with the Whispering Blade had left it scarred, a large cut crossing brow and cheek and cutting across one eye. In just the same way her partner was now disfigured.

Tarram gazed down at the mask. Then, slowly, he thrust it into the breast of his tattered garments, shook his head, and sighed. He turned to her. "Now, we flee."

Together they ducked through the open door Mahalagris had appeared from, into dimly lit rooms beyond crammed with chairs, tables, and shelves of books.

"If we had more time, and less of a nightmare journey home ..." Armistrade murmured, as they wistfully eyed the tomes they were passing.

"Ifs are horses you can't trust," Tantaerra whispered back at him. She was about to say more, as they headed through an open doorway on into the next room, but heard something behind her—the faintest of boot-scrapes—and whirled around.

In time to see Orivin Voyvik, on his feet again, stalking after them.

The Nirmathi was limping slightly, his head and neck at an odd angle. The Whispering Blade was glowing a cheerful reddish-purple in his hand.

"Tarram!" Tantaerra shrieked. She saw her partner's unmasked face working with effort as the Fearsome Gauntlet on his hand started to glow emerald green. He raised his arm, fingers spread, and aimed it at Voyvik.

The magical gage pulsed once, and something unseen rushed through the air and smote the Nirmathi, hurling him backward.

Voyvik grunted in pain, almost dropping the Whispering Blade as it shrieked its way along one wall and fell, skidding back. Ruby magical radiance awakened on Voyvik's breast and raced briefly up and down his limbs, washing over his face as he rolled up to his feet and started to advance again.

Was he ...taller? Stronger?

His head and neck were no longer askew, and he was indeed taller, Tantaerra decided, backing hastily away but taking care to keep to one side, so The Masked could blast Voyvik unimpeded.

Dung.

The Masked unleashed the blasting of the gauntlet again, a ramming blow that staggered the Nirmathi and made him snarl in pain—yet left him looking even taller as he advanced, moving more decisively now, the Whispering Blade raised and glowing an eager, brighter reddish-purple.

He'd staggered but not fallen. Double dung.

Behind her, The Masked muttered something less than pleased and called on the gauntlet again, a different sort of power this time—louder and more visible, a solid blow that drove Voyvik a few paces back.

And left him trembling and growing. Bulkier, more burly, and striding forward again. Smiling more widely, too.

Frantically, The Masked blasted him again—and again.

Overstretched cloth groaned as Voyvik's body bulged, bulking farther. Then a seam split with a long ripping sound, and the Nirmathi's clothes started to fall away in tatters, revealing not a man beneath, but rippling muscles clad in silvery scales.

Voyvik cried out in pain, howls that swiftly became screams—but the agony was from his transformation, not the relentless blastings of the Fearsome Gauntlet. As Tantaerra and her partner watched, backing away steadily, Voyvik's arms lengthened and split into at least four tentacles, his legs seemed to undulate like eels and then fuse into a long, slithering snakelike body and tail. He flopped forward onto his belly, then rose upright like the bowsprit of a ship, propelled by his now-coiling serpentine body, as his screams gargled and twisted into cold, hissing laughter.

Laughter that sounded very much like the cold mirth of Mahalagris.

Tantaerra shivered. "It's—it's not natural."

"I'm used to that," The Masked snapped, "and you should be getting used to such things by now! It's the wizard's magic working on him, out of the sword! Come on!" He shot out the hand that wasn't wearing the gauntlet, and pulled her around and into a run. They fled together.

The next door led them out of the dim light, books, and luxuries Mahalagris surrounded himself with, and back into the colder gray stone passages of the deadly tomb.

Now something slithering and tentacled but able to rear up like a man, Voyvik came after them, slicing the air gleefully with the Whispering Blade.

The Masked slowed to peer ahead suspiciously. "That," he muttered, looking at the ceiling ahead, "is almost certainly another falling-blocks trap."

"I'm thinking the wizard brought Voyvik back to life and protected him somehow," Tantaerra told him. "Taking all the power of your blastings and using them to make him into that snake-thing. I'll bet Mahalagris is in his head, now—which means he knows where all the traps, their triggers, and the ways around them are."

"I won't take that bet," The Masked growled. "Let's just get out of this place as quickly as we can—before our gliding friend back there can use what he knows of it against us."

"So ...?"

"So let me try something," he said thoughtfully, raising the gauntlet again. What emerged from it this time was a giant, disembodied man's hand that flew ahead of them in ponderous silence.

Blocks on chains hurtled down, to sway harmlessly inches above the floor, letting loose swirling dust. The hand shoved them aside as they started to rise again. A little way beyond them, a vertical row of spears thrust out of one wall, followed an instant later by another row out of the facing wall. The giant hand thrust against them, and they squealed as they started to retract.

The hand descended to the floor under The Masked's mental bidding, and bumped along, seeking flagstone triggers it could set off.

There were surprisingly few of them, and Tantaerra and her partner were soon sprinting along farther and faster than either of them had ever run before, both mindful that the gliding tentacled thing pursuing them could use rafters and crossbeams to avoid steps and the like that would slow the two of them.

They ran for a long time but faced far fewer traps ere they emerged through a sliding wall into the first room of the tomb—the one with the relief carving of the dragon all across the ceiling—and burst out into the ruins of Hurlandrun, just as the last rays of the setting sun painted its tallest remnants golden.

Only to find the dweomercats charging them, a vast and furry flood.

The Masked did something with the gauntlet that sent a line of lightning crackling into them—yet rather than scorching fur and boiling blood, it made the blue cats disappear entirely, reappearing instantaneously at his feet. Then they were upon him in an avid tide, pulling him under.

"Tarram! Tarram!" Tantaerra shrieked, struggling through sleek rushing bodies to try to reach where he'd gone down, picturing hundreds of fanged jaws biting and sharp claws raking—

Her partner staggered up into view again, red-faced and breathless.

"They're swarming me," he panted, "or rather—" He tugged, fighting to lift one arm by pulling on it with the other. "—they're swarming the gauntlet!"

Dweomercats had fallen from his elbows, and were now leaping like trained beasts to try to bite the Fearsome Gauntlet, their jaws snapping in midair.

"Swarming?" Tantaerra asked, eyeing it.

"Clutching at it, trying to rub up against it." He waded a step farther and almost fell as he trod on unseen wriggling dweomercats. Others rose in a leaping, snapping wave right in front of him. "Using magic on them just brings them to you faster! The gods know how we're going to get anywhere, with all of these ..."

He staggered, almost fell, then lurched into a turn that brought him around to face Tantaerra directly.

"Get over there," he shouted, "to that plinth or block or whatever it is, and get up on it."

She started toward it, through streams of rushing dweomercats who ignored her completely in their haste to get to The Masked.

"Why?" she flung back over her shoulder, when she was halfway there.

"I'm going to throw the gauntlet to you. Don't drop it."

"So I can get smothered in dweomercats?"

"Just long enough for me to get to that ruined wall, yonder. You throw it back to me, and take yourself up that street to where that tree is—the one with the low bough, there? I'll throw it back to you, and move on and shout at you to throw it back. And so on."

"Sometimes," she called, clambering up onto the plinth, "I wonder why I hired you, I really do!"

"Sometimes," he called back, "I wonder why I let myself be hired. Catch!"

Tantaerra spat out a rude word, watched the glowing gage come hurtling at her, and concentrated on making the catch. If she dropped it, with all of these dweomercats raging around her ...

She didn't.

The next few moments were a whirlwind of leaping furry bodies, opened jaws coming at her, reaching paws...she slid the Fearsome Gauntlet on and hugged it to her, and the world promptly darkened and swam into muted, muffled excitement, as she felt the magic of the glove surging through her, spreading out its glories like an unfolding array of shining stars ...it could do this, and this, and that, and—

"Tantaerra!" The Masked shouted, from atop a ruined wall that he was sharing with a dozen-some dweomercats, all trying to rub up against his front, for some rea—oh, yes. She saw a faint glimmer of blue light through the leaping furry bodies. He had the mask tucked down his front.

"Yes?" she called back.

"The gauntlet!" he bellowed. "Remember?"

She didn't want to yield it up. This was wonderful, more power than she'd ever felt before. Stars before her, stars at her command, stars in the—

A bolder dweomercat than the rest slammed into her face and drove her staggering back against rough stone, that broken end of wall behind the plinth that she hadn't liked the look of at her first glimpse of it. It was every bit as sharp and hard as she'd thought it would be, and the dweomercats were thudding against her now in a ceaseless flood that threatened to crush her or drive her down and bury her, the strong reek of their musk tickling in her nose and throat, their eager fury a frightening—

Tantaerra spat out the rudest words she knew as she struggled to stand, struggled to climb the wall. She slipped twice, dweomercats climbing up her back and arms and dragging her down.

The Masked was watching her anxiously. She drew off the gauntlet and held it carefully in both hands, swung underarm once or twice to gain momentum, and threw.

End over end the glowing gage flashed, over the heads of countless dweomercats—and fell short.

The Masked sprang down off his wall, snatched it from under the very paws of jostling and yowling dweomercats, then turned and fought his way through a sudden surge of them, up the rising street.

"Run!" he yelled. "Head back the way we came!" He pointed ahead up the street, in the direction of the distant border with Molthune.

Tantaerra jumped down off the plinth and ran, utterly ignored by every dweomercat around her.

She made it into thick trees, where almost all traces of Hurlandrun were buried in forest, before she heard him shout again.

When she turned, he was hidden under a surging mound of dweomercats—and the Fearsome Gauntlet was hurtling toward her, end over end in the air.

It was a bad throw, and she had to sprint back toward the ruins to field it, dweomercats racing eagerly to beat her, but field it she did. She slid it on and ran, hugging it to her breast and just trying to get up into the trees again before the weight of rushing, leaping cats bore her to the ground.

There was a gully of sorts to her left, and she headed for it, to try to keep a throwing area relatively free of trees, so her return throw might have some small chance of reaching her partner. Provided he was smart enough to head up the other side of the little gulley. He—

The freedom to ponder things was snatched away from her in a leaping wall of musky, mewling bodies that slammed her to the ground, rolled her over, and almost dragged the gauntlet off her arm.

Spitting out curses she couldn't even hear through the squalling din, Tantaerra fought her way around a tree, dashed dweomercats away from her face and front for an instant with a vicious swipe of her arm, and shouted, "Tarram! Tarram!"

Then she spun around and slammed herself against the tree trunk, pinning several squirming dweomercats against it and scraping more off her as she slid along it, leaning into it hard.

There he was. She drew back the gauntlet, holding it firmly with her free hand, kicked out viciously to dislodge any cat trying to leap aboard it, and hurled it.

High and not far. Her turn for a lousy throw.

He sprang across the gully to meet it, punched the air with such deft aim that the great warglove hurtled right onto his hand. He landed hard, pivoted, and was gone up the gulley like a storm wind.

He made such headway that the suddenly abandoned Tantaerra held her tongue about what she'd just seen, back down behind them in the ruins of Hurlandrun. She wanted him to get a good long way up into the forest before saying anything that might slow him.

The slithering tentacled thing Voyvik had become was following them, gliding along the street. It was passing the plinth where she'd caught the gauntlet, and rising up to watch them, waving the Whispering Blade in one tentacle like some flamboyant duelist.

"Dung," she whispered. Then she turned and ran.

She reached the first wooded ridge before she was out of breath. Off to her left, amid trees too thick for any thrown gauntlet to travel far, The Masked was trudging along amid a carpet of dweomercats—well, more like a long bridal gown, with a dragging train of swarming cats that extended far back behind him. But he was still on his feet, still forging ahead. Slowly.

"Tarram!" she called. "Look back!"

For a moment she thought he hadn't heard her, but then she saw he was making for a many-limbed, half-fallen old tree that he could clamber up onto, and have some hope of not being buried alive in cats.

He made it, turned doggedly amid a battering hail of leaping cats, saw Voyvik—and blasted the tentacled monster with the gauntlet.

The magic surrounded it with a nimbus of flickering radiance. Amid that aura, the scaled, slithering thing grew visibly larger, the sword it held became louder in its whisperings—and every dweomercat in sight quivered, turns to regard the tentacled thing ...and then rushed toward it, yowling and screaming.

In an instant, it was buried under an ecstatic mountain of dweomercat bodies.

"Run!" The Masked bellowed, as the sun started to set. "Run for yon hill!"

"Way ahead of you!" Tantaerra called back, daring—for the very first time—to hope that they'd make it out of these ruins alive.

Chapter Seventeen

Luraumadar

Tarram Armistrade was out of breath, but this was no time to pause or even slow. There was the hill, ahead, though his lungs were searing and his aching legs starting to stumble—and right behind him, some of them nipping at his heels and shins, were dweomercats beyond counting, a gods-be-damned herd of them, and—

He risked a look over at Tantaerra, to make sure she was still ahead of him. At that moment something blue and supple sprang into view between them.

It was a dweomercat, but this one was as big as an ox, not counting its tail, with jaws on it that—

It roared and sprang over the herd of smaller dweomercats, charging right at him.

Tarram flung himself sideways, but one huge paw, sharp claws extended, raked at his shoulder, slicing his clothing like a row of daggers and sending him staggering.

He spun around, heedless of the squalling dweomercats he was trampling—and they were springing at him again now, seemingly emboldened by the presence of their gigantic kin.

The pack leader—for surely this beast must be their king—came at him again just as swiftly, snarling horribly.

Protect the face. Protect the throat. Protect—

He brought the hand that wore the Fearsome Gauntlet up in front of his face. He knew all about its—whenever he gave any thought to it, it tried to tell him all about them. He knew full well he needn't do anything overt to it, nor move his hand or arm, to awaken its lesser powers. One of which was the invisible battering ram power he'd used before, a smashing punch of air. Yet if the smaller cats were any indication, targeting them with the gauntlet's magic only made them teleport closer, somehow riding the magic back to its source. And the last thing he wanted was this thing getting closer.

Or did he?

It might work. He'd have to get himself in just the right place to—

The cat pounced.

He'd been hit by a rushing wagon, once, and this was worse. It was like the blow of the proverbial giant's fist. All the wind was smashed out of him, and Tarram was flung through the air with musky cat blotting out the sky above him. He had his gauntleted hand wedged firmly in the creature's mouth, wedging the long fangs apart, only magical steel keeping his hand from being crushed or severed as the creature bit down with the strength of a blacksmith's hammer.

Clinging for all he was worth, bracing for the crash that might well break bones when he landed with this great stinking thing on top of him, Tarram called on the gauntlet to deliver one of its force-punches—right down the creature's throat.

He felt the blow, and so did the cat. Right in its lungs or stomach or whatever was first in line down its gullet.

And then they landed, thankfully on squirming, shrieking smaller dweomercats. They broke apart—literally, Tarram still clutching a chunk of shattered fang—to the tune of a howl of dweomercat pain and Tantaerra's shriek of, "Tarram?!"

She sounded close. The giant dweomercat was closer.

Gods, she'd be one gulp for it; he had to keep this thing's attention on him, and—

Well, that wasn't going to be hard. Wild-eyed and roaring in pain, the giant dweomercat was charging again, its paws churning up dirt, smaller dweomercats, and moss-cloaked stones alike in its frantic haste to get at him.

Tarram sent another gauntlet-punch down its maw, pulling the beast toward him even as it shuddered and faltered. It recoiled, then came at him again, shaking its head like a man gulping down something bitter. Blood spewed from its jaws with every shake.

