Proper Villains

by Erik Scott de Bie

Chapter One: The Liar

“You owe how much?” asked Tarrant the Liespinner.

“My boy, my boy—don’t fret.” Fat Gorm’s cheeks reddened like two overripe apples. “It’s not so bad.”

Tarrant cast his gaze around the Open Palm to check for eavesdroppers. Fat Gorm’s tavern bore a

fitting name, considering how often the dwarf asked his supposed friends for coin. Tarrant Akayn the

Liespinner had been out of prison for all of two hours, and already the dwarf was hitting him up—and

for a major take.

Tarrant cleared his throat. “I know Taldane isn’t your mother tongue, but when you say ‘not so bad,’

what you really mean is ‘cataclysmic,’ yes?”

The dwarf shrugged. “‘Tis a sum I can hardly pay myself, true—not without selling myself into

slavery.”

“And we can’t have that, can we?”

“Do these hands look suited to manual labor?” Gorm clutched his chest. “Nay, far better for you to do this little task for me.”

“Little task, you say,” Tarrant said. “Rob the Blackscales blind?”

Stealing enough treasure to buy a small island out from under the Blackscale Blades—a rather

disreputable mercenary party—didn’t sound “little.” Just days before, another adventuring company on a hunt for ancient relics had hit some haunted ruin in the mountains that unexpectedly housed a

dragon. Apparently, there had been a disagreement with their patron, who had furnished the

expedition with equipment and supplies. Specifically, he broke his contract and hired the Blades to

claim all the treasure. One of the double-crossed adventurers was apparently an old friend to Gorm,

and he’d tipped the dwarf off that even a fraction of the hoard would be more than enough to cover

his debts. It was insane, of course, but lunatic risks were Tarrant’s specialty and abiding passion.

“Coin’s waiting—that and who knows what fabulous treasure?” The dwarf grinned ingratiatingly. “And think of your cut. You have debts of your own to pay off, I think.”

“Strike where I’m weak, eh?” Tarrant asked. “You must really be desperate. Who owns your debt, Fat Gorm? What aren’t you telling me?”

“It’s Lord Doreset. He’s the one financed the delve, and he owns my debt.” The dwarf bit his lip. “Now, before you get upset—”

Tarrant sighed. “Of course. Because fate just loves me.”

Emilano Doreset, a nobleman from Cheliax who’d relocated to Absalom some years ago, had never

forgiven Tarrant for certain liberties he’d taken with the Doreset name, the Doreset holdings, and the

Lady Doreset. He’d managed to get Tarrant thrown in prison for a year, but he could prove little.

Doreset couldn’t very well reveal the full extent of the Liespinner’s crimes, when almost all the stolen

coin came from Doreset’s less-than-legal interests in the city. An unresolved grudge hung between

them like a duelist’s blade.

It stood to reason Doreset would squeeze one of the Liespinner’s friends for revenge. Was this all a

trap? If so, that only made the task more appealing.

His heart raced just thinking of it. The danger—the audacity! And above all, the challenge. It drew Tarrant like a rallying cry. How could he claim to be Golarion’s greatest con artist if he backed away

from such a game?

The front door stirred a bell on a chain, ringing in two men built like guard towers. They moved with

the grace of practiced killers. Debt collectors? No—worse. Beneath their dusty robes, the newcomers

wore black-forged steel studded with wicked barbs and fiendish motifs.

Hellknights. What were Hellknights doing all the way out here in Absalom?

First the Blackscale Blades, then Lord Doreset, and now Hellknights.

This was definitely a trap.

Tarrant attracts trouble wherever he goes.

The entrance of the Hellknights sparked an exodus from the Open Palm. The elite lawkeepers of

Cheliax were a rare sight in the city, but even to the unenlightened, their harsh intentions came clear.

After a moment, only a few patrons remained, too nervous or drunk to do more than watch. They

would be enough to bear witness.

“Better make yourself scarce, Gorm.” Tarrant nodded to the thugs.

The dwarf scowled. “My thanks—you need anything from the cellar?”

“Anything from Qadira, by any chance? I do love the fruit of the desert.”

“If you’ve got the coin.” Tarrant frowned, and Gorm spread his hands. “What? I’m short.”

Tarrant clicked his tongue, dismissing the dwarf, then hummed a low tone to focus himself. His

mother had raised him among minstrels, and he had spent every night of his youth with lullabies from

far-distant lands. She had sung a certain melody that would put a grown man to sleep, let alone a

boy. He let that song flow from his lips, and golden magic took shape around his dusky fingers.

Anyone could hear his music, but only he could see it.

When he turned to cast the spell however, he saw that the Hellknights had paused, turning their

attention elsewhere.

An elf woman in leaf-patterned green hunting leathers sat at the center table, ignoring the knights

who flanked her. Tarrant hadn’t seen her arrive, which in itself made her remarkable. Her fine elven

features—radiant skin framed by rich brown hair—made her even more so. Pupilless eyes like

emeralds met Tarrant’s own.

One of the knights leaned in close. “Your pardon, m’lady, but the menfolk here aren’t worth your time.

Why not try a real warrior?”

All eyes were on the elf and the knights now. Tarrant had never known the famously disciplined

Hellknights to be distracted by something as trivial as beauty; but then, the elf was so beautiful that

Tarrant himself found it difficult to look away. It was more than her appearance, though—there was

something dark and powerful about her. She spoke to him on a deep, resonant level, like she was a

lonely strain of music he couldn’t quite grasp. Perhaps the knights were drawn to her for the same

reason?

Tarrant managed to look away from her face long enough to note the elaborate golden bracers that

extended the length of her forearms, each imbedded with a gemstone on the back of the hand. Her

left-hand bracer boasted a pure white pearl, while the right hand—the one close to her bow—bore a

bright red ruby.

“What, don’t you speak Taldane?” The amorous knight reached for her shoulder.

The elf ignored him, but the gems on her bracers flickered with awakening magic.

This was about to go bad and bloody.

Tarrant sang three notes of his mother’s song, loud enough that the first man looked up, startled at

the sound. The magic in the music flowed from his lips, a golden ribbon of silk that wrapped around

the knight. Tarrant kept singing as he slid off the stool and strode toward the confrontation. He drew

his rapier as he went.

“What—” The Hellknight sank to his knees and then to the floor, sound asleep.

The other knight reeled, fighting his way free of the invisible ribbon of music. Even as the man drew

his sword and turned to face the unexpected threat, Tarrant changed key and sang a warsong of the

Mwangi Expanse, punctuating the words with resonant notes that exploded like starbursts in the

Hellknight’s face. This magic the knight needed no blessing to see, and the lights made him stagger,

confused, long enough for Tarrant to skip over his sleeping partner. The knight parried Tarrant’s feint,

opening himself for a swift application of sword pommel to unhelmeted temple. The knight’s eyes

rolled up, and he sagged to the floor.

