The Wizard in Waiting [154-011-4.0] 
By: Robert Don Hughes 
Category: fiction fantasy 
Synopsis: 
No synopsis available. 



CHAPTER ONE 


A Dream of Betrayal 


AWAKE AGAIN. 


Those were the first words of the Imperial House of Chaomonous in over 
a thousand years. The second words followed logically from the 
first. 


Therefore, the dragon is dead. 


The Imperial House did not speak as men do. How could it, lacking 
lungs and a mouth? Yet to one who knew castle speech, the groaning of 
aged door sills or a whistling draft down a hallway would have 
expressed thoughts as clearly and purposefully as the words of human 
language. Condensation formed on all the interior walls of the palace 
as the House struggled for understanding, reaching for the memories 
stored within its drapes and dungeons scenes that had been registered 
within it somehow, even when it had slept through the years. 


The dragon was dead that much was obvious. For untold centuries, the 
accursed Vicia-Heinox had been discussed and cursed within these halls. 
The dragon had straddled the Central Pass of the One Land, obstructing 
traffic and making a general nuisance of himself. Such a nuisance, in 
fact, that the One Land had been broken into three warring states, and 
the Central Pass had come to be called Dragonsgate. 


The dragon had devoured humans voraciously in those days long ago. The 
House cared little about the consunuVation of persons, of course. With 
a few exceptions, one human was much like another, and it took real 
concentration to tell them apart. But the castle had been bothered 
considerably by the beast's utter lack of concern for structures. Some 
fine old manors had perished in the dragon's fires, in that first great 
period of burning. Indeed, some of the castle's own towers had been 
scorched by 


Towers! the House exclaimed, and it quickly surveyed its own present 
condition. 


Amazing, murmured a window sash, as the castle noted a thousand years 
of home improvements. New spires jetted up from repaved courtyards. 
Reinforced parapets, gleaming in the sun from a recent whitewashing, 
gazed grimly down on the city that sprawled below. Gaily colored 
pennants fluttered in the breeze, at once festive and belligerent, 
throwing a bright challenge to anyone foolish enough to attempt to 
scale these heights. It was a stirring sight, to say the least, and 
the House wheezed with pleasure .. . A cold draft blew through the 
upper dungeon, chilling its inmates and puzzling the guards. 


But of all the additions, by far the loveliest was a series of terraced 
gardens that climbed from deep within the castle's heart to the very 
roof itself. Fountains and walkways graced this artful wonder, and so 
glorious was the greenery it would have stolen the castle's breath away 
had the castle any breath to steal. 


How odd, to grow so grand while sleeping! 



The Imperial House took pride in its renewed appearance. Evidently it 
still stood tall among structures. Yet all was not as it should be. 
While its old walls and towers functioned just as they always had, as 
the castle's organs of touch and smell, sight and hearing, the new 
sections seemed devoid of life. There was no vision of the countryside 
from the new spires. The new pavements heard no conversation. Was it 
the House's imagination, or did these new constructions tingle, as if 
still asleep? 


Awake! the Imperial House ordered the new sections gruffly, and it 
sweated some more as it sought to force consciousness into these 
remodeled areas .. , 


"Kherda!" Queen Ligne shrilled at her Prime Minister. "p.o you see 
this?" She glided delicate, bejewelled fingers across a marble-tiled 
wait grown suddenly, inexplicably wet. "Just what is causing this?" 
She demanded as she rubbed her moist fingertips together in his face. 


"I have no idea, my Queen," Kherda replied quietly, annoyed by her 
accusing tone. This wasn't unusual. Ligne's tone of voice regularly 
annoyed him and seemed to grow more annoying with every passing day. 
But just as regularly, Kherda swallowed his pique and smiled. Kherda 
was quite creative at inventing new ways to grovel. "Perhaps, my Lady, 
it's the weather?" 


The House heard the conversation, and felt her caressing fingers, even 
as it registered a hundred other comments from a hundred other rooms. 
It focused its attention here, however, on this black-maned beauty and 
her parasitic Prime Minister. This was by force of ancient habit, 
really. Centuries of watching human behavior had taught the House 
that, in the minds of humans at least, the most critical conversations 
took place in the courts of Kings. That wasn't so, as the castle knew 
very well, having listened to years of sloppy drivel coming from this 
very throne room. It was often much more fun to hear what the 
messengers and consorts said outside the regent's hearing. Even so, it 
was a relief to find that the throne room had not been greatly 
altered. 


The foundations are the same, the House sighed, reassured. Still as 
firm, as impenetrable as the rock from which they had been carved. 
Indeed, while cosmetic changes had been made, the basic ffoorplan of 
the massive palace would still have been recognizable to Nobalog. 


Nobalog! The Imperial House winced, and a dolorous booming issued from 
the cistern beneath the kitchen, as the castle mourned the passing of 
its friend. More than a friend, really, for it had been the 
oowershaper Nobalog "the fat, bald one" who had birthed consciousness 
in the castle so many years before. 


How many? the Imperial House wondered. How long had it been? 


Not that it mattered, particularly, with Nobalog dead. While there had 
been many in that ancient age who sported with the castle, debating 
with it about current events or telling it meaningless human jokes, 
only Nobalog ever took the time to understand. More than that, of all 
the power shapers who had walked its corridors, only Nobalog had been 
sensitive to the damaging effects of magic upon the House. Nobalog had 
been a friend. 


But Nobalog was long dead. That was the problem with humans. 



Eventually, they all died. Nobalog had been gone a thousand years by 
the time the dragon came, and put the castle to sleep. 


The House listened again with some attention to the words of Queen 
Ligne, for her sharp voice had jogged its memory. It had heard her 
before! 


There have been dreams, the House said quietly, dreams that were not 
dreams at all, but rather stages of awakening. This is why some things 
are known. 


Seeking to learn more, the House followed the woman's march down the 
hallway and onto the grand spiral. This was a gigantic curving 
staircase that formed the hub of all castle activities. Had she passed 
down the spiral, it would have taken her onto the dais of the vast 
great hall, where all of those within the walls took their meals. The 
House noted with some concern that the upper end of the spiral now 
opened onto the lowest garden terrace. Though beautiful, this new area 
was outside the castle's range of hearing. Ligne did not climb that 
high, however, turning off instead to stamp toward the royal 
apartments. She was bellowing orders even before she reached her 
attiring room, so that, by the time she slung open the door, a dozen 
attendants were already waiting to change her. 


The House watched attentively as the army of maids stripped the queen 
bare. The castle's standards of beauty had all been drawn from the 
comments of men, and it was fully aware that many within the walls 
would have longed to watch this operation. To the House, however, the 
woman's shapely form was no more nor less entrancing than any of the 
other objects of art that lined its corridors or stood in its 
courtyards. While her imperious manner indicated that she truly 
believed herself the owner of this palace, the House knew better. Long 
after she passed from the scene, the House would continue to stand. 
Rather, the castle believed that it owned her, and was mildly pleased 
that the present regent was so comely in appearance. 


And yet .. . was there not some question regarding her sovereignty? 


The castle sweated to remember .. . There was a scene, perhaps months 
before, recorded in its semiconscious state .. . 


*"I look a mess!" Ligne muttered, but the vision in the mirror belied 
her words. 


"You look positively regal, my Lady," Kherda gushed. The old feelings 
welled up in his heart again, those adolescent palpitations that had 
caused him to betray Talith, his rightful King, and lay the plot to 
elevate this woman to the throne. "It's little wonder King Talith 
chose you for his paramour!" 


"Don't talk about Talith," Ligne mumbled. "I just ate dinner." 


"But it's true, my Lady! Your beauty so ensnared him *' 


Turn it off, Kherda." The Queen scooped up her velvet skirts and paced 
toward the doorway. "You're sure Joss is coming?" 


"It has all been arranged, my Queen," Kherda reassured her. "General 
Joss has accepted the terms of the agreement, and has promised to 
appear today, bringing the girl with him. Ah, there is one detail that 



I must " 


"But what guarantees do I have? The man has hated me from the first 
moment." 


"He doesn't hate you " 


Ligne arched an eyebrow and shot Kherda a poisonous look. 


"I mean, it may have looked as if he hated you," Kherda hurriedly 
clarified, "but you have to understand Joss. He's consumed with 
loyalty to the throne of Chaomonous, and he somehow sensed that you 
were a threat to his King. You must admit, he had cause to be 
suspicious " 


"So now he's going to turn his back on those old loyalties and 
surrender Talith's rightful heir to me?" Ligne accentuated her sarcasm 
by propping a hand on her jutting hip. 


Kherda controlled his impatience, and though he had explained this all 
a dozen times before even managed a smile as he explained it once 
again: "Talith is dead, my Lady. There's nothing left for Joss to be 
loyal to. Why should he continue to support the House of Talith when 
the 


King played such a critical role in his own downfall? After all, the 
King relieved Joss of his command the day before the battle rather 
shabby treatment, in view of the General's loyalty. And you've 
certainly done nothing to injure Joss, apart from sent ding a couple of 
raiding parties after him " 


"Which he destroyed," Ligne muttered. 


"He is a shrewd tactician, to be sure." Kherda nodded. "There's 
little love between us, as you well know, and I judge it no blessing to 
have the man within the walls again. On the other hand, it's far 
better to have the General's talents with us than against us, and his 
great loyalty to the nation and the throne has convinced him that there 
would be no profit in a protracted civil war " 


Yes, yes, so you've said. So where is he, then?" 


"It isn't the appointed hour quite yet, and it's a long ride from " 


Kherda was interrupted by a series of trumpet blasts issuing from the 
gate of the Imperial House. He turned to Ligne with a self-satisfied 
smile. "You see? He's even early!" 


"How very like Joss," Ligne mumbled .. . 


The castle's memory of the dream faltered then, as if at that point in 
the conversation the House had lapsed back from semiconsciousness into 
a comatose state. Spurred on by an intense curiosity, the House 
pursued these fleeting wisps of thought. The thread of the dream 
picked up again .. . 