He planted himself to be ready to dodge, not wanting to taste another teeth-numbing slam into the ground, but this time the huge feline came in low, trying to duck under his dagger and his gauntlet and hamstring him, going for the back of his knee.

Which made things almost too easy.

He staggered it with another force punch—its internal organs must be more than ruptured, by now—then flung his legs aside as it appeared next to him, falling on its head as he drove his dagger hilt-deep into one eye. He hung on grimly through the screaming chaos that followed.

By the time his dagger stopped being a handle and he was flung free, the dying dweomercat had clawed and flung itself—and him, along with it—in rolling agony across dozens of smaller dweomercats.

Tarram watched the beast tumble off the hillside they'd been flattening, and crash down across the broken-off base of a stone pillar, flopping bonelessly. Smaller dweomercats were fleeing in all directions, keening in fear, and he was drenched in the gore of the giant one.

Yet he still had his dagger, he still wore the gauntlet, and he seemed to be whole, more or less. Nothing broken, at least ...

He drew in a deep breath. He was on his hands and knees, blinking blearily on a steep wooded hillside in Nirmathas, with the musk of countless dweomercats strong around him. As a bright blue glow spilled up out of his clothes, to light his chin from below.

He peered all around, quickly. Many baleful golden eyes looked back. And again their owners started prowling toward him.

Tarram Armistrade scrambled to his feet, still panting.

"And so the masked man prevails, but magic hands him fresh troubles," he gasped aloud. "As it always does."

As he ran, the mask he'd put down his front slid lower and lower down under his clothes, becoming increasingly uncomfortable, until sharp edges jabbed at him with every stride.

Enough.

Tarram dug it out and put it on, trying to ignore the bright blue glow. The Fearsome Gauntlet seemed to be...awakening it.

"Well," he gasped, "all we have to do now is fight our way through Nirmathas and into Molthune, get to Braganza without enthusiastic Molthuni patrols mistaking us for invading Nirmathi rebels, and somehow acquire allies and might enough to get out of Lord Telcanor's clutches alive. That'll require an army. Now, just where might I find one?" He looked at the dweomercats around him, and the moving trail of them that led back to a surging mound that must be the tentacled monster, and sarcastically added, "Oh wait—never mind."

"All right, I won't," Tantaerra put in sourly, from beside him, startling him with how close she now was. "I'm beginning to think you're crazed."

"I am crazed," he told her ruefully. "And damned. And plagued by a smart-tongued halfling princess."

"For the undoubtedly-NOT-last time, I am NOT a prin—oh, never mind!"

∗ ∗ ∗

It was too dark to travel safely, but halting would probably mean their deaths, too. If there hadn't been countless dweomercats, and that tentacled thing had been a mindless monster, and if it hadn't been wielding the Whispering Blade ...but there were, and it wasn't, and it was.

It was still patiently trailing them, struggling along through an ever-present swarm of dweomercats that it was killing steadily as it came, yet not seeming to make a dent in their numbers.

By the snarls and occasional thrashings, other forest prowlers were trying to kill and devour the cats, too—and once, Nirmathi arrows had come out of the night to feather many of the cats, then stopped as abruptly as they'd started.

The moon was rising. Tantaerra risked getting a branch in the eye to look at it, then ducked her head again, still trudging along.

"It's turning into a pretty night to get killed," she murmured. "Hurlandrun can't hold endless dweomercats; what would they all eat?"

"Nirmathi," The Masked told her. "And their horses and mules and hunting dogs, too."

She glanced back at cat bodies being flung against trees by seemingly tireless tentacles. "Not for much longer. The strength of our unwanted furry escort must be dwindling."

Her partner nodded. "We've got to keep hurrying. The dweomercats hampering Voyvik—if it is still Voyvik, and not Mahalagris—will be gone long before morning, at this rate. He'll be right behind us."

"Any other cheerful warnings?" Tantaerra asked bitterly. "I'd love to hear them, while I still can!"

The Masked winced, and shook his head.

Something howled, several hills away to the south, and she resisted the urge to howl back. Calling more guests to the dance would almost certainly be heaping folly atop stupidity.

Not that she'd never done that before.

The moonlight brightened all around them, as they hastened on.

The hand she didn't have started to throb painfully.

Instead of howling, Tantaerra growled instead.

∗ ∗ ∗

They were still stumbling along wearily when the sun rose, its cheerful brightness mocking. They were still in the heart of trackless forest, too.

Tantaerra's stump had taken to aching like fire. She shook it wildly for the hundredth time or so, trying to drive the pain down.

"How are you ..." Her masked partner's question trailed off, then picked up again determinedly. "...bearing up?"

"I'll manage," she snarled. "Any bright ideas for not losing our way in these woods?"

Tarram gave her a look. 'I've known how to avoid drifting in a circle since I was a very young lad—and so long as we don't do that, the Inkwater does flow all the way between the two lands. We can't help but blunder into it eventually. Probably just after Nirmathi arrows start heading at us."

"Heed me, my overclever friend," Tantaerra said, a little testily. "That's just what will happen if we end up taking too close a route back across Nirmathas to the one we used to get to the tomb. If we run into any of the same Nirmathi, they'll know the tale we told them about why we came here was false—and will treat us accordingly."

"So we veer south, toward those peaks, right now." The Masked pointed. "I have been thinking about this, as we've walked. And walked. And—"

"Walked," Tantaerra sighed. "So what other clever thoughts did you have?"

"Well ...dweomercats can be eaten, and all the fighting this side of the border will have made large meat on the hoof unobtainable by Nirmathi, and limited to what dried supplies they can carry in for the Molthuni."

"So we're liable to get trampled by the hungry warriors of both sides, rushing to take down dweomercats for their cooking-fires?"

The Masked nodded.

He was still nodding when the first spear came out of the trees.

∗ ∗ ∗

"May Molthune triumph!" Tarram shouted hastily, seeing the armor on the men hurrying over a ridge. Molthuni warriors, with spears in their hands and puzzled frowns on their faces.

"No tricks, Nirmathi!" one of them called, leading a charge of leveled spears as well as a charge can be led through a thick stand of trees, over ground uneven with old and gnarled roots. "Surrender or die!"

"Hah!" said another soldier. "Make that surrender and die!"

"Who's your commander?" Tarram barked. "And what's this nonsense with spears? Did someone get hungry enough to eat all the crossbows?"

"No, Delbran ordered—urrk!" Whatever that spearman had been going to say ended abruptly when the Molthuni beside him drove an ungentle elbow into the man's gut, adding a snarl of, "Shut it!"

The other spearmen were scrambling to bar his and Tantaerra's way with a line of menacing spear points.

"Who are you?" one demanded.

"We're Lord Investigators of Molthune," Tarram told him sternly.

"What? A halfling Lord Investigator? Try again, jester!"

"I'm in disguise," Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra told him in dignified tones, lifting her chin. "And will accept your apology, soldier. Here or on trial for treason in Canorate."

The answer she got to that was a snort.

"You're Nirmathi, and you'll be dead Nirmathi very soon if you don't tell us straight what we want to know."

"Delbran ordered you not to waste any more crossbow bolts, yes?" Tarram asked crisply, walking straight toward the spears. If they tried to stick him, he'd blast them with the gauntlet. Until then, he'd heard enough Molthuni officers snapping orders to imitate one that soldiers just might respect. "Running low?"

"We're not to talk about it," the spearman who'd let slip Delbran's name said sullenly, "so—"

"So how'd you like lots of ready meat running right onto your spears?" Tarram pointed over his shoulder with the thumb of his non-gauntleted hand. "We were sent out foraging, and we're leading a herd of dweomercats to every stewpot of Molthune!"

"Dweomercats? The cats from the fairy tales, that eat magic?"

"They're no fireside tale, soldier," The Masked replied. "They're real, and right behind us."

"And you can eat them?"

"'Course you can eat them," another spearman said scornfully. "You can eat any sort of cat. Why, my brother—"

"Will you all shut it?" the first spearman bellowed. "I'm trying to interrogate prisoners here, and—"

"Prisoners?" Tantaerra asked swiftly, peering all around. "What prisoners?"

Whatever reply he was going to snarl died unsaid as the man's mouth dropped open in astonishment. Dweomercats were loping through the trees, scores of them, yellow eyes baleful.

"Run!" one Molthuni bawled, as he spun and heeded his own command. "Run!"

"Glorusk, you come back here! Stand! Stand and fight!"

"Stand and stick yourself some dinner!" another soldier shouted, trotting forward to lunge with his spear.

An instant later, he was bowled over by the squalling, writhing, clawing—and dying—dweomercat who'd tried to swallow it. They crashed to the ground together, thrashing about in dead leaves and thorn vines, and then all the Molthuni were either running or plying their spears in alarm and eager hunger—with the dweomercats in among them like tigers. The cats were more interested in getting past to reach Tarram and his halfling partner than they were in fighting Molthuni who thrust spears at them, but proved quite willing to oblige anyone who jabbed at them.

Tarram and Tantaerra sprinted after the fleeing Glorusk, heading for those distant peaks and—as they saw more Molthuni coming out of the trees—pointing back behind them and shouting enthusiastically, "Herd of beasts! Food for tonight! Roast cat!"

Many soldiers gave them frowns, obviously puzzled about who they were—but the flood of dweomercats snatched away the attention of every one of them.

Every one, that is, save Glorusk. When he ran out of breath and turned to fight, wild-eyed, Tarram caught hold of his spear and jerked him into a helpless stumble forward—and Tantaerra ran in under his feet and sent him toppling face-first into a tree.

They left him sliding down it, unconscious or stunned, and hastened on. Dozens of dweomercats followed, but seemingly just as many remained embroiled in a screaming, spitting, clawing battle. It was hard to tell who was winning, as the soldiers' weapons seemed to have surprisingly little effect against the cats' sleek fur.

"How are there so many, anyway?" Tantaerra panted. "I've never seen even one before this, and now there's a horde!"

"They seek out magic," The Masked replied. "I wouldn't be surprised if this is every one within a hundred miles. Maybe they're even breeding—you can see how small most of them are. I suspect they're still kittens."

"Kittens!" Tantaerra scoffed, watching in fascinated horror as several soldiers went down, the blue fur of their attackers stained dark with Molthuni blood. She turned away.

Behind them, the din faded swiftly into the green and leafy distances, and Tarram and his partner fell back into trudging along.

Death came for everyone soon enough that there was no need to hurry to find it.

∗ ∗ ∗

It seemed Desna was still smiling on Tarram and Tantaerra when they ran into their next Molthuni, around midday.

The soldiers that greeted them were a proper army this time, but thankfully also low on bolts, and using spears instead—in hand rather than thrown.

As the soldiers of the first watch post rushed through the trees at them, spears outthrust, Tarram gave them his best disapproving glower and ordered, in precise mimicry of a Molthuni commander, "Stop, men of Molthune, and down arms—in the name of the General Lords! Who commands here? Alaskor? I didn't think to meet with any of my countrymen until I was much closer to the Inkwater!"

Jaws were dropping, spear points wavering.

"Well?" Tarram pressed.

Luraumadar, his mask commented approvingly, in the depths of his mind.

"Uh—ah—who are you?" one of the Molthuni warriors asked uncertainly.

"Lord Investigator Osturr, of Canorate," Tarram said flatly. "I report directly to the General Lords. This lady personage with me is an envoy from a distant land who was waylaid by foul Nirmathi, and I am under orders to get her safely to Canorate as soon as possible. I ask again: who commands here?"

Soldiers exchanged doubtful stares with each other.

Tarram stepped past a spear point, loomed up over its wielder, and remarked softly, "Don't make me ask a third time, man. The dweomercats chasing us are hungry, and more than eager to feed."

"What's that mask thing you're wearing?"

"Haven't met any Lord Investigators before, have you?"

"Uh ...no. Lord. Sir. Uh, sir."

"Escort us to the river," Tarram ordered crisply, "by the fastest route that will take us to where we can board a boat, and return to Molthune."

"Uh, Lord, the river's almost a day's march on from here, and we've orders to—"

"You do," Tarram agreed. "You have orders from me. I distinctly heard myself give them, mere moments ago, and I know you all heard me. So let's have no delay or disobedience. Just lead the way."

"And if we don't?" the most distant spearman asked challengingly.

Tarram used the Fearsome Gauntlet's force punch on him, slamming it into his throat and leaving the man on his knees, clutching at his nigh-crushed throat and strangling for air.

"Don't make me use the full wrath Molthune has vested in me on you," he told the suffering heap almost sadly. "I have to report personally to one of the General Lords when I do that, and I hate having to make those reports. Enough that I'm always tempted to leave no survivors. So there'll be no witnesses."

"I increasingly admire you men of Molthune," Tantaerra piped up, looking at her partner. "So decisive. So direct. My country will be pleased to learn this of you. I am eager to present myself in Canorate."

"Molthune will be pleased to welcome you there," Tarram told her solemnly. "Now, if you faithful warriors will just lead the way?"

One spearman reached a decision. Bowing his head, he pointed the way through the trees with his spear and said, "Follow me."

Tarram stepped forward as confidently as if he were a king and the Molthuni all around him fawning, toadying subjects. Taking care not to roll her eyes, Tantaerra followed.

They didn't need to confer with each other to know they were being taken to the local Molthuni commander, not to the river. The soldiers fell in all around them.

Tarram caught sight of a crossbow slung across one man's shoulders. "How long ago was the order given to use bows only for battle?"

"I haven't marked the days," that soldier replied grudgingly. "Sir."

"One would think," Tantaerra remarked brightly, "that bowmen could more easily fill cooking pots. All these trees must hamper even the best spear cast."

None of the Molthuni replied until Tarram gave the nearest one a stern glare.

Whereupon that spearman said sullenly, "That's so. Yet our orders are that crossbows are to be used in desperate moments of battle, only."

They crested a heavily wooded ridge, and two strides down its far side were challenged by the half-hidden soldiers of another watch post.

"Guests to see Commander Elthen," one of the spearmen said tersely.

"Guests," not "prisoners." Good.

Their escort grew by a few warriors, and trudged on along a game track, across a boggy valley and up over another ridge beyond. There they were challenged again, and passed on down a slope choked with ancient, leaning trees, out into a clearing where the midday sun shone down brightly on some rather battered-looking tents, a cooking pit covered by a row of tripods holding up simmer-cauldrons, and a lot of stern and watchful Molthuni soldiers in better armor than the leathers of the spearmen.

A grim-looking officer with long grizzled sideburns and weary eyes, when informed that these two strangers were to see the commander, ordered Tarram and his halfling partner to divest themselves of all weapons.

"I am a Lord Investigator of Molthune," Tarram informed the man calmly. "I give orders, not take them. Until Nirmathas falls to us, this is enemy soil where we are at war, and my weapons ride where they are. My companion is an envoy from another country, and is to be treated as such. You would not order one of the General Lords nor the Imperial Governor to surrender his weapons, and you will not order her to do so."

The officer drew himself up. "Prisoner, you are in no position to be making claims or giving orders—"

Tarram stepped around him. "You are relieved of your rank and command."

Striding on, he addressed the next nearest Molthuni warrior in the camp. "Which tent is Elthen's? Our mission must not be delayed."

"I—"

The man was still hesitating when a tent flap nearby was thrust aside and a scar-faced man strode out and up to Tarram.

"Elthen," he identified himself flatly. "And you are...?"

"In some haste," Tarram replied. "I am a Lord Investigator of Molthune, escorting an outland envoy to Canorate. We require safe transport across the Inkwater, as swiftly as it can be provided."