“And here I had worried.” It seemed to Tarrant that they had put up surprisingly little fight for Hellknights—but then, he had struck from surprise, while they were captivated by the elf. He would

have to remember that gift of hers.

Tarrant turned to bow to the woman who had made his job easier. “My thanks, lady, for letting me

borrow your charms.” He turned to go.

“Hold,” she said.

Tarrant drew up short and turned back to her. “Tarrant Akayn the Liespinner at your disposal, lady.”

He trod back over the sleeping hellknight and bowed again. “What is your desire, beautiful one?”

The elf frowned. “You have done me a service tonight, human. Your kinfolk proved tiresome.” Her words were music—to him, she spoke in summer rain.

“Ah, but these are no kin of mine. They neglect their own hygiene far too much.”

He wondered, though. Most looked no farther than his dark skin—the touch of the exotic that spoke of

a Mwangi father. But perhaps the elf’s keen eyes saw his Chelish mother as well, who had taught him

a love of music and cursed him with wanderlust.

Tarrant reached for the elf’s hand, though she drew it back before he could kiss it. “You have an

untrustworthy face,” she said, adjusting her collar. She seemed particularly keen to preserve modesty.

“Keep your distance.”

Prickly as well as beautiful. He was in love already.

“Has the service I’ve done you this eve—rescuing those poor blighters from your graceful wrath—

earned me the favor of your name?” He gave her his best smile. “I merely wish to tell the story accurately when I recount the tale of the most beautiful creature I’ve ever driven away with my rude

manners.”

Her eyes pierced him. Finally, she nodded slightly. “Among men, I am known as Ephere. The tongues

of lesser races find the names of elves difficult.”

“My tongue is up for any challenge, my lady. Yours especially. But stay a bit—”

Something hit him hard, making him drop his sword and stagger into her. They both fell to the floor,

Tarrant atop Ephere, his hands in an impolite position. “Terribly sorry,” he said.

Ephere hissed a curse that still sounded lovely in Elven and pushed him off. Strong hands dragged him

away and pulled him up to face the Hellknight he’d clubbed.

“Tarrant Akayn.” Steel scraped against leather as the knight drew out a heavy mace. “Down arms and submit to the law.”

“Already half there.” Tarrant indicated his fallen rapier. “About the ‘submit’ bit, though—”

Ephere slammed a fist coursing with lightning into the knight’s side. Shock ran through Tarrant as

well, blowing the two of them apart. He tumbled gracelessly across a table while the Hellknight

twitched and coughed his way to his knees. Ephere raised her other hand—this one wreathed in

flame—to the knight’s face. The man froze and stared into his imminent death.

“Wait,” Tarrant managed, trying and failing to right himself. The shock stole his body’s natural grace.

“Fas-fascinating.”

Ephere regarded him with curiosity as he staggered and levered himself up clumsily.

“You are a curious creature.” Ephere’s face held no pity of any kind. The elf turned her hand in front of the Hellknight’s face, and the man winced despite his iron discipline. “You seek to stop me from killing this man?”

“Oh no—by all means, put yon fist through his face. That is, if you want half the Hellknights in Cheliax to board the next boat to Absalom looking for your blood.” Tarrant finally managed to stop twitching.

“Excellent plan.”

She considered a moment, then pulled her fire gauntlet away. Instead, she touched her lightning

gauntlet to the Hellknight’s temple. The magic shocked him to the floor, unconscious.

“Useful,” Tarrant noted.

The two of them stood staring at one another. Tarrant made sure everyone in the tavern saw them

together, including the Hellknights. Then he took a wood disc the size of a coin from his pocket and

tossed it to Ephere. She caught it deftly.

“Well, it’s been a delight, lady, but now is when we part ways. Have a care with those weapons: the

unwashed masses of Absalom might not appreciate their potency, but I think we both know how

valuable and dangerous they are.” He leaned in close. “And take care with the gauntlets, too.”

Mouth open in shock, Ephere stared at him as he waved a salute, then left the Open Palm. As soon as

he hit the doors, he chanted a song of lovers meeting by moonlight. The music flowed in the form of

silvery wings around him, and he faded from sight, invisible.

He made his way around the back of the Palm, where he found Fat Gorm’s considerable bulk wedged

through one of the windows. Gorm yelped when Tarrant—still invisible—grasped his wrists and hauled

him out into the street, where he lay panting. The effort broke the spell, and Tarrant reappeared,

standing over the out-of-breath barkeep.

“Friends among the Hellknights, Gorm?” he asked.

“Collectors,” said the dwarf. “They work for Lord Doreset, don’t ask me why. I didn’t expect it would be this dangerous. I can get the coin another way.”

“Ease your waggling tongue—of course I’ll take the job.” That had never been in doubt—if anything, the skirmish with the Hellknights made Tarrant more excited to do it. “Consider it a favor to Lord

Doreset—his being a nose that looks best tweaked.”

“You have accounts to settle with Doreset,” Gorm said. “That’s good.”

“Yes, yes I do.”

Prison had served as an excellent refuge for a full year, excepting the bars and chains. And while he’d

known a Chelish agent would spot him sooner or later once he left prison, he hadn’t expected

Hellknights to arrive on his trail so soon. It seemed too fine a coincidence, as though the enemies he’d

left in his homeland had been waiting for him. Definitely a trap.

“What of that elf?” Gorm asked. “Is she with you?”

“A beautiful stranger,” Tarrant said. “I almost regret using her as bait to throw the Hellknights off my trail.”

“You’re a villain, Liespinner,” Gorm said.

“Indeed,’ Tarrant agreed. “And I’ll need a team of the same. The Blackscale Blades aren’t going to rob themselves.”

∗∗∗

Altara the Hound tapped her barbed fingers on the thick darkwood arm of her chair. She liked sitting

as little as she liked waiting. She was a woman of action, whose record in tracking down fugitives had

earned her the nickname a dozen times over. “You failed.”

Her men didn’t shift from their stiff-backed parade rest. “We searched the Palm, but the dwarf was

nowhere to be found.”

She slammed her gauntleted fist down. “To the hells with the dwarf! Akayn is the real target.”

“Tell me of this elf,” said the noble fop seated across from her, speaking between bites of his second dinner. Corpulent Lord Doreset was always eating. “You say she was beautiful?”

“Unnaturally so,” said one of the knights. “She may have been using some form of magic. She was…

compelling.”

“And the Liespinner seemed to know her?” Altara demanded.

The knight with the livid purple bruise on the side of his head nodded sharply. “He tried to make it look like he knew her, but I don’t think he does. It might be a false trail.”

“Tarrant Akayn has always been a fool for a pretty face. It will be his undoing.” Altara stood. “Go.”