They stood in the Hall of Peace: Ligne, Kherda, General Joss and the 
Princess Bronwynn, Ligne made no secret of her elation. She trilled 
with laughter each time she spoke, "You can't imagine how delighted I 
am to see you again, Bronwynn," she sang. "I simply can't tell you how 



it pleases me!" 


Bronwynn, daughter of Talith and true heir to the throne of Chaomonous, 
said nothing. Instead, she turned her startlingly blue eyes in a 
searing gaze on the General who had promised her a crown and betrayed 
her. 


General Joss avoided her eyes. It wasn't that he felt guilty. He was 
doing the only sensible thing. The rights of one beautiful young woman 
could hardly take precedence over the right of an entire nation to 
peace regardless of the royalty of her blood. Nor was he particularly 
bothered by her opinion of him. Joss had grown quite accustomed to 
hatred. But he had never been one to enjoy giving the coup de grace to 
a fallen enemy, as had some of his peers. He took no pleasure in this 
betrayal. And despite the girl's bedraggled hah and tear-stained 
cheeks, her accusing eyes were far too reminiscent of her father's to 
permit Joss to meet her stare. Instead, he turned his attention to 
Kherda. "You've informed the Queen of my condition?" 


"What condition?" Ligne snapped, jerking around to look at her Prime 
Minister, who unconsciously stepped back under the impact. 


"Ah, actually, the occasion never did arise to " 


"My Lady," Joss cut him off, "I made it clear to Kherda in our 
negotiations that the girl was not to be killed " 


"Not to be killed!" Ligne screeched, laughing no longer. "What kind 
of nonsense is this?" 


"Kherda!" Joss roared savagely. 


"It's true," the Prime Minister squealed, backing well out of the range 
of a possible swipe from Ligne's feline claws. He raced on: "It was a 
necessary concession to insure a successful result of the talks " 


"Not to be killed!" Ligne repeated, stalking Kherda's retreat and 
picking up speed to match his. 


"I tell you it was necessary," the Prime Minister wailed, turning tail 
to scamper around behind the frowning General. Joss stepped in front 
of the enraged woman to block her pursuit. 


"It is necessary," he said firmly, and Ligne turned her wrath on him 
instead. 


"You .. . betray me!" she roared. 


"You too?" Bronwynn piped up bitterly. "Perhaps we should start a 
club .. ." 


"Ligne, h'sten to reason," Joss barked, and the authority in his harsh 
voice caught the Queen's attention. "You've nothing to gain by killing 
this girl, and much to lose. Her murder could only provoke more 
outrage from the populace and a possible insurrection. Place her under 
protective custody and let it be published that she's been deemed 
mentally unfit to rule. Do so ... and I'll offer the full weight of my 
influence to back your claim." 


"That girl is the only threat to my crown!" Ligne screamed. 



"No!" Joss shouted back. "You are!" 


The woman stared at him, shaken by his temerity. When she spoke again, 
she was calmer. "Just what do you mean?" 


"It isn't seemly for a Queen to be so governed by her emotions," Joss 
answered evenly. "Perhaps if you would think this through, you'd see 
my point." 


"Go on." 


"Entrust the girl to me. You may find eventually she'll endorse your 
claim herself." 


"That won't happen, Joss," Bronwynn said quickly. "I told you this 
morning the throne is mine." 


"Why such a change?" Ligne asked the General, ignoring the girl's 
comment. "You've always been so loyal. Tell me why you would make 
such a radical switch?" 


Her tone was suddenly almost cordial, the General observed. That was a 
promising sign. "Evidently you can control your emotions " he began. 


"Of course I can," JJgne snapped. "Answer my question." 


"I didn't have the strength to defeat you," the General admitted. "My 
army was hungry, the snow was cold, and victory was a hopeless 
fantasy." 


"We could have won!" Bronwynn said heatedly. "If you'd contacted 
Pelmen as I told you to, we could have had the whole army of Lamath " 


"To ravage the countryside of Chaomonous?" Joss finished for her. "No, 
thank you," he snarled, and he turned back to Ligne. "I prefer 
Chaomonous to be ruled by Chaons, not fanatical Lamathians in long blue 
robes. You understand, don't you, my Lady?" 


Ligne smiled smugly. "General, I understand perfectly. And your 
sensible explanation has brought a welcome focus to all of this. 
Kherda, you could take a lesson from the General." 


The blood drained from the Prime Minister's face, then returned in a 
crimson flood. He would have spoken, but no words could express his 
humiliation and fury. 


The Wizard in Wailing 9 


"General" the queen continued, "I extend to you once again the full 
command of the Golden Throng. Do with the girl what you choose," Ligne 
dismissed Bronwynn with a flick of her hand. 


, Joss recognized this as a bold gambit to assert her dominance in 
their relationship. Ordinarily he would have responded with equal 
coldness. But there was something about this woman, something 
compelling about the combination of her physical charms and her steel 
ambition, that caused him uncharacteristically to gulp. Ligne saw it 
and, before he could summon any reply, she spun on her heel and was 
gone. . The House now remembered several other events of that same 



day, but they were matters of little importance. At the moment it was 
much more interested in discovering what had transpired in the weeks or 
months since that vision. Its curiosity had been thoroughly aroused. 


It took only a moment to spot the Princess. While kings asd emperors 
might redecorate their own apartments with regularity, few ever 
troubled to remodel their dungeons. The House found Bronwynn sitting 
at the bottom of the Pit. 


Though she sat in a darkness so total that she couldn't even see her 
own hands before her face, Bronwynn's knot-ted hair and the scrap of 
rag that passed for her dress could be clearly perceived by the House. 
The lack of light was unimportant, for the castle's sense of sight was 
no more Hfce men's vision than its language was like men's speech. lit 
was by a subtle and totally unconscious shaping of ^magical power. That 
same form of shaping allowed it to jbear the rustling as Bronwynn pawed 
blindly through heaps of straw in search of a lost morsel of bread. "I 
know |P here someplace," the girl mumbled as she dug. She had hopped 
it hours ago-^or maybe days who could tell in timeless hole? and had 
been searching for it ever r psraktence was fueled by her hunger and by 
fact that she had nothing else to do. 


House felt no pity for her. Though it had witnessed before, it had 
experienced neither any need for it nor inclination toward it in its 
centuries of consciousness. humans imprisoned other humans within 
walls of stone had been among the first things the castle ever 
comprehended. The House saw little reason in the anger and frustration 
persons felt toward their imprisonment, however. It was, after all, a 
prisoner itself of sorts, and quite at peace with its immobility. One 
thing it did relate to, however, was the isolation that captives 
experienced. This Princess Bronwynn was doubtless lonely, and the 
castle decided to approach her. 


The object you seek is to your left and behind you, said the House. 


Bronwynn jerked backward, landing prone in a pile of straw, staring up 
toward the grating that was the only entrance into the hole. The House 
chuckled, stirring the stale air with an incongrous draft. 


Now it is by your left foot. 


"Is there someone there?" Bronwynn called. The raspiness of her own 
voice startled her momentarily; she had screamed herself hoarse during 
the first week of her captivity, and the constant chill of this dank 
place had added a persistent cold to her list of torments. But more 
startling by far was the sense that there was something present in the 
cell with her something nonhuman. 


It is the House who speaks. 


Bronwynn peered into the darkness, looking first one direction, then 
another. She succeeded only in making herself dizzy. "Who's there?" 
she whispered, fighting off the sense of vertigo. 


It is the House, the House said a bit peevishly. 


Bronwynn could make no sense of the odd stirrings in the straw around 
her or the rapid changes of temperature in her cell. She only knew 
that some power or force had manifested itself toward her; she made the 
only assumption that seemed logical. "Are you the Power that Pelmen 



told me about?" 


The Power? the House asked. Such an idea was confusing. 


"If you are and I pray you are I only ask that you let him know where I 
am and send him to rescue me." 


Now the Imperial House had heard many pleas for rescue in its ages of 
existence some even from tboss of royal blood. But all of these had 
been addressed to itself not to some Power. Such a request made no 
sense. 


_Must it be stated again? It is the House who addresses jpu. What do 
you mean by a Power? 


"I began to wonder if you even existed. Haven't you heard me calling 
out for you all these weeks?" The Princess sounded cross, which made 
the conversation that much more perplexing. It was as if she didn't 
understand a word the castle said. 


"Are you not listening? Or do the shapers no longer teach castle 
speech to the royal children? 


*% I know .. ." Bronwynn began, then she faltered, suddenly 
self-conscious about talking to nothing. She listened for a moment to 
the dark, then murmured: "Am I going insane, the way they want me to 
think? No!" she answered herself firmly, and she began again. "Of 
course, I know you haven't been active in Chaomonous in ages, but 
Pelmen always said he thought that was because of the dragon, and that 
the more people in this land learned of you, the more apparent your 
presence would become .. ." 


i What are you talking about? Who is this Pelmen? 


Bronwynn groped her way to her feet, stumbling against a wall in the 
process. It was wet with sweat. Odd, she thought, not realizing that 
her own inability to communicate had caused the wall's condition. 


**! it is you, I'm begging you take care of Pelmen. And take care of 
Rosha, too .. ." 


Hie House hastily withdrew from the conversation, thor-oughiy 
bewildered by the strangeness of her notions. Bron-srynn heard no 
more. She slumped against the moist wall and sighed. Her sensitivity, 
which had once caused Pelmen io suggest she might shape the powers some 
day, told her tfaat the moment had passed. 


' .; "Or is my mind slipping .. ." she asked quietly. No aw 
answered. 


"House was experiencing some of those same feel-It had slept too long. 
It needed someone to fill in the y sizable gaps in its understanding. 
Quickly, the located the Queen. Evening had painted the sky le, then 
black, and though the wind was chilly, Ligne strolled atop the 
parapets. 


explanation is required, the House demanded. didn't even pause. She 
pulled her fur-lined cloak 


The WizartJ In Waiting tightly around her shoulders, and gazed 



downriver toward the sea. The full moon had peeked above the eastern 
horizon, washing the countryside with pale light. The afternoon's 
vexations were long forgotten now. As the wind destroyed her careful 
coiffure, her eyes dropped slightly to study the farthest reaches of 
her vast city, where distant torches tiny pinpoints of brilliance 
seemed to reflect the starry sky back at itself. Her thoughts were far 
away .. . 