The commander regarded Tarram in stone-faced silence for a moment or two, and then asked calmly, "Would that be the Fearsome Gauntlet you're wearing?"

Tarram smiled tightly. "Krzonstal Telcanor talks too much. As usual."

A trace of a smile rose very briefly onto Elthen's face. "So this envoy is not the only valuable you're escorting to Molthune."

Tarram nodded.

Commander Elthen turned to catch the eye of a man across the camp, waved him over, and upon his arrival announced, "This is Hardreth, my best scout. He and nine soldiers will conduct you both to Arlarn Straeble."

Tarram raised both eyebrows in a silent question, and the commander added, "The General Lords sent Straeble to the Inkshore camp to observe and report back on our war effort in Nirmathas. As I am under orders to inform him of anything unusual that comes to my attention, to him you must go. Gauntlet and all."

"Sir," Hardreth said briskly, bowing his head. "Shall I—"

He broke off as a dweomercat almost bowled him over. A furry flood of them burst into the camp, rushing to surround Tarram and swarm up his body to the gauntlet he was hastily holding high.

Molthuni everywhere started to curse, draw swords or daggers, or thrust at the rushing, snarling cats with spears.

Tarram spun around, already knowing what he'd see.

At the edge of the camp, buried in eagerly leaping, clawing dweomercats, was a lurching, lumbering mound topped by tentacles. As it advanced, those tentacles were rather wearily plucking cats from its body and hurling them away through the forest, to thud against trees, or dashing them to the ground. Wherever they clung most thickly, two tentacles swung a wicked blade—a curved sword that whispered ceaseless promises and taunts—in carefully aimed slices that swept squalling, slashed-open dweomercats to the ground.

More dweomercats were rushing at Tarram, leaping eagerly to try to touch or cling to his mask, which was starting to glow brightly again.

Hardreth and Elthen were both snarling curses and slashing the rushing beasts as quickly as they could, their attention increasingly on the approaching tentacled monster.

"What is that thing?" Hardreth snapped. "Never seen anything like it!"

By way of answer, Tantaerra caught Tarram's eye and dodged behind the scout's knees. Tarram managed not to smile as he thrust a knife into a dweomercat in midair and swung hard, accidentally putting his elbow into Hardreth's chest and shoulder.

The scout went over backward with a startled yell, Tantaerra slipping out from behind him like a racing wind. She was in time to duck between Elthen's legs as the Molthuni commander turned to see what had happened to Hardreth, and she did that trailing a dying dweomercat by the tail.

Elthen stepped on the moving beast, stumbled, and crashed down atop half a dozen very alive dweomercats, who spat, clawed, and bit at him.

By which time Tarram and Tantaerra had left him far behind, sprinting across the camp in the direction of distant Molthune. The clearing around them was now a battling chaos of shouting, hacking men and racing, snapping dweomercats, but a clear trail led out of it in the direction the two partners wanted to go.

Out through a thin stand of trees into open, lower ground, it seemed. Which meant less cover, but...tentacled monster or no pursuing tentacled monster, it was the way they had to go.

Tarram risked a look back, at the frantic fray. The tentacled thing was gaining on them.

He put his head down and really ran—only to dodge behind a tent as more armored Molthuni soldiers, swords in hand, came running up the trail into the clearing to meet them, drawn by the rising din. Tantaerra scampered after him.

Luraumadar, Luraumadar, Luraumadar, the mask chanted insistently.

The soldiers racing into the camp swore in astonishment as they saw what was shedding dweomercats and rising up like a wall of tentacles to meet them.

Leaving so soon? the Whispering Blade hissed in Tarram's mind. Why, the bloodletting's just begun!

Tentacles lashed out.

∗ ∗ ∗

It was Tantaerra's turn to wear the gauntlet. She was still settling it on her hand as she and The Masked crested another hill on the rutted wagon-road and—

Found themselves facing a ready line of three Molthuni, with spears.

"Stop right there!" one barked.

"Lord Investigator of Molthune, coming through!" Tantaerra announced, running full-tilt at him.

At the last moment before slamming into them, as two of the soldiers crouched together to block her and the third swept his spear up to gut The Masked, she tossed the Fearsome Gauntlet behind her, high into the air.

In the distance, the half-mental, half-audible murmurings of the Whispering Blade rose into an excited shout as the sight at the hurtling glove.

Tantaerra crashed hard into an ankle, but took the butt-end of a spear in the ribs and lost all her wind and her footing in the same painful instant.

Smashed off her feet and falling helplessly aside, she saw her partner calmly catch the Fearsome Gauntlet, slide it on, and do something that smashed the Molthuni backward as if an invisible giant's fist had crashed into them.

The grunts and shouts and wet thuddings behind them were getting closer.

The Masked rushed over to Tantaerra, swept her up, and rushed on through the rows of tents, using the gauntlet twice to punch aside any Molthuni who barred their way.

"Put me down!" Tantaerra gasped, when she had her breath back. Gods, her ribs hurt!

Her partner obliged, and she risked another look back. Many Molthuni were pursuing them now, and others were fleeing the tentacled monster. It no longer had all that many soldiers of Molthune daring to fight it, and the dweomercats were noticeably fewer, too. So just how far were they from Molthune?

Not that a little thing like a river would stop that tentacled thing ...

She and Tarram ran on, past the last few tents and up the far slope of the valley, into the inevitable trees beyond. A cart track climbed the slope beside them, and there'd be a Molthuni watch post somewhere here, ahead, and—

She was on the verge of gasping a reminder to The Masked about that when they came out onto the track, as it curved across in front of them—and reached the first soldiers' bodies, sprawled in huddled heaps in the road.

"Tarram," she panted, "we might be running right into Nirmathi arrows!"

As if her words had been a cue, shafts started to zip and hurumm out of the trees right in front of her, hissing past to thud into their Molthuni pursuers.

She swerved uncertainly. Just one arrow could end her life nastily, and—

"Keep running!" a voice called from the trees. "Have they any other captives in camp?"

"No," The Masked bellowed back, "but they've used fell magic and unleashed a tentacled monster! Fill it full of arrows!"

No one shouted a reply, but more arrows flew.

The cart track curved on into the forest before them, and Tantaerra and The Masked sprinted along it.

They ran and ran until strength and wind both deserted them, then staggered to a stumbling halt to lean on trees, gasp for breath, and continue at a slow, panting walk.

"We dare not stop moving," Tantaerra gasped, "or that thing will catch us."

Her partner nodded grimly. "We have to assume it will slay everyone who dares to challenge it, and keep after us." He peered up at what little sky they could see through the leaves overhead. "It'll be dark sooner than we'll want."

Tantaerra nodded, and looked back along the track. Almost mockingly, several dweomercats padded into view, following them with golden eyes gleaming. "So, do we stay on this road and make haste, knowing we could run into Nirmathi or Molthuni—or just their arrows—at any time? Or head into the trees and risk getting lost, making more noise, and going slower?"

"Mahalagris doesn't care how much noise we make or how slowly we're going," The Masked reminded her.

"Now that's a bright thought, O font of good cheer," Tantaerra told him, as they pressed on. "How damned far is this river, anyway?"

Chapter Eighteen

Telcanor Forever

Tantaerra wrinkled her nose. The sweet stink of death hung strong in the air, stronger ahead of them. Decaying humans, most likely.

A strong—phew, very strong—reminder that sooner or later, Desna would stop smiling on them.

Life had taught her that much, if not all that much of something else: good sense.

Otherwise she'd be far from here, getting her hide away from Molthune and Nirmathas both, into somewhere safe and quiet. Cheerful Nidal, perhaps. Or Razmiran, where the Living God ate babes for breakfast.

Yet a friendlier deity—the Song of the Spheres, unseen on her butterfly wings—had certainly been by their side this day.

They'd heard a Molthuni patrol coming and managed to get into the trees in time to hide. The Molthuni had thought the noise they'd made had come from the dweomercats that the soldiers promptly slew. Later, they'd fallen afoul of Nirmathi archers who seemingly couldn't hit a wagon up close, and had wasted half a dozen shafts on tree trunks not all that close to either Tantaerra or her partner, never daring to rush out into open confrontation.

So they'd simply walked away, she and Tarram, and here they were, still plodding along—staggering with exhaustion would be a fairer calling of it—at twilight, within hearing of the Inkwater at last.

Which meant there must be Nirmathi all around them. So when would the next attack come?

For the last long while, as the sun sank lower and lower, they'd been working their way along game trails. This latest one had led them to this reek. So now they were both down on their bellies crawling, and peering cautiously ahead into the gathering darkness.

Into a stinking hollow full of ripe, rotting battle corpses. It lay across their path, close enough to the river that they could clearly hear the waters flowing endlessly past, somewhere in the lowering darkness beyond the thick trees on the far side of the hollow.

A perfect spot for an ambush.

Tarram looked at The Masked. He was lying on his face, forehead pressed to the ground, eyes closed. He'd taken off the mask long ago to hide it and its glow under his clothing, and she could barely tell if he was still alive through the ragged cloth undermask he was wearing now.

"Tarram?" she murmured, edging closer to him.

Her partner rolled slowly over onto his side, letting out a faint groan. "Worn out," he muttered. "Just let me rest."

Well, thanks a lot, Holy Desna. And me with but one hand.

Tantaerra was struggling to roll her partner the rest of the way onto his back when a Molthuni voice out of the nearby gloom froze her in mid-heave.

"That you, Farthras?"

"Aye," another voice replied, from a little farther off in the other direction, along the hollow. That reply was followed by the thud of heavy boots trudging nearer. Hastily Tantaerra sank down atop The Masked and played at being a corpse.

Farthras strode right past her in his eagerness to share the latest news. "New orders! The cursed Nirmathi got most of Uldran's men back at Arthjet, so we're to join the camps at Downtree. They're mustering a really big army at last, to teach the Nirmathi a lesson! We march at first light, and they're saying the moment we reach the camps, they'll march on with us. Our feet are going to be sore tomorrow!"

"My feet are sore now," the other Molthuni growled. "Trust Uldran to be the sort of fool to fall afoul of a few half-naked Nirmathi running barefoot from behind one tree to the next. I suppose he thought they'd obligingly step out into some open field and form lines to face him! Stonehead!"

Farthras chuckled. "Your judgment of Uldran draws no argument from me, but there's more! They're saying the gods are taking a hand in this endless war, now!"

"Uh-huh. Who's the 'they' this time? Someone's always prattling about the gods doing this and that!"

"This is different. Ever heard of dweomercats?"

"No ...hoy, now, wait. Blue magical cats, in some of the old tales, yes? Never seen one, though. What about them?"

"They're streaming this way out of the heart of Nirmathas, that's what. Sent or driven by the gods, everyone's saying—not just us, but the Nirmathi, too."

"Oh? And how can we be so sure of that?"

"We took some captives today, and didn't leave them in much state to think up clever lies. They think it's the gods, too."

"Has anyone checked to see if there aren't Nirmathi warriors clinging to some dweomercat bellies, or if there's a wizard somewhere behind all this? I grant that spellcasters are blamed more than seen—but even a wizard is a sight more likely to be mixed up in a run of beasts than a god!"

"That I don't know." There was a crackling of crushed twigs as Farthras joined his unseen fellow Molthuni, and his voice sank to a more conspiratorial mutter. "But word is, we're mustering to take care of the Nirmathi, but are under strict orders to leave the dweomercats alone. Just in case."

"Fine. The fewer beasts I'm supposed to fight, the longer I'll stay alive. So if we're marching at first light, I'm for bed right now. Gods-cursed stupid war."

Tantaerra listened intently as the two Molthuni moved off. When she was sure they were gone, she shook The Masked, hard.

His groan this time was more of an irritated grunt than a sound of pain, so she hissed at him, "Come on. We need to get just a little way on, before morning. Across the river."

"Across the river to where?" he growled. "The midst of some army camp full of soldiers eager to stick spears into us?"

"We'll find a place that isn't an army camp—even if we have to drift downriver all night."

"Upriver would be a better bet."

"If I could drift upriver, I would," Tantaerra told him patiently, "but rivers don't work that way."

"I'm worn down, right down to my bones," The Masked said wearily. "Can't you scout the far bank before we get cold and wet and swept downstream? I—"

Tantaerra thrust the stump of her handless arm into his face. "Tarram Armistrade, you still have two hands! I don't give that tentacle-beast's hind haunch if you're tired, you'll get up right now, like the curse-ridden, pigheaded man you are, and swim the river with me!"

Cringing away from her fury, The Masked muttered, "Sorry." Then he staggered to his feet and started across the hollow, stumbling amid the rotting battle-dead.

As they picked their way up out of the hollow into the last band of trees, and the gurgling of the rushing Inkwater grew louder, there was a crashing and crackling behind them, no doubt loud enough to bring Nirmathi with ready weapons.

Looking back, Tantaerra saw fearless golden eyes. The foremost dweomercats were padding out of the trees. Stalking them.

∗ ∗ ∗

The Inkwater was icy cold, of course. Tantaerra couldn't suppress a gasp, but needn't have bothered worrying about the noise she made. The Masked, beside her, sounded like a startled horse.

At least he hadn't gone in with a mighty splash. No, they'd both slipped rather gingerly into the water, and hopefully—

Hope died abruptly, as a rather rough male voice from very close by muttered, "Someone ...no, two people. Two people in the river. Permission to feather them, sir?"

The Masked gave her an urgent look and pushed off from the bank, more sideways than out into the river, across her path. He was eyeball-deep in the water, and glaring at her. Tantaerra swam to the right to keep out of his way, and abandoned all worry about splashings. They had to get out and away from the bank, fast, or—

"No. You heard the orders as well as I did. We leave the dweomercats alone."

"But sir, these aren't dweomercats, they're—"

"The one that just almost stepped on me has fangs like a row of short swords, is larger than my horse, and smells like it's spent its life rolling in mud and rotting dead things and never bathing. You can argue what they are with me all you like, but do not use your bow!"

"But—"

"If someone's leading this herd of beasts—see? Half a dozen now, and still more on the way—they're probably some priest or other, and I'm not risking the anger of the gods by killing holy men. So neither are you, Willum!"

"But—"

"Even if they are Nirmathi, and a-bristle with bright blades from haunch to chittlins, just two of them aren't going to do much against the army we have camped within horn-hail, lad! There're sentries posted that side of the river too, y'know!"

"But—urrreeeagh!"

"Willum? Willum? Hah! So, a dweomercat found you, did it? Idiot! Didn't believe me, hey? Well—"

Then the fast-running Inkwater carried Tantaerra and her masked companion out of earshot, past gurglings coming from half-submerged fallen trees standing like stones against the strong flow. No crossbow bolts had come, but Tantaerra couldn't help but be swept against The Masked's shoulder. He was fighting hard to get across the river before it took them a long way downstream—or its numbing cold robbed them of their strength, and they became helpless, exhausted floating things.

Abruptly, there were dark things ahead of them, looming up out of the water, and a rotting reek, and shade.

Dead trees beyond counting, toppled into the river. Swept against them, The Masked caught hold of one and clawed Tantaerra out of the water and up onto it.

"H-hang on!" he snapped at her, through chattering teeth. Tantaerra tried.

They were in a little swamp on the Molthuni side of the river. Stinking muck was everywhere, foul green floating weeds and dead trees thrusting up out of the water like the dark fingers of drowned giants.

"Faugh!" Tantaerra spat, shivering.

"Don't complain," The Masked snarled up at her. "Means the water's slower ahead of us. See any trees we can crawl along, and get ashore? I'm about done...this cold ..."