Her men dutifully marched away.

“Patience, Altara.” Doreset stuffed a fresh pastry in his mouth. “You’ll have the Liespinner soon enough, and I’ll have my coin back. There’s no point in terrorizing the help.”

Altara glared at him, then marched out of the room and back to her guest chambers. She shoved her

borrowed desk over in a cascade of papers: reports, sketches, descriptions, all of the same man. She

caught one—a rendering of his face, with its familiar cocky smile, and tore it in half with her barbed

fingers.

“Tarrant Akayn,” she murmured. “There will be a reckoning between us.”

Chapter Two: The Gang

“You’re sure about this gang?” Fat Gorm fidgeted, rubbing his fingers together. “I only ask, because the hour presses on—”

“Sit easy.” Tarrant hummed dancing wisps of music, which calmed him. He wondered how anyone

who couldn’t see music managed to relax.

They met at midnight in the Bloody Fang, a dive down in the Puddles district that catered to sailors,

criminals, and the lowest of the low. The authorities of Absalom rarely made it there, and certainly not

at this hour of night. Entering after sunset required a chit: a coin-sized disc of wood branded with a

crude image of a dragon’s fang. Tarrant turned his over in his fingers as he mentally rehearsed the

plan.

It had taken three days to set up the meet—good timing, as the last of the expedition treasure would

be arriving the next day. It would be stored in the Blackscale Blades’ base of operations until

appraisers could arrive and a full accounting could be made. The dishonorable adventurers were living

it up in the city, spending coin freely and bragging of the dragon they had supposedly slain. Crossing

them didn’t seem wise, but Tarrant had spent the last three days coming up with a perfect plan.

In truth, the entire scheme had occurred to him seconds after Gorm told him about the hoard, but

he’d given it some time to crescendo in his mind, the different parts of music falling into place. He

couldn’t play a symphony alone, however, and he hoped the crew gathering in the Bloody Fang would

be exactly what he needed.

A man came tumbling in the swinging doors, rolled several paces, then lay groaning. The big Ulfen

warrior who stepped in the door after him had pale skin and hair and many woad tattoos carved

across his honed frame. If the show of force and muscle weren’t enough, the hooked axe strapped to

his back proved sufficient to discourage any would-be challengers.

“That would be Arlif, I reckon.” Fat Gorm stumbled over the name. “They say his tattoos depict the men he’s killed. Well—the memorable ones, at least.”

“He must have killed a goodly number,” Tarrant observed. “Where did you find him?”

“Mercenary. Been cracking heads around the island for about a year now. No one’s ever heard him

speak, but by Torag is he strong. And you did say you needed a tough.”

“That is what I said.”

Arlif dropped his chit on the table, waved for mead, and sat in brooding silence.

The sneak came next, though he didn’t make nearly the entrance Arlif had. The halfling’s silhouette in

the creaking doorway looked like that of a child, but the worldly gleam in his eye belied that

impression. Also, no boy-child, no matter how ludicrous his taste in fashion, would wear such a hat,

with its sweeping red and gold feather.

“Eram Many-Fingers.” Tarrant sighed. “I should have known you’d bring him in.”

“I thought you liked the halfling. You’ve pulled many jobs together, right?”

“Oh indeed. More than even he can count.” Tarrant nodded to where the halfling was indicating the number of drinks he wanted on his six-fingered left hand. “That doesn’t mean you should trust him.”

“Of course not,” Gorm said, offended. “But we can trust him to be untrustworthy.”

“Ah, my friends!” the halfling said. “I almost thought I’d come to the wrong place, but oh joyous day, here I find you! I’m off for a drink, you want something? No? Well then!”

The enthusiastic halfling headed off to find the nearest server.

The magic arrived next, in the form of a feminine shape in the Fang’s door. The other patrons quieted

and looked, but when Gislai drew back her hood to reveal her lank black hair, greenish skin, and small

tusks, most glanced away. She smiled and stretched languidly, revealing the three daggers of Calistria

on an amulet around her neck.

“Gorgeous Gislai?” Gorm said. “Why, Akayn? Why do you do this to yourself?”

“Have faith. Half-orc or no, Gislai is the best cleric for any heist I’ve ever worked.”

“You mean you worked her.”

“I’ll not deny I like green.” That made him think of the other night, and the way Ephere’s leaf-scale armor clung to her body. “Besides, it’s in the past. We’re strictly professional now.”

“This is going to go badly.”

“Do you want to do this, or shall I sell you into indentured servitude right now?” Tarrant asked.

“Maybe Doreset will discount you—he might just take your hands as payment.”

Fat Gorm paled.

Ephere seems to be the center of attention wherever she goes.

“There he is.” Gislai strode to their table. “Liespinner, the city of Absalom did herself a disservice letting you out. Better to keep you sealed up there with the other thieves and traitors.”

“Greetings to you too. Apologies for not writing—I was a bit chained up at the time.”

“Good.” The half-orc eased into a chair and put her boots up on the table. She toyed with one of her shuriken and nodded to Gorm. “Who’s this? The coin?”

“The empty purse, actually.” Gorm gave Tarrant an uneasy look. “Your take, your gang—have it your own way. But have a care too, yes?”

“Mm?” Tarrant asked. “Sorry, I was too stricken with Gislai’s disarming looks. Anger serves her complexion admirably.”

The half-orc glared at him. “And the spinning begins already.”

Arlif watched the exchange in silence.

As Gorm slipped away, his stealthy tread seeming more of a waddle, Eram arrived with a tray of

libations. Tarrant knew better than to take any—the halfling’s thirst was legendary.

“Greetings.” Tarrant spread his hands wide. “No doubt you’ve heard something of this already, but let me fill in the rest of the story. First, the reward is fantastic. Lord Doreset chartered a group of

adventurers on a delve to uncover ancient treasures in what was supposed to be a deserted ruin. It

turned out to be a dragon’s lair, complete with a dragon—which the heroes slew—and a fabulous

hoard. Once His Corpulentness learned of the hoard, he decided the original terms of the contract

were far to unfavorable to himself, and immediately dispatched his good friends, the Blackscale Blades

mercenary company, to make things right by claiming the entire hoard for Doreset. They’re even now

bringing the treasure back to Absalom to be stored until it can be appraised.”

“Stored, you say,” Gislai said. “Stored where?”

“Blackscale Hall, right?” Eram said. “Please say Blackscale Hall.”

“Not quite,” Tarrant said. “Doreset’s stronghold: Hawkthorne’s Shield.”

Eram coughed out some of his rotgut, then drank it again. “What?”

“I thought you were insane.” Gislai shook her head. “Now I know you are.”

Arlif nodded slowly.

“No no no,” Eram said. “When I agreed to this job, I thought we’d take it en route, not from gods-damned Hawkthorne’s Shield!”