Is there no courtesy anymore? Where are your manners? the castle 
snapped. 


Ligne made no response. She was busy weighing the qualities of her 
various Jovers, clinically analyzing their strengths and weaknesses. 
Her present prospects all bored her. She wished for some new diversion 
to break up the sameness of castle routine .. . 


Or has the world gone mad? 


The House began to panic. Why would no one respond? 


The castle had repressed the thought long enough. Now it sprang to 
full, horrifying consciousness. The logical next step was to turn to 
the present castle power shaper for counsel. The problem was, the 
power shaper quarters were missing. The apartments occupied by Nobalog 
and the other shapers of old had been replaced by the terraced 
gardens. 


With brutal impact, a new set of memories returned memories of the 
shocking years just prior to the coming of the dragon. Wars abounded. 
The One Land, united for ages, took only a moment to splinter apart. 
Shapers dueled for no purpose save their own pride, urged on by Kings 
and would-be Kings, and others who wished for no Kings at all. Scholars 
who disavowed shaping asserted the primacy of a world view based only 
on logic and in this region, they had prevailed. For one brief moment, 
the House relived those horrible days. It heard again the clamor of 
arms in its hallways, felt again the inexpressible agony wrought when 
shapers wrenched from its life force wonders sometimes splendid, 
sometimes terrifying, but always excruciatingly painful. Then the 
memories passed .. . 


Ligne still stood upon the battlements, gazing out at the night. 
Bronwynn still rooted through the straw for a crust of bread. And the 
castle was alone. 


Are there no more shapers? it asked the entire population that lived 
within its walls. Though a few hesitated in their tasks with puzzled 
expressions, the vast majority of the citizens of this city within a 
city simply ignored the castle's question. No one deigned to answer. 
The castle's temper flared to rage. 


These questions shall be answered! it roared, and for the remainder of 
the night, the palace servants waged war with stopped-up plumbing, 
curious drafts, and pictures that seemed to leap from the walls. 


This House, said the Imperial House of Chaomonous, not be ignored. 


So completely did the House turn in upon itself that it missed what 
might have been a welcome visitation. For outside, at the very foot of 
one of its massive battlements, stood a lone figure draped in dark 
garments. And at various times, in various places, the man had proved 



something of a wizard. 


The wind whipped his shoulder-length brown hair up on end as he peered 
up the facing of the cliff like wall. The Sting of the cold watered 
his blue eyes, but he would not leave off his gazing. His lips moved. 
Was he speaking to himself? Or to some unseen listener? Then, as 
silently as he'd come, he disappeared into the winter night, heading 
south. 


CHAPTER TWO 


To Win a Way Within 


"*.. . You MEAN that was your daughter, sir I said. "But I thought it 
was your pet tree-monk!" Ah-ha-ha-ha!" Gerrig bent double, slapping 
his thighs as he pushed the sound of his mellow laughter out over the 
heads of his audience. As he straightened back up, a ripe tomato 
splattered across his face, spilling a juicy trail of seeds onto the 
red curls of his beard. Gerrig's laugh died, but a grim smile remained 
fixed on his lips. 


"Why do you laugh at your own jokes?" taunted the peasant who had 
scored this latest hit. 


"Because you are too dense to understand them, good fellow. I don't 
wish to show your neighbors how dull you are, so I laugh so that you 
may know when to join in." The peasant flushed, and his friends 
cackled at his discomfort. His only retort was another direct hit. 


The laughing crowd took no notice of the dirty child who dashed out 
from behind the makeshift curtain to scoop up what was left of the two 
tomatoes. Nor did they hear her mutter, "Carrots," to Gerrig. The 
player nodded as the little girl scrambled down off the stage, and he 
looked out into the faces of his audience again. 


"You, sir," he said, as he pointed at the peasant, "have 


DO Imagination. Tomatoes! Why, any man can throw a tomato, or a 
turnip. They're round. But try throwing something oblong a banana 
gourd, perhaps, or better yet a carrot. Now it takes a keen eye to " 
Gerrig cut his words short and ducked. Two carrots whizzed over his 
head. A third bounced off his balding pate and rolled to the 
back-drop. The audience screamed with glee. 


Gerrig stood slowly, rubbing his noggin and muttering, 


If I hadn't ducked, you wouldn't have come close. You must try harder 
" A barrage of vegetables filled the air, and Gerrig stooped, covering 
his head with his hands. The little girl scrambled onto the stage 
again, and began shoving the bouncing foodstuffs toward her mother, who 
waited in the wings. The audience had at last caught the fever, and 
now everyone was merrily participating with one exception. Gerrig 
noticed the fellow as he knelt to roll a couple of turnips offstage. He 
straightened again and pointed at the man. 


"You, sir! Don't you wish to join your neighbors in pelting the 
defenseless player? Wouldn't you like to show your own cultural 
appreciation? Join in. Lend a hand in this gracious reception your 
townsfolk have prepared for us." 



The man raised both hands, palms up. An easily interpreted gesture he 
had nothing to throw. But Gerrig looked again as the fellow pulled his 
ragged brown robe tightly around him, shielding his face. Gerrig 
thought he'd seen that gesture before. 


"Potatoes," Sherina called quietly from the wings, and Gerrig launched 
into a new tirade of insults and abuse. Soon the villagers had 
exhausted their supply of rotting vegetables and rank fruit, and began 
drifting away, but he continued his monologue until the last peasant 
shuffled onto the road for home. Then he hopped off the stage of his 
wagon and started walking the twenty yards to where the brown-clad 


stranger still stood, watching. 
"Show's over, friend," Gerrig called as he walked. 
now." Gerrig was a big man, with thick, 
"You can go home 
meaty shoulders and hands as big as shovel blades. His teeth were very 

white, and when the curtain of his bearded lips parted in a smile, it 
was impossible not to notice his gleaming canines. There was an 
implied threat both in i.) Gerrig's gait and his appearance, and the 
stranger should have been frightened at the very least, a little 
startled. Yet the brown-clad figure stood his ground and waited for 
Gerrig to reach bun, his posture alert but relaxed. Gerrig slowed to a 
menacing saunter, and spoke more quietly: "I said, you can go now." The 
threat was no longer implied. Gerrig's tone of voice made it quite 
clear. 


"You mean, that's all?" the stranger asked. "No performance?" 


"You've seen the performance, and you've seen the reaction it got. Now 
be off with you!" 


"But what of of Shadows of a Night at Sea or Tales of the Six and 
OneT 


Gerrig raised an eyebrow. "You know those plays? How?" 


"Why, I've watched them, seen them performed." "Oh?" Gerrig said. 
"Any particular ah roles come to mind?" 


A low chuckle issued from the depths of the stranger's plain garment. 
"The captain, of course, in Shadows. Who could forget his final 
speech?" 


"Yes, who could?" Gerrig nodded, pleased. The captain's role had 
always been his own. But his icy manner swiftly returned. "That was 
long ago. We don't play those tales anymore." He jerked away, calling 
back to the line of wagons. "Sherina! Danyilyn! Is it cooking?" 


"It's cooking," came some woman's yelled reply, and Gerrig nodded. Then 
he turned back to the stranger. 


"I cannot tell by your accent where you're from, but I know you're no 
Southlander. Are you by chance a spy from the court of the Queen?" 
Gerrig smiled as he asked this question. There was, however, no humor 
there. 


Again the stranger chuckled. "In a way, I do come from the Queen. But 
not Queen Ligne, I assure you nor do I own any favor in her court." 



Gerrig folded his arms, bringing one hand up to his face. He tapped 
his teeth with his thumbnail for a moment, thinking. Then he pointed 
at the stranger. "Nevertheless, you have been there. Those were court 
plays you mentioned, rarely performed outside of Chaomonous proper. You 
are from the capital." "Perhaps." "Not perhaps, you arel" Gerrig 
growled. "Now who are 


you?" The actor reached out to jerk the stranger's brown cloak aside. 
Then he made a face. It reflected his consternation at not recognizing 
the brown stranger sooner. 


"I must say, Gerrig, you do the soup scenario very well. Had I brought 
any vegetables with me, I surely would have thrown them at you." 


"Yes, well," Gerrig grumbled, his voice rough and raspy, "IH never 
surpass you at it. I make too big a target. Danyilyn I Sherina!" 


"I told you, Gerrig, it's cooking," Danyilyn yelled back, annoyed. 


"Set up another bowl then, wench. Pelmen's back again." 


The troupe was smaller than he remembered. Even so, several of the 
faces were new. Half of the players Pelmen had acted beside for years 
were now gone. He glanced around him, taking roll, as Sherina set a 
bowl of steaming vegetable soup before him. 


There's even a little meat stock in it." The square-jawed Sherina 
smiled ruefully. "Coralai managed to snatch a bone away from a dog." 


Pelmen smiled wanly, and looked over at Coralai, the little girl who'd 
been such an efficient collector of vegetable missies. "She's grown," 
he said quietly, experiencing that inescapable jolt of mortality he 
always felt when babies suddenly grew up. The other familiar faces 
gathered around him seemed unchanged by the year-long intermission. But 
children are the yardsticks of passing time, and Pelmen recognized it 
had been a while. 


"Eat it, before it cools," Gerrig ordered as he shoveled a spoonful 
into his mouth. "It may be all you get for a while if you plan on 
staying." 


Pelmen took a mouthful as Sherina watched him expectatly. She'd never 
possessed the natural acting talent of some of the others in the 
troupe, but she could cook. One 


Wnile from Pelmen, and she was satisfied to go on happily fabout her 
business. 


,|; "The soup scenario is a summer ploy," Pelmen said to Ji;"Gerrig as 
he cooled another spoon of the broth. "It's past j&pie yule season why 
aren't you wintering somewhere?" 