"T-there," Tantaerra gasped, pointing, and her partner snatched her off her slippery black-barked perch and back into the icy water without a word, struggling on through the water like a weary bull. When they got to the tree she'd chosen, it took The Masked three tries to get her up onto it. He clung to it like a man carrying a rolled carpet, clawing his way hand over hand along it.

Tantaerra got to the firm soil first, somewhere under the tangled long grass and shorethorns, but they collapsed more or less in unison, and sank down into darkness.

Sodden, shivering darkness.

∗ ∗ ∗

The pain awakened Tantaerra. She was stiff and weak and sore, the stump of her missing hand throbbing with a slow but insistent ache. The stink of the swamp was strong, and the Inkwater was still rushing endlessly past, but somehow, during the night, its sound had changed. The swamp reek was subtly different, too. More musky.

Why? How?

She opened her eyes, risked lifting her head to look around—and froze.

Golden eyes were staring solemnly back into hers. During the night, dweomercats must have swum the river and stolen up to them in velvet silence. Now the beasts were all around, crowded so thickly around the trees that branches had sagged down under the water beneath their massed weight. What had been thick green swamp water last night was now hidden under a shaggy sea of dweomercat backs.

"Tarram," she hissed, poking her partner, "wake up."

The Masked gave another of his growling groans, but didn't move or do anything more, so she poked him again.

"What?" he snapped crossly.

"Look around you," she told him softly. "No sudden moves, just look."

He gave her a less than pleased glare, then did as he'd been told.

"Dung," he remarked softly. "Any sign of—?"

"Not yet," Tantaerra told him darkly. "We'd better be moving on."

"Yes," The Masked agreed wearily. "Let me get up. I need to stretch."

"Rouse the battered body and tackle another day?" Tantaerra asked mockingly.

The reply she got was a growl that would have done credit to a wolf.

Tarram Armistrade grunted a few times, winced, then rubbed at his left shoulder and said thoughtfully, "You know, we could sprint across the backs of these dweomercats and run right out of this swamp."

"West, into Molthune. Open, rolling grasslands, as I recall," Tantaerra replied. "Run parallel to each other, so we can avoid being cat-swarmed by throwing the gauntlet back and forth, again?"

Her partner nodded. "So, let's decide on a route." He peered at the dweomercats to the west of them, where the land rose into drier Molthune. The dweomercats stared right back.

"Tarram," Tantaerra said warningly, bringing his head around to see what she was watching.

Behind them, to the east, more dweomercats were slowly swimming the Inkwater, heading for the swamp.

The dweomercats were swimming so slowly because they were keeping in a tight ring around a larger, darker bulk. One with tentacles.

Their pursuer now trailed dark blood, a stain on the water around it. Half a dozen spears and arrows were protruding from it, but it clutched the Whispering Sword on high.

"Dung," Tantaerra agreed wearily.

∗ ∗ ∗

There'd been no sign of riders from Braganza or anywhere else, but they were trudging through grass so tall now that they'd certainly feel and hear hooves before they saw anyone, mounted or afoot. They'd been trudging most of the day.

The sun was getting low in the sky, and Tantaerra was hungry and thirsty, the Fearsome Gauntlet heavy in her bodice. Not that there was anything much to eat except grass. She'd tried chewing some, as she and The Masked continued staggering deeper into Molthune.

They'd headed for any tallish or tangled trees they caught sight of, in hopes of finding places they could climb up to, to rest without being crushed or suffocated by crowding dweomercats, but time after time they found no suitable perches. The trees were too spindly, or rooted in loose ground so a swarm of dweomercats would probably topple them. Nowhere was there cover enough to hide them from passing Molthuni.

So they kept trudging onward.

They'd not seen the tentacled monster since they'd fled the swamp. It was probably moving so slowly that they'd left it far behind.

There was a slim chance that the cold river waters had finished it or swept it far downstream before it could reach the Molthuni side of the Inkwater, but she and Tarram doubted it was dead. If Mahalagris had chased them this far, he wouldn't abandon the pursuit of them so long as his host lived and could still move, however feebly.

Neither she nor Tarram were in any shape to take on any foe. Unless Holy Desna saw fit to send them some mighty priests of healing, and maybe a movable fortress to shelter in at night, it was unlikely—given all the Molthuni military marching or riding about in these grasslands—they'd make it to Braganza alive.

"If we had horses ..." The Masked muttered.

"We don't," Tantaerra reminded him sharply. "Nor do we have an army dedicated to defending us. If you're going to dream, dream big, man. Or can that gauntlet make us fly?"

"It can, I think, but not to Braganza or anywhere far. Just a little hop—over a wall or up to a window, or down from one without dashing your bones to splinters. But for the wearer only."

"Which means, sooner or later," Tantaerra said glumly, "we're going to meet up with Molthuni on patrol, and there'll be a fight we can't hope to win, even blasting away with the gauntlet."

"Yes."

A few trudging steps later, he added, "Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra, I ...I have enjoyed your company on this escapade. You're better than a halfling princess."

"You're not so bad yourself, masked man. For a human."

Armistrade looked down at her. After so long traveling together, she almost felt that she could read the expressions behind that mask. If so, he was smiling now. "I make few friends, and manage to keep fewer," he said. "I'm glad to call you friend."

"Likewise," Tantaerra told him.

Then she lifted the stump where her hand had been, and said grimly, "And before I die, I'll get back at Krzonstal Telcanor. Somehow."

"Somehow," The Masked agreed—and then stopped walking, held up his hand for silence, and cocked his head.

Tantaerra felt it more than heard it: the pounding of distant hooves. Getting nearer quickly.

"I can't see the length of a spear in this grass," she snarled. "Who is it? More than one rider, it sounds like, but not much more ..."

"Well counted," Armistrade replied, sounding amused. "Two riders. Telcanors who rode with Zreem when we were taken out of Braganza to begin this little jaunt. Full plate armor, riding hard right at us."

"Here they are!" a man shouted, and the foremost Telcanor appeared over the sea of grass, as he slowed his mount and veered aside to look down at them. "It's them, all right!"

"Good," the other rider called back, reining in his horse so hard it reared, bugling in protest. As it bucked and tossed its head, he grabbed up the crossbow hooked to his saddle.

"What're you doing?" the first rider asked incredulously. "We're supposed to capture them for questioning!"

"My orders are to the contrary," the second Braganzan replied. "Dead men tell priests and their speaking-spells no lies." He aimed his crossbow at his fellow Telcanor. "Any objections?"

The other soldier shook his head frantically, face pale.

Smiling tightly, the Braganzan with the crossbow settled a bolt into his weapon.

Smiling tightly right back at him, Tantaerra yanked the Fearsome Gauntlet onto her hand.

The world exploded, leaving her staggering, moaning, and tasting blood from her bitten lip. Visions crashed into her brain and each other, overwhelming her in a deluge of vivid overlapping scenes of the wielding of this or that gauntlet power. The simple, invisible fist-like ramming ability underlay the rest, so she seized upon it, fighting through the blinding chaos—and the moment she could see the Molthuni bowman, she let fly.

The invisible blow shattered the crossbow, at least one of the hands holding it, and the bowman's jaw as it smashed him clear out of his saddle. Teeth flew.

The other Telcanor stared at his fellow Molthuni, bouncing senseless in the grass, cast a look of wild-eyed fear at them, and wheeled his mount to frantically gallop away.

"Blast him down!" Tarram shouted.

Tantaerra let her gauntlet-clad arm fall.

"Blast him!"

Tantaerra shook her head. "No," she said sullenly.

"He'll report us, and come back with an army!" The Masked snarled.

"I've killed enough on this trip," she snapped back at him. "Watchguards, soldiers of both sides—I don't see that I had much choice, but I'm sick of it. Now catch that horse, before it decides to follow the other one!"

The Masked shot her a furious look, then sprinted to the snorting, head-tossing horse, caught its reins, and started to murmur soothing sounds to it. It shook itself and lashed out only once, but when he let it trot away, it circled back to him, then stopped and let him catch the reins again.

Still soothing the horse, The Masked swung himself into the saddle, circled to where Tantaerra stood watching, and plucked her up, a little less than gently, to join him.

The horse promptly snorted and tossed its head again, so Tarram kept it to a walk, and turned its head south. The sun would be setting soon.

Tantaerra kept quiet for some time, to give him time to master his temper, before saying, "I can't help but notice that we're heading east instead of south."

"Yes," The Masked snapped.

After riding in silence for a time, he added more gently, "No, I'm not thinking of trying to ride to Canorate, or right out of Molthune. I'm thinking we can't catch that Telcanor, so it'll be wiser to circle around to Braganza rather than heading straight for it—being as anyone he brings back to seek us will look first between Braganza and where you took such good care of our murderous friend with the crossbow."

"Sensible," Tantaerra agreed.

"Thank you. Now, being as you're smaller and lighter, and so shouldn't upset the horse as much as I would, I'm going to move you behind me, so you can go through those saddlebags. I don't know about you, but I'm ravenous—and parched, too."

"Humans," Tantaerra teased, as he twisted in the saddle and swung her less than gracefully around to rest against the saddle's high back. "If you didn't carry around all that unnecessary weight, maybe you wouldn't need to eat so—" Her voice died away.

Tarram must have felt her stiffen. "What?" he asked sharply. "What's wrong?"

She pointed, off across the rolling hills behind him, then remembered he couldn't see without turning.

"We're being followed," she told him quietly. "A lot of riders—armored, by the way they glint and flash in the sun—and coming fast."

The Masked sighed. "Of course we are. What else would make this day complete? Are any of them waving tentacles?"

∗ ∗ ∗

"Got a good firm hold on me?" The Masked asked.

Tantaerra sighed, thrust the stay-peg through the saddlebag flap she'd just managed to get open, and made sure she had a good grip on her partner. "Yes," she told him tersely, knowing what was coming.

"Good," he replied, as he bent low over the horse's neck and kicked it into a gallop.

The mount seemed to want to buck for a moment, then stretched out its neck and raced forward, fairly leaping through the grass in a great rustling hiss, a hissing that went on and on as its hooves pounded up a hill.

The Masked looked back, almost swinging her off.

"Warn me when you're going to do that," she snarled at him through clenched teeth, shifting her grip to his belt—hand clutching it, and stump thrust through it. Now, if she fell off, his breeches would be coming with her. Being as they'd probably have a heavy man inside them who'd undoubtedly land on her, that was probably less than wise, but ...

No doubt their Molthuni pursuers were still right behind them, and probably gaining, too. It was only in bardic ballads that heroes ever outrode anyone.

They veered around the next hill, The Masked forcing their mount up a little valley into rising land of more rolling hills and sharper ridges. It was almost sunset, but this was all open grasslands, halfway from here to Lake Encarthan. There was nowhere to hide—and no way in all wide Golarion that their horse would be able to outrun the Molthuni forever.

A mere moment later, that was proven true. Their mount stumbled on something, faltered—and they were flying through the air, hooves flashing past their ears in a welter of dust and screaming, thudding horse, as their mount fell and rolled past them.

Tantaerra slammed into thankfully soft earth with teeth-jarring force, rolled over with her head swimming, and saw The Masked wincing and clambering back to his feet.

Then she saw what he was staring at.

The Molthuni were galloping right at them, a score of men or more, in full plate armor and with long lances lowered to spit them. Coming fast, the earth thundering now under the churning hooves, the horses snorting and tossing armored heads, the men snarling through their opened helms. Close enough now that they could make out individual faces.

Tantaerra heard her partner chuckle bitterly. A moment later, she saw why.

One rider had familiar face. It was the Mereir recruiter who'd confronted them in their room at the Hearth, back in Braganza.

"Well, this is it, my little pacifist," The Masked growled. "Where we die valiantly." He cast a longing glance at the Fearsome Gauntlet on her hand, but rather than grabbing at it, he did something that astonished Tantaerra. He hooked his arm around her, pulled her close, and kissed her.

His mouth was by no means as foul as she'd feared.

"Well, now," she grinned at him, when their unhurried kiss ended, "we'll have to talk about your aggressive advances upon my person, after."

"You think there's going to be an after?"

"Oh, yes," she replied, holding up the gauntlet and awakening it with her will. It suddenly glowed from one end to the other—a glow that spilled into her eyes, making them literally blaze. "Yes, I do. I kill when I must."

The Molthuni were almost upon them, the din deafening. She leveled her arm at them as if aiming a crossbow, pointing at that Mereir, and—

Another band of mounted Molthuni burst into view over the crest of the ridge beside them, and spurred down the slope to crash into the first band of riders, swords out and hacking hard.

Horses went down and rolled, lances splintered or flew loose into the air, and men died.

"Telcanor!" the riders of this second force shouted, as they slew. "Telcanor forever!"

Tantaerra and her partner gaped in astonishment. Not one of the riders who'd charged them reached them.

Very swiftly, not a soldier of the first force was left alive.

The triumphant Molthuni shouted in glee and lifted their swords. Then one waved his hand in a signal, and that chaos of mounted men funneled into a trotting line that encircled Tantaerra and The Masked. They recognized one face among these riders, too: the Telcanor who'd fled from them after his colleague had tried to use his crossbow to kill them both.

The one who'd signaled the others stopped his horse to grin down at Tantaerra and her partner, and announce cheerfully, "We're here to see you safely back to Braganza. I hope you'll accept our escort willingly and peacefully. There's a lot of danger between here and the city."

"Our peace and willingness," Tantaerra replied quickly and firmly, before The Masked could utter whatever he was starting to say, "depend on who your master is."

The leader's grin widened. "Prudent of you. Know, then, that we're soldiers of Krzonstal Telcanor's personal guard, sent secretly out of Braganza by our lord's head bodyguard, Onstal Zreem, to wait for you near the Inkwater. To ensure that if you got back across the river, you'd make it the rest of the way to Braganza safely."

"'Telcanor forever'?" The Masked inquired mildly.

The leader shrugged. "We were ordered to shout that whenever we went into battle. Our lord desires to get proper credit for seeing your treasure home to Braganza, if there are any witnesses or wizards spying from afar."

Tantaerra lowered the arm she still had aimed at a foe that was no longer there, the glow from the Fearsome Gauntlet softening. "We accept your kind aid and escort."

"How did the ruler of Braganza take matters," The Masked asked, his voice genuinely curious rather than confrontational, "when a score of fully armored men rode out of his city without him giving any orders or permission?"

"Lord Ravnagask never knew. We went out by threes and fours, for our usual mounted training drills, only one or two coming back, for days and days. No one noticed—except Lord Telcanor, who was told we'd died from poisoned wine."

Tantaerra frowned, and raised the gauntlet again. "So he doesn't know you're out here now?"

"No, no, this is no treachery!" the leader said quickly. "Our orders are to keep you safe and conduct you to the gates of the Telcanor mansion in Braganza, see you let through them, and depart."

Tantaerra and her partner exchanged long, silent looks. Then The Masked shrugged.

Tantaerra shrugged back, turned to the Telcanor leader, and nodded. "Do so, then," she said crisply.

The leader waved his hand in another signal, and his Telcanors formed a two-rider-thick ring around Tantaerra and The Masked, giving them quite a bit of clear space. Horses caught from those left riderless by the slain Mereirs were brought to them, one each, and before Tantaerra could protest or attempt a running leap into the offered saddle, The Masked lifted her onto it with the deft dignity of a royal servant.

The leader rode to take rearguard, waved his hand again, and the mounted Molthuni started to move.

Chapter Nineteen

Blade, Gauntlet, and Wizard

The sun had set, and the moon risen. Inside their defensive ring of warriors, The Masked and Tantaerra rode on steadily across Molthune's grasslands, heading for Braganza.