“I know robbing the tower may seem difficult,” Tarrant said. “Walls of stone a spear’s length thick, iron doors reinforced with steel bands, and every window, sewer grate, and rat hole sealed up tight

with the best magic the Doreset family can muster. Not exactly a comfy place to live, which is why His

Lordship houses his apartments elsewhere. But as a secure storage facility, it can’t be beat.”

“That’s even worse than I thought,” Gislai said. “What’s your plan? We talk our way in? You, a notorious criminal, and we, your known associates.”

“Yes,” Tarrant said. “And while notoriety appeals to me, ‘twould be kinder to my pride if you used the words ‘suspected’ and ‘alleged’ in your description.”

“I stand by my words.” She tossed a shuriken a hand’s width into the air and let it sink into the table.

“Maybe you want to try a ‘raving lunatic’ game? It would fit.”

“Because you’re mad,” Eram said. ” Mad! ”

“Leaving that aside for the moment,” Tarrant said. “Even if we get in, and even if we manage to steal the treasure, getting out won’t be easy. That place is as much a prison as a fortress.”

“I have a ring that will teleport us,” Gislai said. “Limited use, but it can potentially get us out. Or in, technically, if we know where we were going.”

“Alas,” Tarrant said. “Lord Doreset has the vault warded against such things, necessitating that the Blackscales bring the items in by hand. Not to worry, though.” From within his tunic, he took a red silk bag little bigger than a coin purse, into which he inserted his entire arm, then withdrew it. “I lived in the tower for nearly a year, once upon a time—I know exactly how to get in and out again. Follow my

plan, and there’s no way we can fail.”

“Plan? What plan?” asked Eram.

“Remember the ‘helpful peddler’ job we pulled in Cassomir? And how you owe me?”

Eram shuddered. “You said you’d never bring that up again.”

“I’m the Liespinner, Many-Fingers,” Tarrant said. “We do this one the same way—haversack and all.”

“We’ll need luck,” Eram said. “Sure you don’t want to go seduce a priestess of Desna into this game?”

“Calistria can kiss as well as sting,” Gislai said, scowling at the halfling. “We make our own luck. And no one’s seducing anyone.”

“Pity, that,” Eram said.

Arlif had been watching, but something drew his attention past Tarrant.

“All seeming madness aside,” Tarrant said. “My plan requires a blade, a thief, a caster, and a face—

that’s the four of us. Now we just have to find a lure. A means of distraction.”

“You’re still mad,” Eram said. “We…” He trailed off and followed Arlif’s gaze.

“A lure,” Gislai said. “You think that’s all we need?”

“With the plan I have? Yes. And—” He saw what Eram and Arlif were looking at. “Ah.”

Sure enough, Ephere had entered the Bloody Fang and sat at a table ten paces removed. Her

presence drew Tarrant’s senses like a lodestone. He could smell her from here, like a sweet earthen

incense, and see the faint green light of a tune she was singing under her breath.

Gislai followed his gaze, her frown deepening. “Who is she?”

“Inspiration.” Tarrant got to his feet. “Pardon a moment, fellow conspirators and lady.”

“Where are you going?” Eram turned to Gislai. “Where is he going?”

“I was wrong about the seducing bit.” The half-orc shook her head. “He’s always an idiot for a woman.”

“Speaking from experience, are we?” Eram asked.

Gislai nodded gravely.

Tarrant made his way to Ephere’s table. Without speaking or even looking up at him, she laid the

Bloody Fang chit he had given her back at the Open Palm on the table.

Tarrant’s heart sped up with everyone watching them. Every day of his life, he trod upon a stage for

his enemies, and he loved every deadly hour of it.

Mindful of appearances, Tarrant swept a wide, attention-gathering bow. “Twice I have the honor and

pleasure of your beauty, Lady Ephere.”

“Liespinner,” she said without looking at him. “I am in your debt for the service you did me last time we met.”

“Did you remember my offer and come to test my tongue? With your true name, that is.”

“Saleae Epheldera,” Ephere said, the elven words falling from her lips like rain. She listened for his pronunciation and nodded in approval. “You speak my tongue well for a human.”

“I travel,” he said. “Now that we’ve been properly introduced, I’ve come to offer you a proposition.

Ah!” He smiled broadly as she bristled at the word. “Apologies for my ill speech. I assure you, I intend nothing scandalous, but…” he took her hand and bent to kiss the ruby on her gauntlet, pausing to

look into her eyes. “I will admit that my intentions are entirely dishonorable.”

Ephere made no sign of backing down. He wondered again what she saw. His arrogance, certainly, but

his earnestness? His desire for justice against Lord Doreset, a noble leech who’d grown fat at the

expense of the weak and powerless?

At that moment, the doors flung open, and a tiny ball of flame sailed into the chamber. “Akayn!” came a shout.

Tarrant threw his arms around Ephere and sang of racing stallions on the far-away tundra. Feathers of

golden light flowed from his lips and encircled his feet to hasten him as he carried Ephere past the

table and out an open window.

The Bloody Fang exploded in flame behind them as they rolled out into the rainy darkness. Tarrant

found himself lying side-by-side with Ephere, their faces close. He managed to look away long enough

to see two familiar Hellknights near the front of the tavern, standing among a crowd of folk shouting

for the watch or for water. Between the knights stood a tall blonde woman in severe black armor, who

held aloft in her barbed gauntlets the source of the blast: a wand that smoked slightly.

Altara the Hound: Hellknight, hunter, and his favorite regret.

“Akayn!” she cried. “Show yourself!”

Excitement shivered through him. He thought that if he’d been on his own he might have liked to face

Altara then and there—but he had Ephere to worry about. She might kill one or both of Altara’s

minions and then there would be trouble.

The elf shifted, and he put a hand on her breastbone to signal her to wait. He felt the heat radiating

from beneath her armor. She stared at him dangerously.

Tarrant sang a quick spell his mother had written about him. Magic sculpted the smoke into an illusory

likeness of Tarrant himself—tall, dark-skinned, with piercing eyes and a wry smile—which nodded to

its creator and ran off down the street. Altara barked an order, and the Hellknights gave chase.

Ephere’s eyes gleamed. “Yet again, you’ve caused me trouble, then saved me from it. What is it you

want, Tarrant Akayn?”

“Well.” Tarrant saw movement near the tavern. His allies had escaped—Gislai in particular was glaring at him.

He smiled. “How would you like a job?”

∗∗∗

“Intriguing offer,” Altara said as the sun rose outside Lord Doreset’s manor. “But no.”

“No?” The would-be betrayer looked shocked.

Lord Doreset, who was snoozing by the fire, smiled. “That is what she said.”

“But—” Eram Many-Fingers sputtered. “But I’m handing Tarrant Akayn to you on a platter! Trussed up like a goose and delivered to your great, lovely, and honestly somewhat intimidating majesty!”