"Did you, by chance, seek us on the coast?" Gerrig asked without 
looking up from his bowl. 


"I did." 


"We weren't there." 


"So I discovered." 



Gerrig still didn't look up. Pelmen understood. The man was 
embarrassed. "We've had a terrible year, Pelmen. The worst I can 
remember. We've been out of favor in the court ever since your 
brilliant final performance with us, when you called Ligne a traitor." 
Gerrig didn't hide his sarcasm. The troupe's last performance at court 
had been disastrous for all. 


"She was a traitor," chirped Danyilyn, as she walked across the stage 
to the two men and droppped down to sit on its edge. "She still is. 
Hello." The last word she delivered into Pelmen's eyes in a husky 
whisper. 


"Hello, Danyilyn. You're looking well, as always." 


"Well enough to attract your attention, traveler?" She hummed. 


"Danyilyn, you were always capable of that" Pelmen craned his neck to 
scan the line of wagons in both directions. "But where is everyone 
else? A year ago we were the best organized, largest troupe in 
Chaomonous. What happened?" 


"One of us decided to meddle in politics, that's what happened," Gerrig 
growled, finally looking at Pelmen. 


"We took a vote, Gerrig remember?" Danyilyn said. "As I recall, we 
all agreed that we couldn't stand idly by while Ligne plotted to 
overthrow her lover. We agreed to make our opinions known." 


"And a lot of good it did us," Gerrig snorted, draining the last of his 
soup and passing the bowl to Sherina for a refill. "Ligne is on the 
throne anyway, and we're reduced to begging peasants to pelt us with 
tomatoes so we can keep from starving." 


"Then all of this is the result of our criticism of Ligne and King 
Talith?" Pelmen asked sadly. 


"Not completely, no." Danyilyn sighed. "Though of course that did 
cost us our appointment to the court. But the confusion of Ligne's 
coup in the capital, the war on Lamath, the dragon burning the year's 
events have thrown the whole countryside into confusion. The dragon 
burned most of this year's harvest, so there's no food, and it was 
bound to be a bad year anyway, since so many farmers were dragged off 
to the war. We're not the only troupe that's suffered." 


Though perhaps we're better complainers than most," broke in someone at 
Pelmen's back, and he turned around to greet Yona Parmi with a smile. 


"Well, I'm happy to see you're still around," Pelmen said, and Yona 
snorted. 


"Would I abandon my family? If I were to leave, who would Gerrig chew 
on?" Then he returned Pelmen's grin. Yona Parmi did not smile with 
his lips. They stayed fixed and frozen in a thin line. But when his 
cheekbones rose, and the skin of his fleshy face tightened across them, 
one could tell he was amused. Yona Parmi was a watcher of people, and 
what he saw in Chaomonous gave him little cause to smile. When he did, 
it was a joyous experience for his friends, compelling them to join in. 
In a moment the smile vanished, and Yona Parmi's cheekbones said he was 
serious again. "We all have tales of this past year's troubles to tell 



you, but I, for one, am far more interested in why you've returned." 
His tone was not scolding. Yona Parmi knew Pelmen as well as any man 
did and he knew Pelmen did nothing without purpose. 


Pelmen glanced around him at this circle of old friends. There was 
some hostility there, and some bitterness, for it had been a difficult 
year, and Pelmen realized he bore much of the blame for their harsh 
conditions. "I'm here to apologize," he said quietly, "and to get you 
all back onto the main stage of Chaomonous." 


A stunned silence greeted his announcemtnt. Gerrig recovered first. 
"And how are you going to do that?" he sneered. "I suppose you've 
brought us a gilt-edged invitation, won by your long-standing 
friendship with the Queen?" 


"I've won nothing as yet, Gerrig," Pelmen responded evenly, "but I 
intend to. I've brought you all copies of a new play." 


"Another explosive piece of political wizardry, I'll wager," Gerrig 
snorted bitterly. 


Pelmen allowed himself a trace of a smile. "There may be a bit of 
wizardry in it." Only Yona Parmi understood the twinkle in Pelmen's 
eye. 


"No!" Gerrig bellowed, slamming his hand on the wagon-bed. "You're 
not content with dooming us to exile, now you want to make sure we all 
roast over Ligne's fires!" 


Pelmen ignored his huge friend's accusations. "Why not read it before 
you decide?" 


"Sounds sensible to me," Danyilyn put in quickly. 


"And to me," Yona Parmi echoed. 


"Me, too," said a childish voice at Pelmen's feet, and he looked down 
into Coralai's unflinching brown eyes. He knelt down to look her 
squarely in the face. 


"If I'd realized how big you'd be, I would have written a part for 
you." He grinned. 


"So. Write me in." She shrugged, her expression solemn., 


"I'll do it That is, if Gerrig decides to give it a chance." 


"Oh, Gerrig'll read it," Coralai advised. "You've just got to give him 
some time to blow off steam." 


Pelmen glanced up at Gerrig's hairy face, not bothering to hide his 
smile. Obviously, Coralai knew Gerrig well. 


Like all of Pelmen's plays, it was a work filled with bright color and 
strange images. The writer was in love with the sound of language, and 
some speeches thundered with a power that evoked deep emotional 
response. Most, however, brought the lighthearted tinkle of laughter, 
for the play was a comedy. It was a barbed comedy, however, poking 
merciless fun at an idiotic King too blind to see the machinations of 
his own advisors. With each line read, the target of the play grew 



clearer the foolish King was obviously Talith. It was evident to every 
member of the troupe that the script would play quite well yet the 
read-through grew steadily more uncomfortable with each new scene. By 
the final line only one actor was thoroughly enraptured with the piece 
and that was Gerrig. Pelmen had quite deliberately made the King's 
mistress the heroine. 


The reaction was not unexpected. Pelmen glanced up from his own 
manuscript and gazed around the circle of seated actors. "Well?" he 
asked. "What do you think?" 


"I love it!" Gerrig exploded, a large grin spreading across his beefy 
features. "It has pacing, it has style, power, substance and humor, 
oh, I love the humor, such satire. And, of course, it will surely 
sell." 


"It should." Pelmen nodded. He looked around the circle again. 
"Others?" he asked. No one rushed to respond. Pel-men glanced at 
Danyilyn. "What do you think?" he asked pointedly. 


The actress bit her lip, forced a smile, then shrugged. "Reads great," 
she said. 


"But?" Pelmen sup pled for her, and she half smiled with embarrassment 
and continued: 


"I mean it," she said. "The part you've written for me is excellent, 
and it'll be a fun role to play, but but isn't it rather transparently 
Ligne?" 


"Perhaps," Pelmen said. 


"Not perhaps," Danyilyn blurted, warming to the discussion. "It's her. 
And she'll doubtless recognize herself " 


"Think she'll be pleased with it?" he interrupted. 


"How could she help it?" Danyilyn snorted, making her own feelings for 
Ligne quite apparent. "She comes off smelling like a rose instead of 
the manure beneath one." Suddenly her eyes narrowed. "What's happened 
to you in the last year, Pelmen?" she demanded. "This isn't like 
you." 


"Perhaps it wasn't," he said quietly. 


"How can you support that woman, when she's " 


"Could I say something here?" Gerrig broke in, and Danyilyn snapped: 


"There's no one here big enough to stop you." 


"I think it's just the piece we've needed," he argued. "Oh, perhaps it 
doesn't reflect our own political opinions, but we're entertainers, not 
politicians, and " 


Danyilyn uttered a rude comment about Gerrig's ancestry. Had it been 
said by a stranger in a pub someplace, Gerrig would undoubtedly have 
sent the fellow home over the shoulders of his mates if not directly to 
the local cemetery. When Danyilyn said it, however, Gerrig simply shut 
up. The image presented by the exchange was that of a poodle pursuing 



a Saint Bernard, for though Danyilyn's figure was ample, she was really 
quite small. She had a giant-sized temper, however, and now that it 
was roused, she turned it back on Pelmen. 


"After leading us to expose this trollop, you want us now to become her 
pet players?" 


"I want you to consider performing this play," Pelmen answered quietly. 
"As you've said, she's sure to like it, which should win the troupe a 
new appointment to the court. Once there, you may find more freedom to 
do the plays you really do well." 


"Freedom!" Danyilyn spat. "Freedom bought at the expense of the true 
Queen." 


"I've heard that she's dead." Sherina said it so quietly, it was 
almost a whisper. 


"She's not dead," Gerrig interrupted authoritatively. "She's just 
missing. The merchants took her north and sold her as a slave to the 
new ruler of Lamath." 


Pelmen wondered briefly where Gerrig got his misinformation, but 
quickly dismissed the thought. Gerrig was sure he knew everything 
about everything. What details he lacked could easily be supplied from 
his rich imagination. Pelmen focused his attention on Danyilyn. "Is 
freedom to influence public opinion something to be sneered at? What 
help can you offer the true Queen from this far south?" 


Danyilyn stared at Pelmen, her forehead furrowed by an ugly frown. "I 
just can't believe this is coming from you 


Yona Parmi witnessed this whole encounter silently. While others 
spoke, he watched Pelmen's eyes, searching the wanderer's face for a 
clue to his real purpose. He saw none, for Pelmen had frozen his 
features into a grim gaze that gave away nothing. However, that was 
sufficient to assure Yona Parmi that Pelmen's concern extended far 
beyond the mere showcasing of a new play. And he trusted Pelmen's 
judgment. He now spoke up in favor of the project, though he loathed 
the thought of Ligne as Queen more, perhaps, than did Danyilyn. "I 
think we should do it." 


The volatile actress spun around to face him. "You, too?" 