Whether we want to or not, Tantaerra thought to herself. The rolling fields were coldly beautiful under brightening moonlight, and she and Tarram rode side by side and close together, talking quietly of what they would do when delivered into Telcanor's clutches. The Telcanor leader had pointedly dropped back so they could have privacy.

Not that they'd decided anything useful when the inevitable interruption came.

The foremost riders slowed, then called back, "Dweomercats ahead! Heading the same way we are."

The sharpest-eyed Telcanor promptly added, "There's a patrol—soldiers of Molthune, in proper uniform—riding in the midst of them."

The leader promptly ordered, "Hard right, everyone. Whatever's going on, we don't want to get mixed up in it."

The Telcanors veered right to give the dweomercats a wide berth, though in this open country, under bright moonlight, the cats and the Molthuni among them couldn't help but see the Telcanors.

Eventually the two bands were abreast of each other, the Telcanors well to the south of the dweomercats they'd overtaken—which was when the cats and their Molthuni turned sharply south, as if to intercept the ring of Braganzans.

"Halt!" the Telcanor leader called, and his men reined in, their ring tighter around Tantaerra and her partner, and watched the dweomercats. Who turned more sharply, to come right at them.

As another mounted Molthuni force appeared over a hill behind the dweomercats and galloped right at them, shouting in challenge.

A glow flared up from these new riders; someone among them had cast a spell. It washed over the dweomercats—and suddenly the cats were upon the newcomers, squalling and leaping at horses. The Molthuni that had been riding at the heart of the dweomercats all wheeled around to ride toward the source of the spell.

As the Telcanors sat on their horses and watched, there was a brief melee of milling horses, shouting men, and swords waved in warning—and another spell flashed out at the men who'd ridden with the dweomercats. Several fell from their saddles—but one hacked and hewed with a sword that was suddenly afire with an intense magical light, carving his way through Molthuni toward the source of the spells.

"Let's get gone, well away from here!" the Telcanor leader snapped, and set his mount to a gallop. The Masked veered his horse as close to the distant battle as the ring of riders allowed, peering hard.

Another spell flashed, hurled at the rider with the glowing sword, and Tantaerra cursed softly as she recognized it as the Whispering Blade.

A moment later, the spell was gone, sucked into the sword in a whirling vortex. Whereupon the Molthuni wielding the sword reached the wizard—and sprang from his saddle to embrace the caster.

They swayed atop the wizard's rearing horse, surrounded by the sword's bright glow. Within it, the rider could be seen thrusting the glowing sword into the wizard's hand and forcing him to hold it. Then the rider stiffened, impaled on the thrusting swords of several of the Molthuni riding with the wizard, and fell.

The Masked stood in his stirrups to try to see more, but the onrushing Telcanors had galloped over a rise, and tall moonlit grass hid the fate of the wizard and his new sword from view.

"Down, man!" the Telcanor leader snapped. "Do you have to fall out of your saddle to know they'll be after us? Ride hard!"

The Masked obeyed that command, but when he looked back a short time later, he was unsurprised to see the Molthuni and the dweomercats racing after them, likely to overtake the galloping ring of Telcanors long before they reached Braganza.

∗ ∗ ∗

The moonlight was serene. There was nowhere at all to hide in the coldly spotlit open country beneath it, and the horses were tiring. A tiny handful of twinkling lights on the horizon marked the walls of Braganza, but they might as well have been far across the Inner Sea. It wouldn't be long now.

Tantaerra looked back again. Yes, the pursuing Molthuni were much closer, and the dweomercats were darting excitedly up to the hooves of the rearmost Telcanors, falling back, then bounding up again.

They want to be where the magic is strongest. The Whispering Blade and the wizard wielding it are stronger than this gauntlet and Tarram's mask. We're doomed.

"Tarram Armistrade," she called, amid the pounding hooves, "it's time."

The mask—always, one mask or another—turned toward her. "Time?"

"You know a lot more about this Fearsome Gauntlet than you've told me," she said grimly. "When I open my mind to it, I just about get fried; there's no way I can stay in this saddle if I try now! If there's anything that can help us against Mahalagris—and that's him back there, in the wizard's body, I'm sure of it—you have to tell me! Our only hope is if he dismisses me as a know-nothing and goes for you ...and by then, it'll be too damned late to tell me anything! Now's the time to say all!"

Before The Masked could reply, the night behind them erupted in roaring flames.

Horses screamed and faltered, a wave of heat rolled over them, and ...they were still alive, still galloping raggedly on.

Tantaerra looked back. Flames from the fireball were racing away in all directions through the grass, the dew clinging to it going up in smoke, and behind her horse's tail was nothing but blackened earth. The back of the Telcanor ring—including its capable leader—was simply gone. Blown to burning, tumbling ashes.

There was nothing now but whirling embers and cinders, grass, and moonlit air between Tantaerra and her partner, and their pursuers.

"Imagine you're holding up a shield in front of you," Tarram blurted, "and looking over its curved top edge, in this moonlight, so you see a silvery curve. Yes? Hold that image in your mind, and open to the gauntlet. Ignore all its chaos, and hold that image."

Tantaerra did that. The magic tugged at her thoughts, at her very head, but she clung to the image of a silver arc. "Done," she gasped.

"Picture the silver turning glowing white," The Masked said swiftly, "and hold that new bright white light in your mind."

Luraumadar, his mask said excitedly, in a hiss the gauntlet let Tantaerra hear—the same hiss as the Whispering Blade. Luraumadar.

Tantaerra clung to that image, aware that the knuckles of the Fearsome Gauntlet were now glowing that same hue. Tarram reached out and closed his hand firmly around her leg.

Mahalagris stood up in his stirrups and hurled another spell. She could feel it rushing toward them, feel it looming up to crash over—

There was an eerie green flash of light, and the air shattered.

All around them it cracked, in a great blast that took the legs out from under every horse in the hard-galloping ring, hurling every last Telcanor out of his saddle.

Leaving Tantaerra, her partner, and their horses untouched amid a tight shroud of snarling air, as magic warred with magic—and then was gone, racing back to smash into the legs of the pursuing horses like a glowing green fist, bowling them over as it had the Telcanors.

Tantaerra looked at The Masked as he released his grip. The gauntlet had gone dark.

"We can only use that protection the once," Tarram told her, fighting to control his frightened horse. "It's done until tomorrow."

Tantaerra rolled her eyes. "Which means the next..."

He didn't even have time to nod before the next spell came.

Not at them, this time, but at the ground right in front of them, blasting it into the air in a geyser of lofted dirt and stones to carve out a huge pit floored with a heap of suddenly exposed boulders.

Their horses plunged helplessly into the earthen gulf, shrieking—and Tantaerra was flung through the air, Tarram cartwheeling along beside her.

He slammed into deep, loose earth with a grunt. She bounced off his shoulder, skidded on her behind a long way through crackling grass, fell into a roll, and came to a halt with dirt raining down on her head out of the night sky.

Fury choked her. "Gods-cursed wizards!" she spat. "Spells, spells, spells! Smash this corner of Golarion, then that one! Let's see how you like it!"

Ignoring the dweomercats, she lifted her arm toward the gleaming line of armored Molthuni soldiers now coming at her on foot and gave them lightning. A crackling line of searing blue-white sprang from one armored soldier to the next, sending them into spasmodic jerkings and stiff staggerings. Then the lightning was done, and armored warriors lay sprawled and fallen, with smoke curling up from their motionless bodies.

One horse and rider loomed untouched among the dweomercats. Mahalagris's new host grinned, eyes glowing blue, and raised the Whispering Blade.

Tantaerra faced him, panting. She could punch him with the gauntlet, but he'd probably be magically protected against its blows. If she concentrated on his hands and his mouth, just maybe ...

He laughed coldly, and spurred his mount into a gallop. Right at her.

"Tarram?" Tantaerra called, not daring to try to sort through the gauntlet's powers with a charging warrior thundering at her.

There came no reply. Well, time to do what halflings did best.

Tantaerra ran, heading for horses that were down but struggling, dodging wildly kicking hooves. A horse could be shelter enough to keep the wizard from riding her down or easily slicing her apart as he galloped past.

He tried, with a brutal disregard for good horses, but a leaping, rolling, and ducking halfling was a far smaller target than a human, and he missed.

Why doesn't he just blast me? Oh, of course—the gauntlet. He wants it undamaged.

Tantaerra didn't stand still to ponder this or watch Mahalagris wheel around in a sweeping turn to come back at her. She rushed to the heap of exposed boulders, kicking at her partner as she ran past. "Up! Up, damn you, Armistrade! This is no time to—"

Then the wizard was on her again, the thunder of racing hooves almost deafening, the Whispering Blade lashing out.

Come kiss me, little one!

Its entreaties hissed past her ear as she ducked low behind a large boulder, just getting clear. Mahalagris wheeled his horse around hard, trying to deny her time to find better cover.

Heart pounding, Tantaerra didn't try. She had to do this just right, or ...

A lashing hoof almost drove her chin up through the crown of her head, but she flung herself sideways and it laid open her ear instead. Rebounding bruisingly off a rock she'd just inadvertently hurled herself against, Tantaerra sprinted up a rising stair of boulders and launched herself from the highest one in a desperate leap.

Thank the General Lords for putting so many bad riders on horseback, giving Molthuni saddles such high backs. She caught hold of the one Mahalagris was sitting in and swarmed up him.

Mahalagris worked a swift magic that wove a halo of spitting sparks around her daggers and buckles and all else metal, leaving her hand numbed and spasming.

To keep from falling off, she wrapped herself around the wizard's neck and shoulders from behind, entwining her legs around his shoulder, watching the Whispering Blade rising to slice at her.

He doesn't care what happens to this body he's using. It won't let go in pain, or go wild if I blind it, or—

We meet at last, the Whispering Blade greeted her triumphantly, as its edge came at her face.

Tantaerra grabbed hold of the wizard's dark hair and kicked off from his shoulder hard, wrenching his head around and forcing his sword to slash wildly wide.

She clung to it for a battering instant, banging against his chest—gods, did all cavalry reek this much?—as Mahalagris glared down at her.

Tantaerra glared right back up at him. She was close enough to spit and blind him, if it hadn't been straight uphill and likely to end up all over her. Her fingers, clutching the fistful of hair desperately, brushed his cheek.

A black wave of cold, fell fury fell on her, invading her mind, seeking to crush and overwhelm her.

Tantaerra clung to the one thing that held fast, a wan and glimmering light in the roaring, swirling, fang-ridden darkness trying to devour her. The Fearsome Gauntlet.

She was seeing things. Fleeting memories from the mind of Mahalagris, scenes so horrible that Tantaerra shrieked.

Then it was all gone, so abruptly that she was lost in a daze, vaguely aware of the moon hurtling past.

No, she was flying through the air past the moon, or...or ...

She landed hard, crashing through tall grass like a stone, and rolled out of sheer habit. The gauntlet was still with her, still glowing, and she was vaguely aware of dull thuds, ragged repeated blows.

When she could stand again, on legs that threatened to melt out from under her, she saw Tarram Armistrade swinging a broken lance like a blacksmith's hammer, battering the wizard's head and shoulders, and thrusting the splintered end of the lance—it no longer had its pointed head—at Mahalagris's face whenever he could.

In the distance, the horse Mahalagris had been riding was galloping off like the wind, tossing its head and bleating like a scared lamb.

The Whispering Blade was lying in the trampled grass not far away. Mahalagris reached out an arm toward it.

Despite the blows The Masked was raining down, the sword quivered and slid haltingly toward the wizard, a little at a time.

Tantaerra ran toward it, unsteadily, almost falling twice. If she could stand on it, perhaps her weight could stop it moving.

Or perhaps, just perhaps, the magical sword was what could kill a wizard who was already dead, if she carved him with it ...

The lance broke, and Mahalagris laughed in triumph and started to clamber to his feet. The Masked punched him hard in the face—and the wizard punched him back.

Then they were clawing and punching and grappling, Mahalagris managing to snatch the mask off Tarram's face—and Tarram toppling them both to keep from being smashed in the face with his own mask. They rolled on the ground, punching and kicking.

The Whispering Blade rose from the ground, hilt first, as if to fly ...and then fell back again, bouncing like any dropped sword.

Tantaerra pounced on it, and the blade and the gage she was wearing both flashed with bright and sudden magical light.

"Oh, great," she gasped. "Now what?"

∗ ∗ ∗

Neither Mahalagris nor the body he'd taken over had taken part in many vicious alley fights, Tarram realized. The wizard wasn't trying to gouge out his eyes, and didn't know what a good handle a man's nostrils gave a ruthless foe.

Or perhaps the wizard just didn't care what happened to his borrowed body, so long as it brought fresh victims within touching distance. His mind was flooding into Tarram's, dark and terrible, exulting ...

Tarram had managed to roll atop the wizard's other arm, pinning it, so the mask was trapped under him, too. Yet he could cling to its steadying magic as the mind of Mahalagris tore at his, raging in his head, seeking to sear away everything that was Tarram Armistrade.

Light flared behind him; the Fearsome Gauntlet.

The moment he thought of it, it was as if a door had opened in the darkness seeking to ravage him, and he was plunging down a chute of wildly swirling memories. The wizard's memories.

Luraumadar, Luraumadar, Luraumadar!

The Whispering Blade had a secret!

In the hands of one who knew how—and this was how, bending one's will like this, and calling up this crawling crimson-edged darkness from the depths of the sword—it could drain the magic of the Fearsome Gauntlet.

Yet it could not hold it all, nor stop draining, once it started. The sword would quickly be overwhelmed, and self-destruct. It was a final resort, to be used only if both were about to fall into the hands of foes ...

The dark malevolence raking at his mind lurched to an astonished halt. Not at what Tarram had just learned, but in surprise at something else, something over there in his memories.

Yes, Mahalagris had been reading his memories at the same time as he'd been plunged into the wizard's. Something the undead mage had just learned had staggered him.

In the dark warm passages of his own mind, Tarram turned toward that bright and quivering amazement, to see what had so astonished the fell wizard.

Only to watch his much younger self stealing the mask that had so dominated his life from Araungras Karm.

Karm! Mahalagris whirled around inside Tarram's mind, turning to directly confront Tarram, to glare at him, to rush at him and thunder, WHERE IS KARM?

That mental shout almost set Tarram's mind afire. Sizzling and half-blinded, he recoiled, flinching back, trying to mentally fend off a killing blow.

A blow that did not come.

Two burning eyes pursued him through his mind as he fled. Mahalagris was relentless. The wizard wanted Tarram dead, all right, and soon—but not until he'd learned all he could about Karm, to make hunting down the traitorous apprentice as easy as possible. No, the masked man was now a captive to be handled with exacting care, tracing from one memory to the next ...

Tarram dodged behind a mental image—the wizard's, not his—of peeling back the layers of an onion more purplish than any onion he'd ever handled, and peered deeper into Mahalagris's. There had been something more about the gauntlet, something tied to an old, ever-present puzzlement ...

Luraumadar.

That was it!

Luraumadar, the word the mask had repeatedly whispered into his mind, down all the years he'd had it—it was the command word for the gauntlet, the magical key to unlock the rest of its abilities!

It would let him do things with it that it hadn't shown him, magical powers that a moment ago he'd had no inkling it possessed.

Things like controlling the Whispering Blade.

My blade?