Altara yawned. “Do you know how I spent the last year? This year that the master you would so

eagerly betray spent in prison here in Absalom?”

The halfling shook his head.

“Reading,” she said. “Interviewing. Thinking. I’ve hardly slept nor ate. When my knights woke me to tell of a traitor at my doorstep, I’d only been abed an hour or so.”

She rose, and the halfling flinched.

“I know this man,” she said. “I know everything about his games here in Absalom, and I know all about your dubious allegiances. If you would betray your friend, what would stop you from betraying

me? No.”

She nodded toward Eram, signaling her knights to flank him.

“No deal, thief,” she said. “The law will be satisfied in the law’s way, not through the treachery of a sneak seeking to protect himself. In the end, I’ll catch you all. And I will destroy you.”

The halfling tensed just before the first Hellknight laid hands on him, then twisted free. His would-be

captor overbalanced and tripped over the halfling, who seized the opportunity to jab the other knight

with his dagger.

Lord Doreset spoke up. “Might as well let him go. Let the Liespinner think all remains well. Many-

Fingers will tell him nothing.”

“And if he does?” Altara asked.

“What, that he tried to betray him? No.” Doreset laughed. “Unless of course this was part of Akayn’s scheme, and he sent Many-Fingers himself. If so, he knows nothing significant.”

“True.” Altara—who had been drawing her sword—sighed and sat back in her seat. “Again, I counsel you to unbind my hands, and let me take Akayn by force. There is naught to be gained by playing this

game. He will defeat you.”

“And again, I remind you of our agreement.” Doreset sipped his morning tea. “You almost spoiled my plan with your little fireball assault earlier—no more rash action. Akayn is a creature of great

arrogance—he will come at us anyway. And when he does, we will be waiting.”

Altara snorted. “Many have sought to outwit Akayn, and all have failed. How do you know he’ll not

make such a fool of you again?”

A smile spread across Lord Doreset’s perpetually greasy lips. “Because I have my own secret knife to wield at the right moment.”

He waved. On cue, a tapestry moved aside, and someone stepped into the chamber. Altara was

confused until she saw the brand burning on the newcomer’s chest.

She knew Tarrant Akayn—knew his strengths, and especially his weaknesses.

And this would be the end of him.

Chapter Three: The Caper

Humming anxiously under his breath, Tarrant watched as the last cart of treasure arrived from the

docks as the sun set. This time was always torture and ecstasy for him: he could hardly stand the

waiting, and yet he could not help his excitement for the game to come. Tarrant shadowed the cart

from the docks to Hawkthorne Tower, then slipped around the back.

It was time to begin.

With all the activity around the front gate, where the Blackscale Blades were delivering the great

treasure, the servants’ entrance stood only lightly guarded. Two armored men flanked the back door,

one of whom wore the key around his neck as a badge of office. Tarrant was familiar with Lord

Doreset’s favored mercenary company and knew their procedures.

Tarrant swaggered out of the alley. A thick brown cloak dipped in low-class swill covered his identity.

As he approached, Tarrant sang a dwarven song in a low-pitched, slurred voice, crafting bubbles that

floated through the air toward the man with the key.

“Shove off, you!” shouted the other guard. “Go be drunk on your own—Drohn?”

The guard’s partner smiled like a child and plucked at the bubbles of song that floated around him.

When he saw Tarrant, his smile widened, and he stared.

“Magic!” hissed the first guard. He reached for his sword, but a different spell caught him before he could draw. He blinked, swayed on his feet, and looked confused. He pointed his sword at Tarrant

half-heartedly.

Gislai appeared. “Your need for attention is your least likeable characteristic.”

“I make up for it in other ways,” Tarrant sang, and resumed his song with a chorus to keep the

beguiled guard interested.

The priestess rolled her eyes and chanted a second spell. Her half-orc visage wavered and changed

into that of Captain Nemerath, an authoritative human Blackscale captain of Tarrant’s acquaintance

and occasional liaison. The guard captain’s armor—unfastened slightly for appearances—made a

perfect disguise for Gislai. “You seem troubled, soldier. What’s your name?”

The guard looked relieved to see her. “I’m Rholf, captain.”

“A good strong Ulfen name,” she said. “Named for your father, were you?”

He nodded, then turned his attention back to Tarrant. “This one… is he yours?”

Tarrant recognized Gislai’s little mischievous smile all too well—she was considering betraying him. He

kept singing, and Drohn sat down so that he could listen better.

Finally, Gislai nodded. “He is a friend. We’ve come to check the locks on the gate.”

“Locks.” Rholf looked at the strong iron lock on the door. “Drohn has the key, but—” His expression grew suspicious. “But I can’t just give—”

“Oh, we don’t need the key,” Gislai said. “That wouldn’t be much of a test, would it? My associate is suitably skilled. He’ll test the lock.”

Eram Many-Fingers appeared from the shadows, his eyes darting back and forth nervously. He

stepped up to the gate and slipped his lockpicks out of his belt. Meanwhile, Gislai took Rholf aside.

Every one of her words, smiles, and seemingly unintentionally touches strengthened the spell. It really

was a wonder to watch such a natural con artist at work.

With Rholf suitably distracted, Tarrant nodded—the signal for Eram to make his move. He didn’t even

touch his picks to the door, which would have triggered the warding magic anyway. Instead, he crept

up on the distracted Drohn and took his chain of office—along with the key—right off his neck.

Tarrant wove a new thread of the song, suggesting Drohn shuffle off to the nearest alehouse. When

Drohn had wandered out of sight, Tarrant let the song trail away. “Gislai.”

The half-orc cast him an annoyed look, then shared a few more words with Rholf. The guard nodded

and left. “He’ll go back to guarding the gate—once he finds Drohn, wherever the man got off to.”

Tarrant nodded. “Your spell is very effective.”

Gislai is more than just a pretty face.

“Aye, for one guard. And now it’s expended. What happens when we face a group?”

“No worries,” Tarrant said, patting the satchel at his hip. “I’ve a plan for that, too.”

At his signal, Arlif and Ephere emerged from the alley, both clad in thick cloaks. They crossed to the

door and entered. The elf gave Tarrant a brief nod that made him smile.

“That, right there?” Gislai pointed to the elf. “That’s dangerous.”

“Whence this dislike for our companion, ‘captain’?” Tarrant shed his filthy cloak to reveal a

Blackscale’s trademark mail beneath. He sang a brief song of disguise and took the shape of Rholf. “Is not your Calistria an elven goddess?”

“That just means I know how treacherous elves are,” Gislai countered.

“And beautiful.”

“As I said.”

They stepped through the door into the inner guardroom and found the others in a tense standoff with

three more Blackscales—two humans and a dwarf. Axe in hand, Arlif stood between them and Ephere.