Yona Parmi's eyes were close-set and very weak, yet they contained a 
quiet wisdom that made Danyilyn pause. He pushed a shock of black hair 
out of his round face and squinted at her. "Accepting, as we all 
surely must, the clear parallels in this piece to recent events has 
Pelmen misstated the case? He's presented Talith as a fool which he 
was and Ligne as a clever manipulator of fools which she is. The tale 
is entertaining. The moral is simple don't be a fool. Has he said any 
more than that? Has he endorsed Ligne's method of claiming a crown? I 
think not. But Ligne may, and she will perhaps be pleased enough to 
invite us into her home. Is there anything wrong with that?" Yona 
Parmi's small black eyes hooked Danyilyn's in a challenging stare. 
Though soft-spoken, he had taken what was for him an adamant stand, and 
Danyilyn could not dismiss it lightly. 


"You .. . really think we should do it?" she asked, her wrath 
fading. 



"I do. But ... I have a question." 
"Ask it," Pelmen said quickly. 
"Queen Ligne knows your face, and the two of you did not part as 


friends. How do you intend to survive long enough to play this piece 


before her?" 
"Ah." Pelmen smiled. "The Talith role is obviously that of a fool. 
Correct?" 


"Certainly." 
"That's how I'll play him, then. In the white face of a fool." 
"You'll wear it at all times within the walls?" 
"Exactly." 
Yona Parmi nodded. "Might work." 
"Fine." Gerrig smiled, clapping his giant palms and wringing his hands 


in anticipation. "We'll take our time and do it right. By late spring 


we'll be ready to " 
"I want to premiere it at the Pleclypsa Winter Festival," Pelmen 
interrupted. 


"The Pleclypsa Winter Festival!" Gerrig roared, aghast. "That opens 
next week. Every troupe in the region will be competing " 
"And so will we." 


"There isn't enough time," the beefy performer bellowed. 
"There is if we start in the morning," Pelmen shot back. He glanced 
around at the once proud troupe, now clothed in threadbare garments. 
"That is, unless you prefer the soup scenario to the kitchens of the 
Imperial House." 


Gerrig swallowed hard, then looked down at his copy of the script, 


handwritten in Pelmen's familiar looping scrawl. 
Then he looked back up. "If anyone wants me, I'll be in my wagon. I've 
a lot of lines to learn. The rest of you had better do the same." The 
man turned and lumbered off in the direction of his wagon. Heeding his 
good advice, the remainder of the troupe dispersed to their own rolling 
homes. Danyilyn, however, lingered long enough to regard Pelmen with 
friendly suspicion. 


"I know you. You didn't write this to please Ligne." 
"I didn't?" he responded blankly. 
"You're up to something," she went on. "And I'm going to find out 


what." That said, she tucked her script under her arm and strolled 
away. 
"Shell not do it easily, if she does," muttered Yona Parmi, as he 



joined Pelmen. "Nor, I imagine, will I." 


"What are you talking about, Yona?" Pelmen asked innocently. 


"I thought not," Yona grumbled good-naturedly. "Your couch still 
awaits you," he said, referring to the fact that he and Pelmen usually 
shared a wagon whenever the wanderer chose to put in an appearance. As 
they walked toward it, he was planning his first questions. It would 
take time, but he would find out. 


After a week so busy it seemed to sprint past without being noticed, 
Yona Parmi had learned much about Pel-men's role in the events of the 
last year. He was no closer, however, to discovering Pelmen's purpose 
in rejoining the troupe. The playwright could be exceedingly stubborn 
when he chose to be. Still, Yona hadn't given up trying. 


They were encamped in the meadow of a small village only a few miles 
south of Pleclypsa. While no one in the troupe felt truly prepared, 
Pelmen's plan called for them to premiere the play that night, before 
this rural audience. It would be their last chance to correct any 
trouble spots before the opening of the competition in the regional 
capital. 


The wagons were formed into a circle, with only a single opening. Yards 
of cloth had been wrapped around the outside of this ring to insure 
that those who wished to watch had to pay for the privilege. The troupe 
had learned long ago to give the largest boys in the village some 
trifle and free admittance to keep nonpaying customers from crawling 
under the wagons. This small investment in security lilways paid off, 
for the challenge between the older guards find the younger lads not so 
chosen made the mobile theatre the center of a village's attention for 
days. People flocked in from the fields to participate in the 
excitement imported by these painted actors from far away. 


It was midmoraing, and already the guards beyond the wagon walls were 
shouting authoritatively and feeling important. Younger boys lay in 
the bushes and plotted in whispers how they might gain entrance into 
the circle. Within the ring, however, activity was at a minimum. The 
players had rehearsed far into the night and were now exercising their 
age-old prerogative of sleeping late. 


Pelmen wasn't asleep, but he was resting comfortably on his low couch. 
The two friends had been locked in conversation until late the night 
before. Yona Parmi had resumed this morning as if sleep had never 
intervened. 


"So you attempted to thrust this Rosha lad into the role of dragon 
slayer, but were forced to do the task yourself when his garbled speech 
enraged the beast?" 


"It wasn't by choice, Yona," Pelmen replied, as he scooped his 
manuscript up off the floor and began studying it He found it terribly 
difficult to memorize lines he'd written himself. He tended to want to 
rewrite in the middle of a performance. "It simply had to be done. 
Even so, it was a group effort. Without the cooperation of my 
companions, I would surely be in the belly of the beast today." 


"Still avoiding the hero's role, aren't you?" Yona Parmi frowned. "It 
rather annoys me, Pelmen, each time you return, how you diligently 
praise your various comrades in arms, while disavowing any real role in 



changing history yourself. It's especially aggravating that you seem 
never to include us in your plans " 


"Please, Parmi." Pelmen winced. "Haven't we had this conversation 
before?" 


"A number of times, I'll grant. But we never seem to finish it. You 
always disappear, off to perform some new feat of magic that sets the 
forces of nature in balance again. And then you return, humbly denying 
having had anything to do with it." 


"What about Coralai in the second act? Is she stealing too much of the 
focus for the point to get across?" 


"Or else you attempt to change the subject." 


"I think the pacing of that act is a little ponderous .. ." 


"What I can't understand is why you should even bother with us." 


Pelmen glanced up at him. "I told you, Parmi, I feel responsible for 
getting you back into more comfortable surroundings." 


"A well-intended gesture it is, and I'm duly appreciative. But I can't 
shake the feeling there's some grander scheme behind it all." 


"Think Danyilyn is too obvious in her impersonation of Ligne?" 


"I didn't think she could be too obvious, as far as you were 
concerned." 


"Just so long as she's not offensive to the Queen." 


"That puzzles me as well. Why this sudden devotion to a shallow woman 
ruled only by her unrepressed lecheries for power and for young men?" 
Yona raised a sparse eyebrow in mock horror. "You haven't fallen in 
love with her yourself, have you?" 


Pelmen laughed aloud. "I think you know me better than that." 


"Yes, yes, and there's this Serphimera woman you told me about. But 
who could be sure?" Yona Parmi shrugged. "For all we know, you could 
be one of Ligne's chief advisors by this time." 


Pelmen rolled off his divan and strolled past Yona Parmi to the door. 
He pushed it open and glanced outside. "Another cold gray day," he 
said. The clouds looked ominous. "I hope it doesn't rain." 


Yona struggled to his feet and came to peer out over Pelmen's shoulder. 
"That would make for a rather soggy performance. Why not raise a wind 
and blow these clouds away?" He said it teasingly, but carefully 
studied his friend's reaction. 


There was little to study. Pelmen only chuckled mildly and climbed 
back into the wagon. He sauntered to the dressing table and scooped 
water from the bowl there to wash his face. 


Yona persisted. "I know you need to get into the Imperial House of 
Chaomonous," he announced, and Pelmen stopped washing and looked at 
him. 



"How do you know that?" 


'-" "It's the only thing that makes any sense. That's why you've 
rejoined us to get within the walls. But I don't understand why you 
don't just transform yourself into a falcon and fly in. You can still 
do that, can't you?" 


Pelmen toweled off his face. "That would be shaping, Panni, and you 
know I've never been able to shape the powers in Chaomonous." 


"I know you've always said you couldn't Does that mean there are no 
powers here to shape?" 


Pelmen shrugged a bit too elaborately, Yona Parmi thought and said, 
"All I know is that I've never shaped any powers in Chaomonous." 


Yona Parmi turned testy, for he knew from Pelmen's veiled eyes that the 
traveler knew far more than he was saying. "You'd never been a Prophet 
in Lamath before last year, eitherl" 


"That was different. I had nothing to do with that. The Power did 
that through me." 


"The Power being that One who met you on a mountain-top long ago?" 


The same." 


"Do you think the Power you speak of is not powerful enough to cross 
Dragonsgate?" 


Pelmen met Yona Parmi's eyes. For the first time since he had 
returned, he let Yona see the worry he'd hidden inside. "You aren't 
going to give up, are you?" he sighed. 


"You've given me no reason to believe I should." Yona Parmi waited a 
moment, then prodded, "What's troubling you, my friend?" 


"I'd prefer not to involve you, if I can help it. The less you know, 
the less you can be held accountable for by others." 


"Meaning, by Ligne." 


"By Ligne, by her advisors, by whomever, Yona. My concern extends well 
beyond the borders of this supposed Empire of Chaomonous. There are 
others in other lands who oppose me." 


, "Pelmen, I'm already involved. I'm part of the troupe 


' that's going to get you within the walls. But answer ray question, 
man! Pelmen Dragonsbane has slain the dragon and opened the pass for 
traffic to move freely between the three lands. Cannot the Power pass 
Dragonsgate as well?" 


Pelmen thought for a long time before answering. "The Power has 
passed." 


"Ah .. ." Yona Parmi sighed, his dark eyes lighting up. 


"As have other powers. 



Yona looked puzzled. "What other powers?" 


"Those that have been shaped by Mari power shapers for these many 
centuries," Pelmen intoned quietly. He turned his gaze on Yona Parmi 
again, and showed his friend an expression of quiet desperation. "And 
I never seem to know which is which." 


"You mean powers from Ngandib-Mar are free among us?" Yona Parmi asked 
with a shudder. Suddenly he felt an urge to glance around him and 
beneath the bed. 


"Or so it seems," Pelmen nodded. "A week ago I stood outside the walls 
of the Imperial House. There's something there, Yona. I felt it." 