That was Mahalagris, astonished anew, and furious, boring through Tarram's mind. Then he departed, so abruptly that Tarram was left dazed, drenched in sweat and shaking. The wizard, that great fell heavy darkness worming its way through his thoughts, was suddenly gone—out of Tarram's head and thrusting him away with impatient arms, scrambling free of him to work a swift spell.

Tarram heard his partner curse, an oath that rose into a despairing snarl. Before he could turn to see what the wizard's magic had done to her, he saw its results.

The Whispering Blade came hurtling hilt-first through the air, into the wizard's hands.

With a cold smile of triumph, Mahalagris wrapped both hands around its hilt, swung it back, and turned to look at Tarram.

There was death in that stare.

Preserve the mind, the blade whispered, but limbs are expendable ...

Tarram smiled back. "Luraumadar," he said firmly, and clapped his mask back onto his face. It lit up like a pillar of fire.

The gauntlet blazed up to match it; he heard Tantaerra's gasp of astonishment, but kept his gaze on Mahalagris.

If the undead wizard could just indulge him by being as arrogant and stubborn as most spellcasters were, for just a few moments ...

Tarram bent his will, and the Whispering Blade flew. It almost tore itself out of the wizard's grasp, but Mahalagris sneered and hung on tighter.

Tarram sent the sword streaking into the largest boulder in the heap. There was a ringing clang, sparks flew, and the body Mahalagris had borrowed thudded into the rocks. Tarram swept the sword away into the air, the dazed wizard's body still clinging to it, then dashed it against another rock. He refused to give Mahalagris time to think. Again against unyielding stone, and again, bones shattering, Mahalagris crying out now, trying to form words with a smashed mouth.

Tarram brought the Whispering Blade to a hovering halt, and started the draining.

As the gauntlet's power rushed into it, the sword went from angry whispering to exulting gasps, a gleeful song arising from it. The slumped, broken man clinging to it lifted his head, visibly healing as a golden-white radiance erupted from the Whispering Blade and washed over him.

He was healing and growing, getting larger, a surprised and delighted smile spreading across his face. His eyes lost all pain and danced in excitement. He looked down at the masked man gloatingly as a golden-white aura grew to surround him, flickering brighter ...and brighter ...

A strap parted, and then a belt, Mahalagris's clothes falling away as he grew. The wizard didn't seem to notice, or to care.

Tarram sidestepped and backed away until he stood between the growing spellcaster and Tantaerra, and could put one hand behind his back and wave at her to get away.

He backed away himself as he made that gesture. Mahalagris was eight or nine feet tall now, his eyes flaring into golden-white flame. The wizard threw back his head and laughed, opening his arms wide. Tiny lightnings crackled around his fingertips. He was alive with power.

Tarram moved the hovering sword carefully, lifting Mahalagris off the ground slowly as a feather lifted by the gentlest of breezes.

"Ride the wind," he whispered, as if in blessing, and watched the wizard in the body of the unfortunate, mind-dead Molthuni rise into the sky, a tiny sun ascending to challenge the moon.

"Tarram Armistrade," Tantaerra said quietly from behind him, "you had better know what you're doing."

"You," he murmured, his eyes fixed on the now tiny figure, aloft amid its glowing nimbus of magic, "had better hope I do, halfling princess."

The explosion seared their eyes. Its thunder rocked the landscape, echoes rolling away across the hills to rebound off the Mindspin Mountains.

The magical backlash of the blast raced right after that echo, lifting Tarram Armistrade off his feet. He had just time to turn in midair and see dweomercats sprinting away into the distance and his halfling partner dashed to the ground in front of him. Then the magical shock of the destruction of the Whispering Blade reached the mask, and snatched all Golarion away.

∗ ∗ ∗

Luraumadar, Luraumadar, Luraumadar the mask shouted in Tarram's mind, driving him up out of darkness. The strong smell of roast boar was in his nostrils, and there were armored Molthuni warriors bending over him, half a dozen lance tips hovering near his throat.

"I'm a Lord Investigator of Molthune," he croaked.

The nearest Molthuni sneered. "And I'm a dancing pleasure-girl of the Savored Sting. Now, you're going to tell me what that mask is you're wearing, and why it's glowing—and we won't hesitate to nail your throat to the turf with lances if you try anyth—"

Tarram didn't hesitate, either. Through the mask, he could feel that the Fearsome Gauntlet still had most of its abilities; the Whispering Blade had been overloaded and destroyed long before it could drain the gauntlet entirely. He awakened the gauntlet now, using its simplest ramming blow to dash aside the lance tips.

He rolled hard to the left, to wrap himself around the ankles of a Molthuni and topple that soldier over. The smell of cooked boar seemed to be clinging to him.

Tarram kept rolling, up to his feet and into a sprint that took him out of the ring of Molthuni. He could hear them pounding right after him, and kept dodging to keep any thrown lances from biting home.

He ran through the grass in a wide circle, knowing he had to get back to Tantaerra—and because doing so should give him a good look at all of his pursuers, strung out in his wake. His targets.

A soldier at the rear of the chase wasn't running at all, but rather mounting his horse, probably having realized that a man on a galloping horse can easily run down a fugitive on foot. Tarram called on the gauntlet through its link with the mask and punched that soldier ruthlessly in the throat. The man's head lolled loosely on a broken neck as he bounced off his startled horse, making it rear and bolt.

The gauntlet was still on Tantaerra's arm, as she lay sprawled and senseless. As he aimed the gauntlet to slam into the throat of his closest pursuer, Tarram saw his commands were making the gauntlet lift his partner's limp arm and move it about, the glove towing and turning it.

His chosen target was close behind him, panting and jabbing the air with his spear, trying to stick it into Tarram's back or behind, but not quite close enough yet.

Tarram didn't hesitate. After all, it was his and Tantaerra's lives or those of these—gods!—twenty-some Molthuni.

That closest soldier was abruptly smashed aside, landing like a heavy sack, felled by the empty air.

The next closest Molthuni soon joined him, throat crushed and neck broken, another heavily thudding heap in the grass.

Followed by another, as Tarram grimly went on using the gauntlet, stumbling on in his circling run, heading back to Tantaerra now, his wind almost gone.

Molthune may have more soldiers than I can count, but I have a Fearsome Gauntlet.

The patrol's horses stood watching as the running men came back toward them. A few pawed the ground, but most were stolidly accepting of the loud idiocies of human riders, and merely gazed placidly as Molthuni after Molthuni jerked back into sudden falls and lay still.

"Madness!" a soldiers shouted, realizing his superiors were all down and dead. "We need reinforcements!"

"Archers!" another agreed, and the pursuit of the masked man became a general rush back to the horses, the wide circle collapsing into a flood of men heading straight for their mounts.

"Magic to fight magic!" another Molthuni panted, as men sprang into their saddles and spurred hurriedly away.

Tarram crouched low to confound any last-second spear casts, but none came. Freed of their officers, the Molthuni were in haste not to fight, but to gallop back to Braganza.

Tarram watched them go, feeling much better. Now that all echoes of the stunning lash of the wizard's destruction were done, he felt alert and stronger. Using the gauntlet seemed to have driven away his dazedness and a lot of his aches and pains, too.

He looked at Tantaerra, sprawled and senseless. Could it do the same for her?

He bent over her and concentrated on the gauntlet, trying to get it to leak just a little power into her. Enough to invigorate, not sear or harm.

The gauntlet on her hand pulsed with light, then rippled.

Yes. Envisage that bright white light, lapping rather than flowing or rushing, creeping ...

The halfling stiffened, and her eyes flew open.

And fixed on him with blazing anger.

"What are you trying?" she snapped. "I felt it! This—this violation you're—"

Furiously she pointed the gage at him. Tarram could feel that she was trying to slap him away, to sunder his link with it, but if that dread bolt struck him ...

He overrode her, and saw the horror dawn on her face as she realized she couldn't break his control.

Frantically Tantaerra tried to snatch the gauntlet off, fumbling because her stump lacked fingers to grasp it.

Tarram hastily snatched off his mask and let it fall, breaking contact. The reek of cooked meat grew suddenly stronger.

"I—I was only trying to help," he told her, sudden tears spilling from him as he saw the look on her face. "I'm sorry. I ...I did not mean to give offense."

Tantaerra's glare had fallen into open-mouthed, dumbfounded revulsion. She screamed now, loud and long and raw, as she scrambled up and ran wildly away.

The Masked bent to pick up the mask. He could put it on and stop her, through the gauntlet ...

Then he straightened, wearily, without touching the mask. And stood watching his partner flee.

∗ ∗ ∗

Breath failed Tantaerra, and she stumbled in mid-sprint and almost fell. Catching her balance by staggering almost to a stop, she fought down her fear.

He had used her—had crept into the gauntlet—her body—without her permission. Had used her to kill soldier after soldier.

And look what that cursed mask of his 403

had done to him. It had melted away the ragged cloth undermask beneath it, and all the underlying skin, too. His freshly ruined face was now two eyes—one of them protruding, almost dangling, on a stalk of muscle—a hole where his nose should be, and a lipless ruin of a mouth, in a glisteningly smooth nightmare of crawling veins.

The backlash of the sword exploding had probably done it. Not that knowing that made him look any better.

Fearfully Tantaerra looked over her shoulder.

The Masked—the Unmasked?—was standing dejectedly alone in the trodden grass. She saw him bend over, slowly pick up the mask, put it on with obvious reluctance—then fling up his hands in horror, and clutch at his head with both hands.

Frightened anew, she started to run again.

Away, just away ...

Chapter Twenty

In the House of Telcanor

She ran out of wind again, staggered, and fell.

Tantaerra got up, shaking her head. She was fleeing to she knew not where, trying to run from the vivid image that would not, would not go away.

Tarram Armistrade was a monster. Truly a thing. He'd tried to control her again, to enslave her. In the end, he was just like everyone else.

Yet with every step her resolve and strength ebbed, and her anger and horror too, until she stopped, turned around, and looked back.

The Masked was still standing there, a tiny figure in the distance. Alone, his hands empty.

Tiny. Alone. Empty.

Just like her.

Tantaerra drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Then she gathered her courage and started the long, long walk back to him.

∗ ∗ ∗

"Tarram," she began, to his unmoving back. "I...I'm sorry. I reacted poorly."

The Masked stood like a statue, facing away from her, looking out over the rolling hills of Molthune. She waited, but he said nothing.

"I'm sorry," she said again, hesitantly walking around to face him. Forcing herself to walk close to him, to reach up her hand to his.

"I should have trusted you," she whispered, finding herself again on the verge of tears. "After all we've been through, after what you've done for me ...I should trust you."

She reached for his hand.

He did not take it, but merely looked at it, his face unreadable again behind the mask. Not that there was much of it left to read if it had been bare.

"But you didn't." he said softly.

Tantaerra felt tears begin to leak down her face. "No, I didn't." She gripped his hand. "But I can learn."

The Masked looked down at her, blank. At last, with a great sigh, he hauled her up into his arms. "I'm sorry, Princess Tantaerra. I'm used to working alone. I shouldn't have tried to control you. Not even to help you."

Tantaerra nodded, but their heads were so close to his that she merely bumped his chin.

"I forgive you," she said, "if you'll forgive me. Will...will you take your mask off now?"

"You don't really want to see that, do you?" he asked.

"No," she admitted. "But maybe it's time we both started getting used to it."

Tarram held her silently for a long time, then told the darkening sky, "Well, this is awkward."

"Agreed," Tantaerra said. "So will you unmask?"

Tarram sighed again. "In time. Not now. I don't think Braganza is ready for what my face looks like—and neither are you, just now. Later, when we've both eaten and stepped past worry and danger, and you're bored again and back to carving me with your tongue. Then it will be time."

"I don't carve—well, I do, don't I?"

Tarram laughed. "You do. You most certainly do. And the mask stays on."

Tantaerra found herself chuckling as well. "Then put me down, please. I've been humbled enough."

Tarram Armistrade set Tantaerra gently on her feet, and bent over so they could hold hands.

They walked on together.

∗ ∗ ∗

Silence had fallen between them, but it was an easy, companionable silence again.

They walked and walked, through the now still and deserted night. It was getting darker as the moon sank low and clouds stole in, heading for the handful of lights on the horizon.

Lights that seemed somehow to have very quickly multiplied, atop walls and towers looming over them in the night.

"Braganza," her masked partner pointed out, unnecessarily.

In reply, Tantaerra waved her hand back behind them. "The inevitable pursuit," she said dryly. Then she pointed at the gates ahead. "And the inevitable armed welcome."

The Masked chuckled mirthlessly. "Let's get this over with."

"Let's," Tantaerra agreed.

The gates were closed and guarded, and in response to the sharp challenge, they demanded entrance in the name of the General Lords.

This met with the usual disbelief, but The Masked merely took a confident step forward, drew himself up to his full height, and waited in expectant silence. Tantaerra stole a quick glance at him, then did the same.

After a few cold, slow breaths of waiting, toe to toe with the commander of the guard, one of the other guards rather doubtfully pointed out, "There're only two of them. Once they're through the foregate, we have them penned, and can find out what they're really up to."

The commander wasn't about to verbally retreat from the cold refusal he'd just given, but nodded curtly. The foregate opened.

Tantaerra and The Masked were ushered into sixty feet or so of cobbled passage between the foregate and the still-closed inner gate, the massive stones of the gate-keep all around and above them, complete with firing ports everywhere.

As the foregate started to creak closed, an armored Molthuni rode up out of the night, yelling, "Stop them! Stop them! That explosion? They did that! Stop them before—"

With a grim smile, Tantaerra pointed a finger of the Fearsome Gauntlet, and smashed the man into silence.

Then she whirled at the thunder of onrushing boots, to blast down the gate guards charging from the inner gate—but The Masked hissed, "Trust me" into her ear, put his hand on the gauntlet, and snarled, "Luraumadar!"

A racing wave of magic flashed out of the magical gage. It shook Tantaerra and her partner, numbing their very teeth—but the onrushing guards fell or stumbled dazedly along the walls, then dropped to the ground. Unseen weapons clattered behind walls, and an arm appeared through one of the firing ports overhead, dangling limply.

Eerie silence fell.

Beyond the unconscious guards, the inner gate stood ajar. Tantaerra and her partner peered through it.

More silence, and no one to be seen. Cautiously they ducked through it, into Braganza. They were met by cartwheels rumbling, some echoing footfalls, and the smaller sounds of a large city largely asleep.

A door stood open, near at hand. The Masked peered into the room beyond, then stepped into it. Frowning, Tantaerra followed.

It was a guardroom, empty of people. A lit storm-lantern on the table showed them a chair overturned, among several chairs arranged around a table strewn with cards and dice, oiled rags, and whetstones. Through another open doorway they could see light—and smell food.

Boar stew, steaming in bowls on a table where men sat slumped and silent, with tankards of what looked like small beer, and handloaves of hardbread. No one in the bunkroom moved, save for quiet snores.

Suddenly ravenous, Tantaerra and The Masked rushed to the table and ate, Tantaerra taking up a great jug of beer and pouring it slowly down her throat in delight.

The belch that tore out of her after her last swallow was thunderous, and her partner's flat stare set her to giggling. He shook his head. "The gauntlet didn't kill them, you know. We don't have long."

Tantaerra promptly snatched up a full bowl and spoon, and muttered, "So eat and walk, masked man. Eat and walk."

She headed for the door, and her partner swiftly drained a handy tankard and claimed his own bowl.

∗ ∗ ∗

Night-shrouded Braganza wasn't as asleep as they'd first thought. The distant explosion had roused many, and the Watchguards on duty were concerned and frowningly alert, but no hue and cry was raised for two figures striding purposefully along with no trace of furtiveness. And what sort of thief strides the streets eating stew?