Eram was nowhere to be seen, the coward. Blades slid from sheathes.

The Liespinner hadn’t earned his name by hesitating. “Down arms! A thousand apologies, my lady

ambassador!”

The Blackscales looked confused. “Ambassador?” the dwarf rumbled.

On cue, Ephere threw back her cloak, revealing a gorgeous gown of green silk, lined with silver

stitching. Tarrant had acquired this dress in one of Absalom’s most fashionable boutiques.

“Ambassador Saleae Epheldera of Kyonin,” Tarrant said. “Here to inspect the ancient elven treasures recovered during the recent expedition.”

The dwarf, presumably the commanding officer, shook his head. “We were not informed.”

“Yes, well, the honorable Viridian Crown has heard of our recent exploits, and…”

“I am an expert on the artifacts of Kyonin.” Ephere held up her ensorcelled gauntlets, which crackled with magical power. “My kinswoman, Queen Telandia, knows of this dragon you slew—an old beast

with an even older hoard. She will pay handsomely for relics that predate our people’s return from

Sovyrian. But this—” Ephere drew up to her full height. “This is not how I am accustomed to being treated. First drunken guards, and now insolence? This is an insult to me and to the queen.”

Confronted with an offended noble promising a reward, the Blackscales quickly put their blades away

and offered apologies. Ephere’s natural affinity for deception touched Tarrant’s villainous heart.

“Someone under my command mucked this up,” Gislai said. “I’ll bet it’s that damned Drohn—always drinking on the job. Where’s your good-for-nothing partner, Rholf?”

“Apologies, Captain,” Tarrant said to her. “It won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t.” Gislai looked to the Blackscales. “Stand easy, gentlemen. You’re not at fault here.”

At first, it seemed the guards might press for more answers, but ultimately they relaxed. At a nod

from Gislai, they sat back down to a half-finished hand of Towers.

Tarrant and his party pressed through the cloakroom and closed the doors behind them. It

disappointed him that the guards hadn’t asked why such a noble visitor would enter through the

servants’ door. He’d had a lie all prepared for that—“a matter of diplomatic delicacy.” Shame, but an unused lie was an unspent arrow.

Perhaps, he thought, they didn’t care. Perhaps they recognize a robbery in progress and had just

given Tarrant their tacit approval to take Lord Doreset for all he was worth. He liked to think they had.

Eram appeared from around the corner, rubbing his hands together and glancing back at the site of

the near-disaster. “Finally, you return,” Tarrant said. “No troubles?”

“None,” the halfling murmured.

“Are you well?” Gislai asked, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. “You seem even more twitchy than usual.”

“No, not at all!” the halfling protested. “I’m fine! Just fine!”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were planning something.”

“Only the plan!” Eram said. “Promise!”

“I’m sure it’s fine.” Tarrant turned to the others. “That was exciting, wasn’t it?” He touched Ephere’s arm. “You did well.”

The elf nodded. Behind her, Gislai groaned.

“You noted them well, I hope?” Tarrant slipped vials of blue potion to Arlif and Eram. “In case anything else goes wrong.”

“What is this?” Eram asked. “Escape in a bottle?”

“Something of the sort,” Tarrant said. “Let’s move on, shall we?”

They stepped past the entry chamber into a larger hall where the walls pulsed with warding magic.

Torches burst into life at their approach, revealing a solid vault door at the end of the hall. Tarrant felt the oppressive warding magic all around him, like an invisible wall of water. “Beyond here, anything we bring from the vault will no doubt trigger—”

Eram took a step deeper into the hall, and the wards whined to angry life. Two hulking iron statues

shivered, pulled away from the walls, and pointed massive swords at them.

“—Guardians.” Tarrant took Drohn’s chain of office from Eram and presented it to the guardians.

“Hold!”

The golems stepped closer, oblivious to his command.

“Stop?” Tarrant tried. “Desist?”

The golems raised their swords, and the would-be thieves reached for their weapons. Ephere’s arms lit

with fire and lightning. Eram slipped two daggers into his hands and Arlif unbuckled his greataxe.

Tarrant wondered if his music would touch such creatures. He doubted it.

Then Gislai—still in disguise as Captain Nemerath—stepped forward, seized the chain from Tarrant,

and raised it to the golems. “Zarahtas!” she declaimed.

Instantly, the guardians lowered their swords and returned to their places.

“Good thing I bothered to get the passphrase from Rholf,” she said as they crossed through the hall.

“For security, one guard had the chain, one had the code. Apparently, Doreset had the golems

changed after he had you thrown in prison.”

“Outstanding.” Tarrant strode past the resting golems and sized up the doors. “You know, these doors were specially built in Nex with the finest magic coin can purchase. They have no ward that needs to

be renewed daily, but rather several persistent enchantments imbedded in the doors themselves. It

would take several wizards multiple castings to suppress them, and by that point, the alarm spells

would sound. Damned impressive, not to mention expensive.” Tarrant beckoned to Eram. “Rod

please.”

“What?” the halfling said.

“Why do you think I asked you about the job in Cassomir? I know you’re carrying the rod, so just give it here.”

The halfling grumbled, but sure enough, reached into his haversack. His arm extended all the way into

one of the small pockets, and he pulled out a foot-long silvery rod. “Be welcome to the cursed thing anyway.”

“I sense a story there, no?” Gislai said.

Eram shook his head frantically.

Tarrant took the rod, which hummed slightly in his hand, and held it in front of the door. “Arlif, Eram, this is as far as you go—Gislai, you too.”

“That wasn’t the plan!” the half-orc protested. “I’m certainly not leaving you with her.”

Ephere seemed unconcerned.

“As long as she’s at your side,” Gislai said, “I’m at the other.”

“I never object to working between two lovely ladies.” Tarrant smiled. “I’ll have that potion back, then. It’s important you not have it.”

Gislai looked perplexed, but ultimately she rolled her eyes and handed the vial back.

“Outstanding.” He tucked it into his tunic. “Arlif, Eram—time to part ways.”

The big Ulfen warrior turned and made his way back across the golem-guarded hall, and Eram—after a

longing look at the vault door—joined him. Gislai stood her ground stubbornly.

“I didn’t realize you cared,” Tarrant said. “I’m touched.”

“Touched in the head, if you think I’m letting you in there alone,” she said. “What’s to keep you from taking your fill of gold and leaving nothing for us?”

“Prudent.” Tarrant tapped the rod against the door, setting off a series of pops and crackles as its antimagic cancelled out the door’s many enchantments. The magic left its mechanical locks in place,

however.

He began a song the elves of Kyonin used to welcome ships from distant lands, which his mother had

first heard from traveling musicians. It had always been one of his favorite ballads as a boy, and now

as a man, it provided focus to his magic. Soft green light swirled around him. At the climax of the

spell, he reached out and knocked once on the massive vault door.