Yona Parmi swallowed hard. "But the Power is around too, isn't it?" he 
asked. His tone demanded some reassurance. 


"At times." Pelmen nodded. He half smiled at the expression of panic 
that threatened to take over his friend's features. "Now are you sure 
you want to know the rest?" 


"Not knowing is worse than knowing," Yona Panni mumbled. "I think," he 
added. 


"The result of it all is that I'm bound up inside. I don't want to 
shape, for fear of shaping the wrong thing. Nor can I feel any 
confidence that I won't be seized any minute by one greater than I and 
experience again that curious elation of being shaped myself." 


Yona Parmi just stared at him, a bit glassy-eyed. 


"And all of it seems to stem from the death of the dragon for which, as 
you say, I bear the ultimate responsibility." 


"But how did that .. ." Yona's sentence trailed away. He really 
didn't know the right questions to ask. 


"Why did that make a difference? I don't know. I have a theory, 
though, that the opening of Dragonsgate has played a part. For a 
thousand years only the merchant families have moved between the three 
lands merchants, thieves, and vagabonds like myself. And merchants, 
of 


Bourse, have showed little interest in powers of any kind except their 
own power over the people. They've isolated themselves from everyone 
else and isolated, too, the libraries of the past. They share no 
knowledge between the lands, save that which serves their purpose. But 
there's traffic now, Yona, of common people a trickle, true, but 
movement all the same. I know of a dozen free traders who made the 
crossing before a gang of rogues plugged up the pass- And more will 
make the journey after the spring thaw, in spite of the thieves' high 
tariffs. And with them come questions, and with the questions .. . 
powers." Pel-men shook his head and sighed. "The world is changing, 
Yona Parmi. And I can't say what the result of it all might be." He 
looked back at his friend. Yona Parmi was gazing off into nowhere. 
"Yona? Parmi, are you all right?" 


Yona Parmi looked at him, licked his lips, then muttered, "You said 
something about going over the second act again?" 



Pelmen understood the reaction. How well he understood it! 


"What power! What magic! What grace!" Gerrig was talking about his 
own performance, naturally. The gray sky had thundered throughout the 
play, but never made good its threat. The local peasants had gathered, 
enjoyed, applauded, and departed to their homes and pubs, leaving the 
players to clean off their makeup in the diminishing light of early 
evening. 


"I thought it went rather well," Pelmen agreed. 


"Well? It went marvelously! Didn't you hear the shrieks of laughter, 
the thunderous applause?" 


"Thunderous?" Danyilyn snorted. "From a few hundred peasants, 
outside, on a damp afternoon? I'm pleased, certainly, but let's save 
the idea of thunderous for tomorrow night." 


"Yes," Pelmen quietly agreed. "Two thousand pleased urbanites in a 
packed house that's thunderous applause." 


"Say what you will, I thought I was superb," Gerrig gloated with 
characteristic modesty. "The play's good too," 


The play is excellent," Yona Parmi growled. "If a bit distasteful, 
still," he added. 


3D 


"I only wish I knew what we'll be competing against," Danyilyn 
muttered, as she examined her charming face in a small mirror. 


"Regort will be there with his troupe," Gerrig advised, "And of course 
Shavor-Brot's band, who performed so miserably last year " 


"I thought they were good," Yona Parmi mumbled, but not loudly enough 
for Gerrig to hear. It was an old argument, one there was no sense in 
repeating. Sherina heard him, though, and she smiled her agreement. 


" then the local group wilt be performing EldVoph and Berliath, are 
those their names?" 


"He's excellent," Danyilyn nodded. "Her I can do without." 


" plus a half-dozen other troupes. I've heard there's even one coming 
from up on the Straits Coast. Should be a worthy competition." 


"It's likely they'll all be rehearsing tonight, somewhere in the city," 
Yona Parmi said. His eye was on Pelmen. "It would certainly be nice 
to know what they're doing in advance." Pelmen heard him, but didn't 
respond. 


Gerrig chuckled. "I wouldn't mind stealing a good line or two myself. 
Wishful thinking, though we couldn't make Pleclypsa until well after 
midnight. What say we find the local tavern instead?" His feet were 
already on the path toward the village, and Danyilyn and the others 
were following. 


Yona Parmi hung back to ask Pelmen: "Are you coming?" 



"Not tonight," he said loudly. "I think I'll turn in early." The 
wandering wizard faked a yawn. 


"Ah," Yona Parmi muttered quietly, "but just what will you turn in to?" 
A few minutes later, as the group of laughing players reached the edge 
of the village, Yona Parmi heard a screech and looked up in time to see 
a falcon passing high overhead. When many hours had passed, and he 
arrived back at then1 wagon, Yoni Parmi found Pel-men lying on his 
couch, comfortably wrapped in a fur. 


"Well," he asked. "How's the competition?" 


"Yona," replied Pelmen as he turned his face to the wall, "we have 
nothing to worry about." Already he was planning his first move once 
they got within the castle. 


For days, the Imperial House had sweated to grow as an entity, seeking 
to extend consciousness into those useless parapets and towers built 
since the sleep first came. Buried within its subconscious were 
memories of those spells muttered ages before by Nobalog, when he 
enchanted the House into life. The castle drew upon this knowledge, 
dredging wondrous power from the air. After long absence, the magic 
had returned to Chaomonous, and the House reveled in a renewal of 
activity. There were conversations to listen to, Drax games to comment 
on, unknowing clowns to chuckle at, try sting lovers to spy upon. But 
before all of that came the work the slow, intense process of moving 
awareness into new areas of its own structure. The task consumed its 
energies consuming also any opportunity for that dreaded thought to 
arise once more: that no one could hear. It could not tolerate being 
alone forever. And so it kept on working. 


Weird drafts frequently puffed down the hallways now, as the castle 
laughed in celebration of each new sign of progress. Such phenomena 
unnerved the occupants of the massive edifice. Being descended from 
those who had disregarded all supernatural experiences, most Chaons had 
lit-.v tie use for superstition. Yet a sense of the strangeness of 


* the past week had stolen over scholar, soldier, servant, and stranger 
alike. None could tell the origin of his feelings, 
i . nor did anyone attempt to give expression to these sensations, 
fearing the mockery of his fellows. But the sensations persisted, and 
it pleased the House no end to witness the discomfort of those who 
lived within it. They would know its presence. 
' '* The Imperial House had at last gained control of the 


*." perimeters of the gardens. It had possessed the terrace V; 
walkways to the point that it could overhear every garden V 
tete-a-tete. It could even enjoy the fragrance of the blossoms. 
Although it was beginning to notice a peculiar irritation on its 
rooftop, its mood was jovial as it relaxed and jff-, watched the 
butterflies flutter from flower to flower, J much as the Queen moved 
from man to man in her court H Suddenly its attention riveted on its 
lower dungeon. In a flash, its pleasant mood disappeared, replaced by 
a fear-f; ome wrath. An invader had appeared from nowherel The 


House was understandably shaken, for throughout its waking years its 
walls had resisted every challenge, and its inward sanctuaries had 



remained inviolate. It had never thought to examine its own 
foundations for cracks. Yet cracks there were cracks that had been 
there for centuries. 


There was one man who knew them all, much as a rat knows its secret 
pathways into the larder. Like his brother rats, this man now scurried 
along hidden corridors in the darkness, oblivious to the curses the 
Imperial House heaped upon him. 


The castle's record as a fortress was impeccable. And yet, in its 
twice a thousand years of existence, it had housed a score of 
short-lived dynasties. The old records that lined the dusty shelves of 
its library detailed a murky history of plots and counterplots. As a 
result, secret passageways carved of rock, dark memorials to those 
sinister doings, met and diverged in the black silence beneath the 
castle's dancing floor. Many had been dug since the coming of the 
dragon, and thus the House was blind to them. But all were known to 
the man who now added his inaudible tread to the weight of the heavy 
quiet. 


He had an affinity with darkness. The black of the hellhole of 
Chaomonous could not compete with the inky darkness of his heart. His 
face was the stuff of nightmares. His name was Admon Faye. 


He searched for something. Gliding from door to door in the dungeon, 
he hovered and listened to the movements within each cell only long 
enough to be sure its occupant wasn't his quarry. It was a testimony 
to his expertise in the art of silence that the denizens of this dank 
place, their ears sharpened by the absence of light, never heard him 
pass. 


He left one corridor, slipping cautiously into the torchlit stairway to 
descend even further into the pit. He tiptoed into a fetid chamber, 
half lighted by a torch in the stairwell behind him. On the far side 
of the room, the dark side, he found a grate in the floor and knelt to 
listen. 


"Here," he thought to himself. From the cell below the grate he could 
hear the shallow breathing of a child or a woman. He struggled to lift 
the heavy grillwork. It wasn't fastened down. 


"Food? Food at last?" Bronwynn called up weakly. "Where's the 
torch?" When he didn't answer, she whispered, "Who's there?" 


"Hush!" he ordered in a sharp whisper; then he uncoiled a length of 
rope from around his waist and tied a loop in one end of it. "Wrap 
this around you," he whispered again, and he dropped the rope into the 
emptiness. It slapped the straw below, and he heard the woman 
shuffling toward it. She did not speak again until she stood beside 
him in the chamber. 


"Who are you?" 


Admon Faye kept his face turned from her and the dim torchlight to his 
back as he bent to murmur, "Grab my belt and follow me out." 


They quickly left the dungeon and soon were into the subterranean maze. 
As they made their way through it, there was only one exchange between 
them. "Pehnen?" the young woman whispered, and Adroit Faye stifled a 
snicker. 



There was a convenient crevice in the rock just a few feet above the 
level of the river. Admon Faye did not hesitate when they reached it, 
but vaulted out of the crevice to land in a rowboat secreted below it. 
The young woman popped her head out, wincing in the first sunlight 
she'd seen in months, but determined to discover who had rescued her. 
Once she saw the legendary face of Admon Faye, she was tempted to climb 
back inside. "You!" She spat. 


into the boat, Lady Bronwynn," Admon Faye ordered quietly. "I'm in no 
mood to get an arrow through my back, and, I trust, neither are you." 