Tantaerra was almost done when they arrived at the great door of the soaring stone mansion of Lord Krzonstal Telcanor. The house guards stirred at their approach, readying weapons.

"Yes?" the guard commander snapped coldly, as The Masked strode up.

"Lord Telcanor bade us speak to him the moment we returned to Braganza," Armistrade snapped right back.

"You can wait until morning, whoever you are," the commander said flatly, eyes flickering as he took in the bowls and spoons—and the halfling. "He's asleep, and I'm not waking him."

"I'll be needing your name, then," The Masked told him calmly. "So the General Lords know who to punish. Lord Telcanor may, of course, not wait for whatever Canorate may want to do to you. He may want to appease them by doing it to you first."

The commander frowned and stepped back, making a hand-signal. In response, a row of gleaming spears were leveled to menace them.

"Well," Tantaerra murmured, "you tried. Some things never change."

"Aid, here!" the commander barked sharply, as boots scraped the cobbles behind her.

A Watchguard patrol had come by.

She and The Masked both risked looks over their shoulders, and were treated to the sight of competent-looking Watchswords spreading out carefully to block their escape.

"Your names and lawful business," the Watchguard patrol leader demanded in almost bored tones, advancing on them from behind.

By way of reply, Tantaerra whirled and flung her empty bowl into his face. The Masked threw his—still laden with enough stew to make it stick to the man's face—at a hulking Watchsword right behind the patrol leader.

There was a general roar and charge.

"You down, but Gauntlet up," The Masked told her firmly in the midst of the din, going to the street and dragging her down with him.

The gauntlet flashed under his direction, his mask echoing that burst of light—and charging Molthuni fell on their faces in a great clattering of spears and clanging of armor.

Followed by ...silence.

Tantaerra looked all around. House guards and Watchswords alike had fallen, slumped and silent.

"Was it something I said?" she joked, as Tarram hauled her to her feet and headed for the front door of the Telcanor mansion.

A lone night porter was standing between the two grand rows of show armor and looking bored when they stepped inside, but he was so astonished to see a female halfling in his entrance hall that he actually bent down to peer at her.

The uppercut Tantaerra delivered snapped him right back into The Masked's roundhouse punch. It knocked him cold, but he wavered on his feet just long enough for Tarram to catch him and slow his journey to the floor into something near silent.

"The Lord might be asleep, but I'm thinking he's far more likely to be two floors up," The Masked commented. "In that audience chamber of his."

Tantaerra smiled crookedly. "Front stairs, or back?"

"Back. Fewer people for us to fight, or who can raise the alarm before we can get to them. Oh, and we leave the gauntlet here."

"And you were made Imperial Governor when, exactly? No, seriously, Tarram, I agree about the back way, but why stash the gauntlet? And where's 'here,' exactly?"

"With this," The Masked told her, tapping his mask, "I can call on its powers without them seeing it on one of us—the one of us who'll immediately be the target for anything they can hurl. And 'here' is ...here."

He tapped the closed helm of the nearest suit of armor.

Tantaerra looked up and down the two impressively gleaming rows, pivoted to scan the hall and make sure no second servant was peering at them from anywhere, and asked, "What if they're enchanted? The armor, I mean. Then they can go prancing off anywhere, the gauntlet with them, and we're beyond roasted."

Her partner pointed. "Animated? With that many bolts holding them to those frames to keep them upright? Hardly."

"I am convinced," she granted, and surrendered the Fearsome Gauntlet. In a trice The Masked put it inside the helm, lowered the visor again, and stepped away. No trace of it could be seen.

"Right," she sighed. "Off we go to what's almost certainly going to be a rather unpleasant meeting. He'll try to trick us."

"He'll try to kill us," The Masked replied. "No one's succeeded yet."

"It only takes one success," she muttered back. "Lead on, Masked Fool."

He grinned, and did so.

∗ ∗ ∗

Around them, the House of Telcanor was dark and silent. They tried to keep it that way.

They saw no servants along the route they took through the vast mansion, and although they weren't certain exactly where the upper passage they ended up in gave into the rear of the audience chamber, they needn't have worried. Long before they reached it, they could see light, and hear voices and the trudge and scrape of many booted feet moving about.

As soon as he saw the open door the light was spilling through, The Masked stepped to the side of the passage and stood to attention against the wall, like a guard. Tantaerra joined him, and followed as he sidestepped his way along that stretch of the passage.

By the time they reached the doorway, they could hear that someone was angry. Someone confident, male, and not young.

The audience chamber was ablaze with light. Lord Krzonstal Telcanor stood inside, fully dressed and with a large metal goblet in his hand, looking grim. So did the handful of his guards who stood with him.

Striding back and forth before them was the owner of the angry voice: the advisor Tartesper.

"I've just come from the Bailiff of Braganza, who is...upset. He and Lord Cole Ravnagask are suspicious that the rival houses of Mereir and Telcanor might have some involvement with the recent explosion not far outside the city walls. We must be very careful to do nothing in the days ahead that might add to their suspicions."

Lord Telcanor shrugged. "They seem suspicious of everything I do. Shall I take up gardening, perhaps? Or will they think that a mere cover for burying inconvenient bodies, or some such?"

At that moment, two guards turned a corner in the distance, and came along the passage. They saw Tantaerra and The Masked listening at the open door, shouted, and snatched out their weapons.

The Masked strode through the doorway into the audience chamber as if it were his own. Tantaerra hastened to follow.

Lord Krzonstal Telcanor gaped at them, then smiled in triumph and told his advisor, "Behold! The two investigators from the General Lords I persuaded to undertake a certain mission for the glory of Braganza!"

"I do recall, Lord. Yet I look upon them now, and see no Fearsome Gauntlet."

Telcanor winced, then glared at Tantaerra and her partner. "Well? Did you recover it?"

Tantaerra glared back. "We have not. Yet."

"Yet you dare to return? You're traitors! You must have been merely posing as investigators reporting to the General Lords. Guards, kill them!"

"No, Lord!" Tartesper snapped. "These two alive protect your neck! These two dead will be dismissed as mere fabrication on your part! They must be taken to the Bailiff for questioning!"

The guards hesitated, swords half-out, and looked to their master.

Who sighed and said reluctantly, "Tartesper, you are right. As always." He waved his guards back.

Whereupon the advisor confronted Tantaerra and The Masked. "The time has come," he told them coldly, "for you to tell us who you truly are."

"Lord Investigators, reporting directly to the General Lords," Armistrade said boldly.

Tartesper shook his head, his disbelief clear, then asked quietly, "Tell me: what sleeps beneath the white tomb?"

"The greatest secret in Canorate," The Masked told him promptly.

The advisor lifted an eyebrow.

"What gate does the black key unlock?"

"The gate to Molthune's heart."

"Who was the seventh?"

Tarram's answer came a shade more slowly this time. "The Red Dragon."

Tartesper sneered at him. "A clever thief may buy or overhear one pass-phrase, or even two, but I've not found one yet cleverer than me."

He looked at Lord Telcanor. "They're no 'Lord Investigators.'"

Then he turned to the Telcanor bodyguards, and ordered, "Disarm and arrest them."

"I'd not try that, if I were you," The Masked warned, backing toward the east wall and drawing a dagger. Tantaerra moved with him, wishing she still had two hands so she could have two daggers right now.

Unimpressed, the guards drew swords and advanced.

"Keep back," The Masked warned them calmly.

One sneered, and none of them paused in their menacing advance.

Tantaerra saw her partner's mask flash; he'd called on the gauntlet. A moment later, with a sound like parchment tearing, only as loud as thunder, a rift opened across the floor of the audience chamber.

And swiftly widened, amid rumblings that grew louder and louder.

Some lamps below exploded like shattered stars as ceilings fell and walls crumpled. Several floors beneath the audience chamber were collapsing into a chasm.

Three of the bodyguards fell into the gulf with startled shouts, tumbling down through torn timbers, falling wall stones, and plaster dust. The others scrambled back from the edge of the rift.

"My home!" Lord Telcanor howled, his goblet falling forgotten from his hand to bounce on the floor, ringing like a bell—until it fell into the rift, and was lost in the widening destruction below. He swelled up in fury and pointed across the gulf at Tantaerra and her partner as if his fingers could stab them across half a room. "Arrest them!" he bellowed, "and break their arms and legs! They don't need to be able to run and fight to answer the Bailiff of Braganza!"

The Masked's mask flashed again.

One wall of the audience chamber tore open from top to bottom, leaving the room open to the night. As Lord Telcanor gaped in disbelief, a cool breeze wafted in.

Through the gap, another wing of the mansion could be seen across a courtyard, soaring and grand in the light of its many lanterns.

"It would be unwise to continue to demand such things, Lord Telcanor," The Masked told their shaken host, and pointed at that grand wing of Telcanor House.

It promptly groaned, shed a few roof slates, then slowly, but with a quickening, growing thunder, leaned forward and collapsed before their eyes, a huge swath of its front wall falling into the courtyard.

Leaving five floors of rooms torn open to the air—and Lord Telcanor aghast and in tears.

"We can kill everyone, and destroy Braganza, if we must," Tantaerra informed the Telcanors on the far side of the wide chasm that now stretched from one end of the audience chamber to the other. "Don't force us to do so."

She shot a look at her partner, lifted her hand to shield her face, and behind it hissed, "How did you do all this?"

"Badly built, this place," he muttered back. "Make the right pillar vanish, and all the rest follows."

The advisor hurled a spell at them, shouting, "Abadar demands your destruction!"

Purple flames roared out of nothingness to sear Tantaerra and her partner—but vanished right in front of their noses, leaving them standing unscathed.

"Abadar does nothing of the sort," The Masked retorted. "Just as you're no priest, of Abadar or anyone else!"

He lifted his hand, and the Fearsome Gauntlet rose into view, up through the chasm.

The advisor swiftly snapped out another magic.

Tarram Armistrade smiled. The mask pulsed, the gauntlet drank the advisor's spell—and went dark. It shuddered in midair, and with an audible groan cracked from one end to the other.

As its fragments started to fall, Tantaerra shot a look at her partner. He stared back at her, aghast.

They fled for the back passage door together.

The advisor hurled another spell after them, but succeeded only in blasting down the door and the wall that framed it. The flying fragments of that blast crushed the foremost bodyguards, who'd taken another door out into the passage to get around the rift and reach The Masked and Tantaerra, spattering the passage walls with gore.

"After them!" Lord Telcanor bellowed, his voice terrible with wrath. "Kill them!"

His surviving bodyguards hesitated for a moment, but he ran out into the passage after them, his eyes ablaze with fury.

Not waiting for him to catch up, they resumed the chase.

Too enraged to fear for his own safety, their master followed. They pounded past the smeared bodies of the fallen guards and along the passage, where Lord Telcanor flung open the door of his treasury and roared at the duty guards inside to join him, so loudly that they flinched back.

They rushed out into the passage, and their master led them, following Tantaerra and The Masked, pelting down the back stair, where—

Lord Krzonstal Telcanor came to an abrupt halt, to gawk at carnage.

The staircase below him was choked with the broken bodies of his guards. Just in time, he saw their doom and his peril—as long, wormlike arms reached down from the sloping underside of the stair, seeking to rend.

A tentacled monster was clinging to the ceiling above him, reaching for them.

Telcanor and his guards stumbled hastily back up a few steps, out of reach, as the tentacled monster clinging to the ceiling grabbed at them.

Below them on a landing, Tantaerra and Tarram put their backs to the wall.

"It's Voyvik!" Tantaerra shouted unnecessarily. "Use the mask, or something!"

Next to her, The Masked spread his hands helplessly.

Then a door on another landing opened, and blue bolts of magic streaked out, missiles that swept up and unerringly into the monster.

The terrified Lord Telcanor sobbed and clawed his way back a few steps higher.

The tentacled monster convulsed, writhing in pain. Another volley of magical missiles raced from behind the door to smite it, and it shuddered and shrank back—but when the blue radiance faded, the weakened, maddened creature reached out again angrily.

Its tentacles still couldn't reach either Lord Telcanor and his guards or Tantaerra and her partner. After straining to do so several times, they flailed about in frustration.

Then the thing of tentacles began to slowly descend the wall, moving as if it was in great pain, heading for the door where Tantaerra crouched.

"Ah, yes," came a sardonic comment from the other doorway on the landing. "That's the problem with letting the ignorant play with magic. They don't know what they're doing. Or when, for instance, they'll expend the last of an item's power. The gauntlet was a wonderful thing—but not endless."

It was Telcanor's advisor Tartesper, but his face and body were ...changing. He looked more and more different with every step he took, as he strolled out onto the landing and gave Tantaerra an unpleasant smile.

She stared at him. "Karm?"

"Who else?" he replied smugly. He now looked exactly as he had when meeting Voyvik in the forest. "It's a shame that Voyvik was unable to complete his mission, but now here you are—and with my mask, I see. How convenient."

He peered up the stair at Lord Telcanor. "So, Krzonstal, would you care to negotiate your rescue? At a price of, say, half your Braganzan properties? Fitting hire, I'd judge, for your staunch new ally, the most powerful wizard in Molthune."

"Who's that?" Telcanor snapped warily.

Karm's smile vanished. "Me. I can save you—but I've no interest in prolonging the lives of headstrong fools. Or the indecisive. So make your mind up. Now."

There came a thunder of booted feet from below. All eyes turned down the stair. A door had opened at the very bottom, and a handful of Telcanor house guards had come through it. Looking up the stair, they drew their swords.

Karm regarded them calmly, then glanced at Tantaerra and The Masked.

"Now, Lord Telcanor," he repeated.

Tantaerra stealthily raised her dagger to throw at Karm, but as the blade moved, she saw the air between it and the wizard start to glow and swirl. He was not unprotected against such attacks.

Karm gave her a coldly triumphant smile. "I've never much liked halflings," he announced, raising his hands to weave a spell.

Behind him, the monster on the wall gathered its tentacles under itself and launched itself at him.

Tantaerra sprang desperately aside. Karm's smile widened as he watched her.

He was still smiling when the monster hit him.

He staggered, tentacles flailing at him, tearing and rending. Karm got his spell off, his magical missiles gutting the falling beast even as his hands were dashed down by its descending bulk—but its tentacles were already wrapped around his body, and in its agony it tore him apart. One wrenched his head around sideways with a crack, others tore off hands or fingers still glowing blue—and then the great bulk came down on the wizard's body with a wet thud.

Tentacles lashed and quivered, then started to change.

Before their eyes, the tentacled monster shrank back into a broken-limbed, sprawled Orivin Voyvik.

The Nirmathi laughed weakly. "I guess this was what Mahalagris really wanted all along."

Tantaerra advanced on him, her dagger ready, but the Nirmathi gave her a crooked smile. "I'm no harm to you, little heroine," he gasped, through bubbling blood. "I'm dying. If you haven't noticed." He shuddered, blood running freely from his nose and mouth now. "Dying with honor, at least."

"Oh?" she asked warily, as The Masked, dagger drawn, came to stand protectively beside her.

"I betrayed my country by taking Karm's pay," Voyvik gasped. "I thought I could bring him to our side. Get him to use the gauntlet to end the war. But it doesn't matter now. I've cleaned up my mess. I can die a true Nirmathi."

"You can," The Masked agreed firmly.

Voyvik managed a bloody smile. "Nirmathas forever!" he shouted.

And died.