Nothing happened.

“Huh.”

He cast the spell and knocked again, but still, the doors remained sealed.

“How terribly embarrassing.”

Tarrant began the song a third time, but Ephere laid her hand on his arm. From beneath the folds of

her gown, she drew a hollow mithral tube about twice the length of her slender hand.

“Is that what I think it is?” Gislai asked. “Well isn’t that convenient. And suspicious.”

“Nonsense! Thank you, Ephere.” Tarrant handed her his rapier. “Have a care with this.”

Ephere tapped the rapier’s pommel against the tube, which resonated with a deep, clear tone. The

locks on the now mundane door clicked, and the vault opened to them, shedding golden light that

bathed their skin.

Gislai sucked in a sharp breath.

Ephere nodded.

“Outstanding,” Tarrant said.

The sheer size of the hoard stunned them to silence. A kingdom’s ransom in coins and jewels

overflowed from open chests. Cut gems the size of a clenched fist lay carefully arranged atop bolts of

fine silk and damask. Ancient swords and shields adorned marble statues inlaid with silver and jewels.

The most impressive piece was, by far, a statue of a dragon, wrought of pure gold and studded with

rubies the length of its tail.

“To work.” Tarrant pulled a red silk bag from his tunic, into which he began shoveling treasure.

However much they put in, the bag never seemed to swell.

“Avoid the relics—tricky to fence,” Gislai said. “Hard coin and jewels spend better.”

“Good thing Eram stayed away,” Tarrant said. “He’d likely die of a burst head.”

“I might do so myself.” Gislai held up a platinum tiara. “Look at this! A lass could get used to—”

Then a keening wail filled the room, roaring out into the tower: an alarm spell. Tarrant turned to see

Ephere pointing her war gauntlets at them. He reached for his sword, only to remember that the elf

had taken it at the door. He winced.

“Don’t move,” she said. “Lady Altara will be here soon.”

“I told you not to trust her,” Gislai murmured.

“That’s really comforting,” Tarrant said. “Why, dear lady? Have I offended you? Why would you side with those poorly appointed Hellknights over us?”

Ephere reached down and pulled her bodice open just enough to reveal a long-faded scar, like a

brand. There, she traced the forefinger of her right hand across her flesh, lighting a burning star to

mark herself. That was why she’d been keen to hide her skin earlier, and why that spot on her chest

had felt hot under his touch. It was a symbol Tarrant recognized all too well.

“Hail Asmodeus.” She pressed her lightning gauntlet to Tarrant’s head and shocked him into darkness.

Chapter Four: The Reward

He awoke in a cold spray of brackish water. The Hellknight who’d roused him drew back the half-

empty bucket, then brought it forward again for another go. This time, Tarrant inhaled half the putrid

stuff and gagged. “Is that really necessary?” he coughed.

The Hellknight leaned close, his breath turning Tarrant’s stomach. “You stink of fear, Liespinner.”

“And you stink of mediocrity,” Tarrant said. “I prefer my smell, thanks.”

The knight kicked him in the stomach, and Tarrant collapsed to the floor. The pain was bad, but at

least he had earned the freedom to inspect his surroundings. He was still in Hawkthorne Tower—up in

the council chambers where Doreset sometimes held formal events. The second Hellknight stood a

little ways off, clutching both Tarrant’s sheathed rapier and the bottomless red silk bag. Evidence, no

doubt. Beyond the Hellknights stood a circle of Blackscale Blades, their expressions grim.

Tarrant saw Gislai first, manacled and bruised. Her illusion had fallen, revealing her natural half-orc

features. She glared at Tarrant with a mixture of concern and contempt. She had, after all, told him

so.

Ephere was there as well. She’d shed her fine emerald gown for black working leathers that left her

brand uncovered, and she fit in well amongst the Chelaxians. She averted her gaze from Tarrant, like

the aloof and serene elf maiden she had first seemed to be. He’d always been a fool for a pretty face.

The Hellknight kicked Tarrant again, and Gislai cried out. “Stop it!”

Her captor slapped her hard enough to make her stagger into Ephere, who shoved her back with one

arm.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way. Only Tarrant was supposed to suffer for his mistakes, not his

friends.

The Hellknight drew back his fist for another punch.

“Enough.” A severe woman with long blonde hair and her own set of fiendish Hellknight armor stepped through the circle of judgment. She clicked the talons of her right-hand gauntlet together and looked

down at Tarrant with the sort of expression wolves reserve for wounded deer. “Leave him to me.”

“Altara,” Tarrant said. “Charmed, as always.”

She kicked at his face with her steel-shod boot, but instinct let him dodge aside enough to save his

neck from snapping. The boot crushed his nose and sent him rolling over and over until he slammed

into the legs of his Hellknight captor. There he lay coughing as the world spun.

Of the many women he’d loved and left in his wake, Altara Hathran had been his first—and

consistently worst—oversight. He’d made her promises when they were young together, never

dreaming that he would disappoint her, or that his betrayal would lead her to the life of a militant

ascetic. He regretted it all bitterly, almost as much as his broken nose.

He heard familiar laughter, and turned his woozy focus to a massive man reclining on a divan a few

paces away. “Ah, my trusted friend.” Lord Doreset’s prodigious bulk quivered under his words. “It pleases my heart to see you again, so… helpless.”

His presence answered all Tarrant’s questions. How long had he been in league with the Hellknights?

How long had they planned this ambush? It didn’t matter.

“Your plan has failed,” Altara said. “We will find your other friends soon enough—if they haven’t fled already.”

“Aye, that sounds like Eram.”

“Still a jester.” Altara thrust the talons of her gauntlet through Tarrant’s mail tunic and into his shoulder, then lifted him to his feet. Tarrant gasped for breath and bloody stars burst at the edges of

his vision. She fanned out the sharpened fingers of her other hand on his face and sneered at him.

“It’s over, Tarrant Liespinner. Your crimes will finally see justice. Have you anything to say for

yourself?”

“Did—” he muttered. “Did you look… in the bag?”

Altara leaned closer. “What?”

Altara took the breakup badly.

“I see you… haven’t returned the treasure,” Tarrant said, getting his breath back. “I expect that’s because it’s evidence. Have you checked it yet?”

“Very well,” Altara said. “You wish to have this crime punished now? So be it.” She let Tarrant slump to the floor, flicked his blood off her claw, and waved her Hellknight to open the red silk bag. “Should I look for something in particular?”

“At the bottom.” Tarrant didn’t dare sing a song of healing, but surreptitiously pressed his wound to staunch the bleeding. “You wouldn’t want to drop any of it, though.”