Without another word Bronwynn wedged her body through the crack and 
tumbled into the boat. Though she had little stomach for what lay 
before her, it was surely better than what she'd left behind. She lay 
back in the small craft and enjoyed the sun on her face, while Admon 
Faye merged them effortlessly into the anonymous traffic of the great 
river of Chaomonous. The Imperial House watched it all in fury. 


CHAPTER THREE 


In the Slaver's Sewer 


IT'S ONE OF THE IRONIES of large cities that frequently the pockets of 
greatest lawlessness are found in the very shadow of the seat of law. 
The heart of the criminal subculture of Chaomonous lived within a 
five-hundred-yard radius of the palace. Bronwynn's escape by boat had 
lasted all of four minutes long enough for Admon Faye to steer them 
from the foot of the castle's granite foundation to the mouth of a 
nearby sewer. Chaomonous was proud of its sewer system, but no one in 
the city felt prouder than the thugs and thieves who made it their 
private highway. Within minutes of her rescue from Ligne's dungeon, 
Bron-wynn found herself locked away in yet another cell. As far as she 
could tell, her circumstances hadn't altered a bit She'd only changed 
locations and jailers. 


Now she stood behind the door with a small rough stool in her hand, 
awaiting Admon Faye's return. She heard the scrape of an oar against 
the sewer wall, then another scrape of wood on rock as a boat was 
moored in place. There were some mumbled words, but no reply. She 
hoped that meant he'd come alone. 


Not that it made any difference. She'd tangled with Admon Faye before, 
far to the north in the land of Lamath and her cheek had borne the 
imprint of his teeth for weeks afterward. Rosha mod Dorlyth had nearly 
killed the hideous slaver on that occasion, knocking Admon Faye 
headlong into a pit as dank and dark as this one. But the cutthroat 
was a powerful man he'd survived. In her much-weakened state, Bronwynn 
knew she had little chance of escaping him. But she could surely let 
her feelings be known. 


The key turned in the lock, and Admon Faye thrust his stomach-churning 
visage inside. Then he jerked back, yelping in pain, as Bronwynn sent 
the stool crashing savagely off his forehead. He slammed the door open 
and kicked the bouncing stool aside, then grabbed Bronwynn by the 
collar of her filthy dress. He hoisted her up until her face was scant 
inches from his glaring eyes, and spat out, "You may be a Princess, 
dearie, but a strap will peel your hide as easily as it will a slave 
girl's 1" She trembled with fury and fear. Then inexplicably, he 
dropped her, and all anger drained from his face. He righted the 



stool, shoved it over to a rude table, and motioned her toward it. "Sit 
down. I've brought you some breakfast." 


"Why are you keeping me here?" she screamed. "Are you planning to 
sell me back to Ligne, is that it? So you can finally make a profit on 
my death?" 


Admon Faye rotated his little finger in his ear and shook his head. 
"Really echoes when you yell in this place. Sit down and eat." 


"I'm not eating anything until I find out why I'm here!" she screamed 
again with exaggerated shrillness. 


"Just what do you think I've come down here to do?" Admon Faye yelled 
back. It was Bronwynn's turn to stop her ears. The slaver laughed. 
Then he ducked out the door to the boat and quickly returned with two 
tankards of drink, a loaf of bread, a pot of honey, and several chunks 
of cheese. Bronwynn's mouth watered involuntarily. It seemed like 
years since she'd tasted anything but stale bread-crusts in gravy. She 
plopped onto the stool, tore the bread in half, and soon had her mouth 
crammed full of the heavenly stuff. Admon Faye went out a second time, 
returning with another stool. He closed the door behind him, sat on 
the stool, and leaned his back against the wall. "Surely you 
understand, girl, that I don't act as barmaid to 


J The Wizard tn Waiting all my captives. Don't think I'd trouble 
myself to steer that boat down here through the slime just to watch you 
feed your belly." 


"Then why have you come?" Bronwynn asked, her mouth full of cheese and 
her fingers dripping with honey. 


"We need each other, Bronwynn. You and I." 


Bronwynn was startled. For the first time, Admon Faye had revealed to 
her his crooked excuse for a smile. The sight threatened to rob her of 
her appetite, but the smell of the cheese won her back, and she quickly 
stuffed more of both it and the bread into her mouth. "I need you?" 
came her garbled reply. "What for?" 


"To rescue you from Ligne, for one thing." 


"Some rescue! I've just been switched from one dungeon to another." 


"I wouldn't complain," Admon Faye said defensively. "Here you have 
furniture, at least, and a torch for light * 


"And the delightful smell of a sewer drifting by my door," Bronwynn 
snarled. "Truly one of the garden spots of Chaomonous." 


"You won't be staying here long. It's the safest place in the city for 
you right now. Joss will be combing the streets above us within the 
hour and Joss uses a sharp comb." 


"Joss!" Bronwynn whispered savagely, then she spat "Joss, the 
turncoat!" 


"The very man," Admon Faye sneered. "So you see, you do need me." 


"I don't," Bronwynn chirped. Admon Faye had frequently seen the mirror 



image of her haughty expression on the face of her father. "Pelmen 
would have rescued me in time and if not, then my Rosha." 


"Pelmen!" Admon Faye snorted, then he chuckled. The sound of it gave 
Bronwynn a chill. "Your mighty power-shaper is meandering over the 
countryside, trying to pick up the pieces of his acting career. He has 
no intention of saving you." 


"That's not true," Bronwynn protested. "It's only that his 
supernatural powers are limited here. You know magic won't work in 
Chaomonous. At least, it never did." 


"All I know is that Pelmen is hundreds of miles away, hunting a troupe 
of actors to join. If that's a power shaper then I'm irresistibly 
attractive." Once again Admon Faye's spine-shivering cackle filled the 
cell, and Bronwynn turned away from his twisted smile. "As for your 
tongue-tied sword lad, don't expect him before the winter thaw. 
Drag-onsgate is clogged with snow. Besides, the merchants in 
Ngandib-Mar tell me that while you've been starving in the dungeon, 
he's grown fat with winter feasting. The lad has his pick of every 
blushing maiden in the Mar. You think he'd sacrifice all that to come 
crusading after a skinny wench like you?" 


Bronwynn's voice was cold. "If you belittle Rosha again, I swear, 
beating or no, I'll brain you with this stool." 


Admon Faye's smile died, but quickly revived. He shrugged his 
shoulders and waved a hand at one tankard as he grabbed the handle of 
the other. "Wash that bread down so I can understand you. We've much 
to discuss, and I'll not mention your Rosha if you'll keep Pelmen out 
of the conversation. It's time for you to face some realities." 


"What realities?" 


"To start with, Ligne wants you dead." 


"Then why hasn't she killed me? She's had me in that pit for 
months." 


"Kherda and Joss prevented her. Both feel some fondness for you still, 
since they watched you grow up." 


"Some way to show it," Bronwynn whined, remembering the shackles Joss 
himself had clamped around her wrists. 


"More than that, though. They feared a popular uprising if you were 
killed, and Ligne believed them." 


"Now that makes more sense." 


"Good." Admon Faye smiled. "You do have some grasp of political 
realities." 


"Of course I do!" Bronwynn snapped, "I grew up in court, didn't I?" 


"Then you'll not be surprised when the Queen changes her mind and 
orders Joss to murder you on sight." 


"So when are you going to sell me to him?" 



"Realities, child, remember?" Admon Faye growled. "I have no need of 
gold. There's as much gold stowed in these sewers as there is in the 
vaults of the palace. What I covet is freedom to operate my businesses 
in peace, and that's something Ligne won't give me. She wouldn't be a 
bad ruler, but for one great flaw. She bears grudges. No Queen can 
last long who bears a grudge especially not a grudge against me! Simply 
because I failed to carry out her orders to the letter, allowing you 
and Pelmen to survive, she has determined that I must be put to death. 
She may fancy herself an invincible regent, but that's one sentence 
she'll never live to witness." 


Bronwynn returned to the bread and honey. "You seem to come and go in 
the castle easily enough. Why not just slit her throat in bed?" 


Admon Faye smiled again. "A plan not far from my own, little Bronwynn. 
And I would have done so already, but I lacked two things." 


"What things?" Bronwynn mumbled. 


"A sufficient force to secure the castle from within and a legitimate 
ruler to set on the throne in her place." 


Bronwynn stopped chewing, then began again, more slowly. "You mean to 
give me back my kingdom," she said matter-of-factly. 


"You are quicker than your father was." Admon Faye chuckled. 


"So was my mother," Bronwynn observed. "That's why Ligne disposed of 
her." She raised her eyebrow meaningfully, then took a deep draught 
from the tankard and wiped her mouth. "What makes you think I would 
give you any more freedom than Ligne has?" 


"A certain .. . awareness on your part." 


"Awareness of what?" 


"That I could kill you just as easily as I'm going to kill her." Admon 
Faye smiled. The cruelty in his sunken eyes made her stomach float. 


Bronwynn kept silent for a long time, finishing the loaf of bread and 
licking the honey from her fingers. Admon Faye waited until she had 
finished and looked back up at him before saying, "I assume you've been 
considering the idea. Are you agreeable?" 


The young woman tossed her golden-brown hair back over her shoulders 
and shrugged. "Certainly," she said. "Until." 


"Until what?" 


"Until the situation changes," she said evenly, her blue eyes meeting 
his. "Realities, remember?" 


Admon Faye searched her face, waiting for her strong gaze to weaken. It 
never did. "As I said, girl, you're quicker than your father." He 
stood to leave, and turned toward the door. Then suddenly his fist 
shot out of nowhere, cracking Bronwynn across the side of the face and 
bouncing her off the wall and onto the floor. She screamed in shock, 
then gasped at the pain. He waited until the echoes of her shriek had 
died before he spoke. "But I trust you won't try to take advantage of 
our old family friendship." The last thing she heard as he left was 



his chilling chuckle. 