Tantaerra looked at his staring eyes and the blood still running from his slack mouth. Shivering, she shook her head and turned away—only to catch sight of Karm's face. The wizard's eyes were still moving, though his twitching lips made no sound. He was still alive!

Well, she could do something about that. Her dagger flashed down, again and again.

The Masked let out a startled shout behind her—half astonished, half delighted. Tantaerra looked up, wiping gore from her eyes.

Tarram Armistrade was holding out his mask, his nightmare of a face clear for all to see. The mask was crumbling, little glows flaring and fading all over it, darkening as the mask itself darkened.

"Look!" he cried delightedly, waving it at Tantaerra. "Karm must have bound this to himself, somehow! It's dying with him!"

The mask crumbled away into dust, and the man who'd worn it for so long threw back his head and roared out incoherent exultation.

Happily, Tantaerra collapsed, falling into waiting oblivion.

∗ ∗ ∗

Tarram hastened out the front door of Telcanor House with Tantaerra in his arms, and hastily peered up and down the street. Telcanor's guards had been too stunned to react as he'd barreled through them, but that wouldn't last for long. And with all the noise he'd made destroying parts of Lord Telcanor's mansion, he could hardly dare hope that no one else in Braganza had—

Oh, they'd heard, all right. What looked like most of the garrison of Braganza was hastening down the street right now, lanterns swinging in their haste. Some of them had been roused in such a hurry that they'd forgotten the spears they loved so much.

Tarram drew back against the wall and looked around for cover. Some of the rubble had fallen clear across the street, and there was a huge heap of it flanking the door, where part of the front wall of the grand house had collapsed outward. Builders, these days ...

He ducked behind it, stretched himself out on the ground with the unconscious halfling in his arms, and played dead.

From under his arm, peering out beneath his eyelids, he could see the mountainous armored form of Onstal Zreem hastening along the street, at the head of what seemed like a small army of Braganzan soldiers.

Zreem peered up at the devastation, shook his head, strode up to the open front door—and was almost bowled over by a wild-eyed Telcanor house guard who came sprinting out of the ruined mansion.

"What's happened here?" the giant bodyguard demanded sharply, catching hold of the panting and terrified Telcanor and halting him effortlessly in mid-run.

"We're ...all doomed!" the guard panted. "Tentacled thing! Everyone dead! Halfling and man in a mask—magic—hurled down half the mansion!"

He tore free of Zreem's grip and fled out into the night, right past the astonished soldiers.

"Well, now," Zreem growled, waving an imperious hand for the soldiers to follow him as he stepped inside. They did, all sixty-some of them.

Halfway through that procession of clanking men and swinging lanterns, Tantaerra came to and quietly slapped her way free of Tarram's grasp. "We need to get back inside!"

"What?!" The Masked whispered incredulously.

"I have to see what happens," she whispered back.

Tarram stared back at her. Then his horror of a face twisted in a grin. "We could join those soldiers as a rearguard."

"Yes!" she agreed, and they did, keeping to the shadows behind the tail end of the procession. The bodyguard led the way warily, calling for Lord Telcanor from time to time and finding the occasional bewildered servant. It took some time of crossing grand chambers and shattered ones, dim in the waning moonlight, but eventually they came upon a few house guards standing on a body-strewn stair comforting the terrified Lord Telcanor, who sat huddled on a step, staring at the darkness with terrified eyes.

"Zreem?" he asked, almost disbelievingly.

The bodyguard looked down at the humbled man on the steps. "Well, Lord," he said rather disapprovingly, "you give me the night off, and I return to find your house in some disrepair. You might have told me you were contemplating redecorating."

He turned to look at the soldiers behind him—and his eyes immediately locked on Tantaerra and The Masked, staring straight through the concealing shadows. "I see your Lord Investigators have returned as well," he added dryly. "I hope you gave them a suitable welcome."

Lord Telcanor covered his face with his hands and collapsed into sobs.

∗ ∗ ∗

It was a bright and breezy day, and the unmarred guest bedchamber high in the Telcanor manor looked grand.

Onstal Zreem had firmly closed the door and ordered the soldiers outside to take themselves out of earshot.

Then he'd turned back to the man with the ruined face and the halfling with one hand, and ordered them to tell him everything.

Tantaerra could tell he knew he'd get far from that, but in the end, he seemed satisfied with what he'd heard.

She held up the rings they'd taken from the Shattered Tomb, hoping they'd be payment enough for a priest of Braganza to restore her missing hand.

Zreem gave the gems a wry smile. "These are pretty finger adornments, not magic. Nor are the stones worth more than the cost of a few good meals."

Wordlessly Tarram handed the giant a few blackened pieces of the gauntlet he'd found, but Zreem handed them right back.

"Very little magic left there," he said. "You didn't take very good care of it."

He peered at Tantaerra's exposed stump and rubbed his chin. "Not much magic—but maybe enough. Get the pieces you've got reforged, and resized in the doing, and it might make a handsome replacement, jointed and mated to your tendons so it can hold things at your bidding. It'll be expensive; I hope you've saved your coins."

"We—" Tarram blurted out, then ran out of words.

The man-mountain of a bodyguard favored him with a calm, cold gaze, and waited.

Tarram chose his words carefully. "We slew a dangerous monster, we killed Mahalagris and his traitorous apprentice ... we saved this city."

"Did you?" Zreem asked coldly.

The silence that followed was long and tense. The bodyguard broke it almost gently. "Don't push, Tarram Armistrade. In case you haven't noticed, the powerful push back."

Tarram opened his mouth to reply, then slumped down dejectedly, not knowing what to say.

"However," Zreem continued, "what I told you about spells that would kill you if you abandoned your mission, back when you rode out of Braganza? An utter lie. And with Tartesper gone, there's no one left to twist it into truth."

"Why are you telling us this?" Tantaerra demanded. "You're Telcanor's bodyguard!"

To her surprise, the big man smiled.

"Am I?" he asked. "Then I suppose I'd best go find his body."

With that he turned and left the room, leaving Tarram and Tantaerra staring astonished at the closed door.

∗ ∗ ∗

Tantaerra held her new metal hand up to the light. It would take a while to learn to control it, and her forearm ached with the unaccustomed weight and effort, but ...she had a hand again!

She waggled her fingers. They clattered, just a little. She'd have to steal some oil.

Or, no, they could buy some, now. The smith and priests who'd crafted it had taken most of their reward money, but they still had a bit left over.

Laden with food, Tarram couldn't see her waggling her fingers.

Poor Tarram. With Mahalagris and Karm both dead, the curse might well be broken, but the damage it had done remained. She'd wanted to try getting his face healed by the priests, but there had only been enough money to fix one of their disfigurements, and he'd insisted that she be first. After all, he said, they could earn—or steal—the rest of the money they needed faster with four hands than three.

"There remains," he was saying, "the prudent matter of getting out of Braganza before the Bailiff can have all his guards find us and flay us alive, or whatever is customarily done to people who falsely claim to be investigators working for the General Lords."

"I'm sure you'll think of something," Tantaerra replied happily. "Then we can—"

She stopped abruptly.

A familiar looming armored figure was blocking their way, leaning casually against the frame of the doorway they'd been heading for, massive arms folded across an even larger chest.

"One task remains," Onstal Zreem told them calmly. "There's something I need from you."

Tantaerra felt her stomach drop. She'd known it was too good to be true—the reward, the exoneration. All from this Zreem. Neither she nor Tarram had seen Lord Telcanor since the staircase.

"Of course there is," she spat. "You damned Braganzans and your games. Have you come to conscript us for Telcanor again?"

"No," Zreem said simply. "For Imperial Governor Teldas himself."

"Hah!" Tantaerra scoffed—then stopped as she saw his expression. Slowly, she asked, "Who are you?"

"The Imperial Governor has lately grown irritated with Braganza's wastefulness," he said. "Telcanors, Mereirs, Lord Ravnagask's ceaseless building. As such, he's taken the prudent step of quietly placing people of his own in positions of influence."

Tantaerra's mouth dropped open. "You're a Lord Investigator. A real one."

"Yes," Zreem said. "And you can be as well."

"Both of us?" Tarram interrupted sharply.

"Both of you," Zreem confirmed. "As a team. Reporting to the General Lords, and fairly well paid to travel Molthune and search for foreign spies and disloyal Molthuni."

Tarram and Tantaerra gaped at him, then at each other.

"I should point out," Zreem continued, almost to himself, "that both the Telcanors and the Mereirs still want you dead. And Lord Ravnagask is likely to be looking for a politically convenient scapegoat for the recent troubles. Naturally, anyone truly working for the Imperial Governor would be beyond their reach."

Tarram eyed the mountainous bodyguard. "I'm curious: why does your master—your true master, I mean—allow all this? Why did you let us reach Braganza with the gauntlet?"

Zreem's smile widened. "Ambitious men become a nuisance if they go too long untested. And every ruler has his critics, but the ruler of Braganza needs testing every bit as much as the most ambitious men who dwell in his city. It would not do to leave a city so close to Nirmathas in the hands of someone ...inadequate."

"He lets them all kill each other to keep them from challenging his authority?" Tantaerra asked. "And to see if Lord Ravnagask is any good at his job?"

"I see," Tarram replied slowly. He looked at Tantaerra. "Well? What do you think?"

"Becoming a Lord Investigator?"

"Yes."

"What do you think?"

"I believe I'd enjoy it very much. If we're together."

Tantaerra's smile was slow in coming, but dazzling when it arrived.

"Then, Tarram Armistrade," she announced, "I believe I feel the same way."

∗ ∗ ∗

It was another clear, dry night, of a steady breeze and bright moonlight.

Tantaerra looked back, but Braganza was lost behind the hills, a good day's ride west of them now, on good, formerly Telcanor horses.

She and Tarram had eaten dinner and banked their fire, and were about to bed down. First watch was his.

She raised the dregs of her last mug of broth to him. "All hail Tarram Armistrade, newly ordained investigator for the General Lords."

He gave her back the same toast, and they drained their mugs in unison.

Tantaerra reached for her blanket, then stopped and turned back to her partner. He was wearing a new mask.

"Tarram," she asked quietly, "won't you take your mask off?"

He looked at her. "Would you go naked if I asked you to?"

She blinked. "Yes. Yes, I would." She started to pull off her jerkin.

He put out a hand to stop her, shaking his head.

"It was a metaphor! I was asking about your limits, not making a request."

She looked at him, then murmured, "Unhand me, you fool." Then she unscrewed her metal hand and held up her stump, thrusting it challengingly into his face.

He regarded her silently, then pointed at his mask in a silent question.

"Please," she whispered.

He reached up and took it off. Eyes steady, she took a good long look at his ruined face.

Then carefully, deliberately, she caught hold of his hand, drew him down to her height, and kissed him.

When at last their lips parted, he was the first to speak. "Tantaerra—"

She thrust her empty mug into his hands, then spun away and returned to her bedroll. "You have first watch," she reminded him. "Good night, friend."

"Good night, little one," The Masked replied fondly.

"Little one?" she snapped.

He chuckled. "Little one," he proclaimed, pointing at her, then pointed at himself. "Faceless one."

She snorted. "Good night, jester. Or rather, Lord Investigator!"

"At least until we're safely across the border," he agreed, and they laughed together.

About the Author

Ed Greenwood is an amiable, bearded Canadian librarian best known to gamers as the creator of the Forgotten Realms campaign setting for the Dungeons & Dragons roleplaying game. He is an Origins- and ENnie-award-winning game designer, and a New York Times best-selling fantasy, SF, horror, steampunk, and pulp adventure writer; Ed's two hundred or so books have sold millions of copies worldwide in more than two dozen languages. He has been a judge of the World Fantasy Awards and the Sunburst Awards, hosted radio shows, acted on stage, explored caves, and jousted (but not all on the same day).

In the world of Golarion, Ed has worked on the elves, helped to populate the River Kingdoms with monsters, and penned the Pathfinder Tales serial "Guns of Alkenstar," available for free at paizo.com/pathfindertales/serial. The world seems a really interesting place to visit, and getting more interesting (though not safer) all the time.

Glossary

All Pathfinder Tales novels are set in the rich and vibrant world of the Pathfinder campaign setting. Below are explanations of several key terms used in this book. For more information on the world of Golarion and the strange monsters, people, and deities that make it their home, see The Inner Sea World Guide, or dive into the game and begin playing your own adventures with the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game Core Rulebook or the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game Beginner Box, all available at paizo.com.

Abadar: God of cities, wealth, merchants, and law.

Absalom: Largest city in the Inner Sea region.

Bloodcoat: Slang term for a Molthuni soldier.

Braganza: Prominent city in Molthune, ruled by Prince-Archbanker Cole Ravnagask.

Calistria: Goddess of trickery, lust, and revenge.

Canorate: Capital of Molthune.

Cayden Cailean: God of freedom, ale, wine, and bravery. Was once mortal, but ascended to godhood by passing the Test of the Starstone in Absalom.

Cheliax: Devil-worshiping nation.

Desna: Good-natured goddess of dreams, stars, travelers, and luck.

Dwarves: Short, stocky humanoids who excel at physical labor, mining, and craftsmanship.

Dweomercat: Fey feline beast that is attracted to magic and has a number of innate supernatural abilities triggered by the use of magic around it.

Erastil: Stag-headed god of farming, family, hunting, and trade.

General Lords: The heads of Molthune's government.

Golarion: The planet on which the Pathfinder campaign setting focuses.

Gozreh: God of nature, the sea, and weather. Depicted as a dual deity, with both male and female aspects.

Halflings: Race of humanoids known for their tiny stature, deft hands, and mischievous personalities.

Halidon: Small logging town in central Molthune.

Halidonese: Someone or something from Halidon.

Hurlandrun: Town in western Nirmathas that was destroyed decades ago and is now said to be haunted.

Imperial Governor: Supreme leader of Molthune, elected by the General Lords.

Inkwater River: River that forms most of the border between Nirmathas and Molthune.

Inner Sea Region: The heart of the Pathfinder campaign setting, centered around the eponymous inland sea.

Korholm: Port town in northern Molthune.

Lake Encarthan: Enormous freshwater lake bordering both Molthune and Nirmathas.

Lamashtu: Evil demon-goddess of monsters, madness, and nightmares.

Living God: Another name for the god Razmiran.

Lord Investigator: Secret Molthuni agent who reports directly to the General Lords. The subject of numerous rumors and urban legends.

Master of the First Vault: Abadar.

Mindspin Mountains: Mountain range bordering Nirmathas and Molthune to the west.

Molthune: Highly regimented and expansionist nation ruled by a military oligarchy. Currently embroiled in a war to retake Nirmathas, a province that successfully rebelled half a century ago.

Molthuni: Of or related to Molthune; someone from Molthune.

Nidal: Evil nation in southern Avistan, devoted to the worship of the dark god Zon-Kuthon after he saved its people from extinction in the distant past. Closely allied with devil-worshiping Cheliax.

Nirmathas: Rebel nation, formerly part of Molthune and currently fighting a guerrilla war for freedom.

Nirmathi: Of or related to Nirmathas; someone from Nirmathas.

Razmiran: Nation ruled by a living god of the same name whose divinity is often debated by foreigners.

Savored Sting: Calistria

Song of the Spheres: Desna

Torag: Stoic and serious dwarven god of the forge, protection, and strategy.

Varisia: A frontier region northwest of Molthune and Nirmathas.

Watchguard: The city watch of Braganza.

Watchsword: A foot soldier of the Braganza city watch.

Wizard: Someone who casts spells through careful study and rigorous scientific methods rather than faith or innate talent.