Altara reached carefully into the bag, which swallowed up her arm. She drew out handfuls of treasure,

but had nowhere to put it. One of the Blackscales came forward with another obviously enchanted

haversack, and Altara shoveled handful after handful of jewels and hard coin from the bag into the

pack. Lord Doreset chuckled in the background.

“This is a mountain of evidence,” Altara said.

“True,” Tarrant said.

Finally, Altara reached the bottom of the haul and pulled out a book wrapped in black leather. She

peered at it.

“Wait,” Lord Doreset said, his voice soft. “What is that—?”

“More evidence,” Tarrant said.

Altara unwrapped the twine that held the book shut and flipped through the pages. “Names, dates,

amounts,” she said. “This is a ledger. And—” She looked at the writing carefully. “This is not your writing, Akayn.”

“No, it is not,” Tarrant said. “My lady.”

She scrutinized the book anew, with the eye of a judge—which, of course, she was. Whatever grudge

Altara might have against Tarrant, she remained an agent of the law. “This is your hand, Lord

Doreset,” she said.

“I’ve never seen that before!” Lord Doreset huffed.

“You mean you haven’t seen it recently,” Tarrant said. “How could you, when I had stolen it?” he turned back to Altara. “I think you’ll find that to be an account of all House Doreset’s illegal dealings, from tax evasion to swindling merchants in Cheliax to selling chattel to necromancers in Geb. Also

records of embezzlement—oh.” He glanced at the assembled soldiers. “Including the thousands of gold sails he embezzled from the Blackscale Blades, while supposedly acting as their patron.”

A cold murmur passed through the room. Doreset’s face went red. “This—this is a trick!” he declared.

“A forgery!”

“Subject it to whatever tests you want,” Tarrant said. “As I fancy you shall.”

Two burly Blackscale officers moved forward and took Doreset away, no doubt to conduct their own

investigation. A third approached Altara and motioned toward the ledger.

“See that it’s not damaged,” she said, and handed it to him. “My knights will be conducting their own investigation as well.” The officer nodded in thanks, then left as well, taking the rest of the Blackscales with him.

Through it all, Altara watched Tarrant suspiciously. “What was this about?” she asked finally. “You’d do all this—sacrifice your winnings and yourself—just to bury Doreset?”

“You uphold justice in your way, I do it in mine.” Tarrant coughed raggedly and looked at Altara.

“Justice is done, my lady. Would you unbind me, please? Oops.” He let the open manacles dangle

from one hand. “Looks as though I took care of that. I’ll just be going—”

“No,” Altara said.

The Hellknights drew their swords. Tarrant shivered.

“Lord Doreset’s accounts will be settled,” Altara said. “Fear not on that account. But you and I are far from finished.” She took hold of his armored shirt and pulled him up to eye level. “What’s your plan for dealing with me, Tarrant Liespinner? How are you going to walk out of here?”

“Altara, love of my heart.” Tarrant gave her a winning smile. “Who said I wanted to leave?” He hummed a sweet melody, which in his mind’s eye took the form of floating flower petals around them.

Slowly, Altara’s expression softened. She was different now—hardened, honed. But underneath the

armor, he could still see the lovely young woman he had known in Cheliax. “Oh, Tarrant.” Altara loosened her grasp on his tunic.

That was all he needed to slip from her clutches and step away. “I’ll just be going then.”

Altara hesitated a second, confused, then her face darkened. She tried to grab for him, but he’d

manacled her wrists. “Seize him!” she roared.

Her two Hellknights stepped forward, but one jerked spasmodically and toppled to the floor. The other

looked around into the flame of a burning fist held up to his face. Ephere stepped protectively between

them and Tarrant.

“Well done,” Tarrant said, putting his arm around her for support.

The elf nodded, keeping her fists up.

“What treachery is this?” Altara demanded.

“A thousand apologies,” Tarrant said. “Did you think that night at the Open Palm was our first meeting? Lady Ephere and I are old friends. I can’t imagine why you thought otherwise.”

“What—what of the mark?” Altara pointed her chin at Ephere’s chest.

“A slave brand,” Ephere said. “Tarrant was the one who saved me.”

“Understandably, she holds little love for Cheliax,” Tarrant added.

“You were playing us from the beginning!” Altara said.

“Indeed.” Tarrant looked to Gislai. “Coming?”

The half-orc—who looked as shocked as Altara—nodded. She twisted free of her captor and

headbutted him in the face. He joined his compatriot on the ground. “You could have told me, you

know,” she observed.

“And spoil the fun? Hardly.” Tarrant undid her manacles. “And thank Calistria we’re no longer in the vault. Your ring, if you please?”

Gislai turned her ring around her finger, and a shimmering light appeared around the three thieves.

Still manacled, Altara glared at them. “This is not over, Liespinner.”

He blew her a kiss. “Love, I would have it no other way.”

∗∗∗

Later, at the Open Palm, Gorm was all smiles as they shared one last drink. Gislai and Ephere were

seated nearby, talking of all things elven. Now that all was revealed, they had become fast friends.

Tarrant couldn’t say whether that boded well or ill.

“Really?” Gorm asked. “They just took Lord Doreset away like that?”

“As I expected. Perhaps the proper authorities will even get to lock him up afterward. If there’s

anything left.” Tarrant winced as he dabbed a damp cloth at his nose. Gislai’s prayers had healed it, but it still felt uneven. “That squares your debt, then?”

“Yes, but you—” Gorm shook his head. “You’ve given much for me: almost got thrown into prison again or worse, lost your magic bag and any reward, and only brought the Hellknights down on you all

the harder. You’ll have to leave Absalom. Come to think of it, why haven’t you left yet? I’m glad to

drink with you, but—”

Tarrant shrugged, unconcerned. “I hear Korvosa is nice this time of year—and that its women are

fiery. Besides, who spoke of loss?”

At that moment, two Blackscales entered. Ephere raised her gauntlets and Gislai pulled out several

shuriken, but the adventurers’ forms shimmered as the magic of their potions wore off. Eram and Arlif

looked none the worse for wear. The halfling walked sullenly to Tarrant’s side.

“You might have trusted me,” Eram said. “And not sent this mute giant with me.”

“And you might have fled town.” Tarrant took the haversack from Eram. “Fled before splitting shares, that is.”

He opened the bag to reveal gleaming treasure: their haul from the bait and switch.

“Now it’s time to go,” Tarrant said. “The road beckons, and greater villainy awaits.”

Table of Contents

Chapter One: The Liar

Chapter Two: The Gang

Chapter Three: The Caper

Chapter Four: The Reward

Table of Contents

Chapter One: The Liar

Chapter Two: The Gang

Chapter Three: The Caper

Chapter Four: The Reward

Table of Contents

Chapter One: The Liar

Chapter Two: The Gang

Chapter Three: The Caper

Chapter Four: The Reward