Pleclypsa was a walled city which no longer needed its walls. At one 
time it had been the fortified capital of a nation hostile to 
Chaomonous, but now, far from being bos-tile, the native Pleclypsans 
did all they could to curry favor with their imperial overlords. If 
anything, the citizens of Pleclypsa were more snobbish about being 
Chaons than were the citizens of Chaomonous itself. It was this 
peculiar conceit and the real municipal inferiority that undergirded it 
which prompted the leaders of Pleclypsa to pay out exorbitant sums each 
year to import the finest players in the kingdom for a dramatic 
competition. 


The actors loved it. They viewed the Winter Festival as a kind of 
theatre convention, the one time in the year when they all could come 
together and compare notes. Stuffy matrons, normally repulsed by the 
acting profession, vied with one another in providing sumptuous 
banquets for the players to feast upon while awaiting their night to 
perform. The whole region turned out to watch the new plays premiere. 
The local merchants had shrewdly scheduled a carnival to coincide with 
the Festival, so that cultured and uncultured Southlanders alike 
crowded into the city's inns raising, naturally, the prices of lodging 
and board. The streets swarmed with people; gold changed hands, and 
much of that gold found its way into the pockets of the troupe that won 
the accolades of the judges. The color, the crowds, and the drama of 
the moment appealed to these actor types. As a result, the Festival 
lasted longer each year, as more and more troupes clamored for their 
night upon the boards. 


The first night of the Festival was almost as tense as the last, for on 
that night every competing band performed a short segment of its 
dramatic offering for the year. The judges rated these scenes against 
one another, and produced a schedule for the remaining days that was 
calculated to build the Festival to a thrilling climax; the troupes 
performed in reverse order, beginning with the least impressive. It 
did not always happen that the cast who performed last received the 
Festival prize some troupes actually preferred to be scheduled in the 
middle of the run, hoping to put pressure on the casts to follow while 
relieving some of their own anxieties early enough to enjoy the 
carnival atmosphere. But there was a psychological advantage at being 
offered the final night that could not be ignored. That made the first 
night all the more hotly contested. 


Pelmen stood backstage in the shadow of the green-velvet curtain, 
watching Gerrig. His giant friend joked and sparred with Regort, who 
had been a cordial enemy for years. Pelmen wasn't fooled by Gerrig's 
relaxed demeanor. The pressure building inside him caused the man to 
laugh too loudly, to wink too broadly. The light banter between the 
two adversaries crackled with repressed hostility and promised a night 
of electrifying performances. 


Danyilyn didn't bother to hide her nervousness. She paced the stage, 
belting out lines to test the acoustics of the hall and the mettle of 
her voice. These were old lines, speeches she'd spoken so many times 
that her phrasings bore the ruts of much use. She wouldn't dream of 
letting slip any new lines, nor would any of the other actors and 
actresses who paced in circles around and beside her, making their own 
adjustments to this theatre. No one wanted to tip his troupe's hand to 
the others good lines got stolen that way. 



But Pelmen was quietly confident. He had dared to take-his alter-shape 
the night before; on falcon wings he had come to investigate the final 
rehearsals of the competition. In a way, he felt a bit troubled at his 
unfair advantage, for he was a man of integrity, and the act smacked of 
cheating. But Parmi had reassured him this morning that it was only 
good sense. "Your purpose whatever it is surely warrants your using 
every power available to you," Yona had said. "Besides," he'd added, 
"it's not as if you're going to steal any of their garbage." Indeed, 
the other offerings seemed a cut below average this year perhaps as a 
result of the unstable national conditions. It was difficult to re 
hearse consistently when starving. As he'd described what he'd seen to 
his friend, Yona had agreed that they need feel little anxiety this 
year. "Our material is better," Yona Parmi had grunted, and Pelmen was 
inclined to agree. 


That's why it puzzled him to see Yona Parmi acting so strangely. The 
short player prowled the dark backstage area, peering behind dusty 
flats and regarding the clutter of props suspiciously. Pelmen strolled 
up behind him. 


"Are you looking for something?" he began. Yona Parmi jerked at the 
sound of his voice. 


"No," Parmi snorted gruffly. "I'm looking for nothing. That is, I'm 
hoping to find nothing." 


"You're sure to find that back here." Pelmen smiled. He felt sure 
that he knew, now, the reason for Yona's strange behavior. He didn't 
mock him. 


Yona ducked to peer behind a cutout of a tree. "Seems like a 
legitimate enough place for powers to be lurking," he mumbled. 


"In my experience, powers don't lurk. They act. I think they'd prefer 
to be out on the stage than back here in the dust." 


"And why is that?" 


"That's where most of the people are." Pelmen shrugged.. "And they're 
fascinated by people." 


"Oh." Yona Parmi glanced about him, then smiled in tight-lipped 
amusement. "Then I prefer to be right here." 


"You're afraid of them." 


"Aren't you?" 


"No. Not the powers themselves. More of the people who use them." > 
"Yet you use them. You did last night." 


"I know," Pelmen replied quietly. 


Yona Parmi understood. "You're afraid of yourself." Pelmen nodded, 
then arched a friendly eyebrow. "And as long as I remain so, I feel 
rather confident that I'm Nothing, really, to be afraid of. It isn't 
the powers you need to fear, Parmi, for if they're here and you don't 
know it, lyou'll never notice them. And if they're here and you do 
|fcnow, they're yours to mold. But those others who know, \0aad who 
mold they're the people I fear. They'll shape to jit their whims and 



I've seen too much of mankind's sings to feel encouraged by that." 


The "Wizard in "Wailing 


Yona Parmi froze his ironic smile into place. "Your words are 
encouraging me to dig a deep, cool hole and bury myself in it." 


"I've considered it," Pelmen joked, but there was more than a hint of 
seriousness in his words. 


"And yet you say you fear being shaped. Explain that." 


Pelmen blinked, then his eyes looked beyond Yona, as if gazing at a 
reality beyond human sensation. When he spoke, it was in hushed tones 
heavy with mystery. "Sometimes I fear that. Perhaps it comes so 
unexpectedly. I sense a power, I begin to shape, then somehow, 
inexplicably, it begins shaping me. And then when it happens, I'm 
elated. Once it comes, I fear nothing at all. I never know exactly 
what I'll do then , .." Pelmen's eyes finally found their way back to 
Yona's. "And that's a rather frightening prospect in itself, don't you 
think?" 


"Not necessarily. That is, I'm not convinced you really believe it so, 
since you persist in chasing the experience. But tell me, these 
religious followers of yours " 


"They're not mine." 


" of the Prophet's then " 


"They're not his either." 


"All right, have it your way. Of the Power .. ." 


"That's got it." 


"Do they experience this ah being shaped as well?" 


"Some do," Pelmen said with the quiet confidence of one who knows he 
won't be believed. "Not all. Not all of them have discovered yet that 
this is what it's all about. Some grab at the trappings of faith 
without experiencing faith itself." 


Yona Parmi nodded thoughtfully. "So you entrusted the new Prophet with 
the task of helping them?" 


Pelmen met his eyes. *7 didn't" 


Yona Parmi looked away in discomfort. "Pardon me," he muttered, "but 
it's rather difficult to shift one's entire view of the world in a 
moment." 


Pelmen nodded. "It isn't easy to attribute actions to something other 
than people, when you've been used to seeing them as the only movers. 
As I say it's people who do most of the shaping, consciously or 
unconsciously. And much of that turns out badly," he added with 
sadness. His mind wandered then, briefly, to Lamath, and the gentle 
plowed fields of that earnest, hard-working region. Then he continued. 
"I guess you could say that Erri the Prophet is responsible for being 
himself and for letting others see in him the difference between 



shaping and being shaped." 


Yona Parmi cocked an eyebrow. Even in the dark, Pel-men could see 
clearly his quizzical expression. "Doesn't Erri shape?" he asked. 


"Not often." Pelmen smiled. "That's why he's the Prophet, and not I. 
I'm much too impatient. I prefer to shape my own destiny." 


"Which, in turn, makes you dangerous." Yona Parmi nodded wisely. 


Pelmen looked at him, a bit startled at this insight. Then he also 
nodded. "Exactly." 


"Yet if you didn't battle these others, these various pow-ershapers who 
inhabit Ngandib-Mar, who would?" 


"Perhaps the Power would," Pelmen replied thoughtfully. It was evident 
from the way he said it that this was something not fully clear in his 
own mind. 


"Then why battle at all?" 


"Because there are people I care about who are in trouble," Pelmen 
answered. Quiet determination lent backbone to his words, as he 
finished. "And it might be through me that the Power chooses to aid 
them." It seemed to Yona Parmi that Pelmen's eyes blazed out of the 
shadows. He felt enormous relief when Danyilyn scurried over and 
grabbed each of them by the arm. 


"We've drawn the third slot for tonight!" she announced, sure that her 
news bore the same critical importance for them that it did for her. 
For her sake they both pretended it did and joined her in the harsh 
green limelight to begin warming up their voices. A few moments later, 
Pelmen slipped quietly away to paint his face the color of the moon. 


Pezi belched. Now it wasn't unusual for the obese merchant to belch in 
fact, some of those who knew him argued that he never uttered a 
sentence without punctuating it with a burp. What was unusual was that 
Pezi had a miserable bellyache. Pezi's stomach rarely ever bothered 
him it had swelled to enormous proportions long ago to accommodate the 
triple platefuls of food the merchant gorged down at every meal, and it 
no longer troubled to register any protest at such routine 
ill-treatment But Pezi's latest hinge had been monumental. It had 
amazed every occupant of Tohn's castle. Nor was it over; a half-empty 
platter of roast beef lay on the bed beside him. On the floor next to 
his bed sat a pitcher of ale. On the cabinet just beyond the pitcher, 
a towering sandwich leaned, threatening to topple at any moment. In 
his hand was a raw white onion, which he munched between belches as if 
it were an apple. Pezi had a problem. And when he had a problem, he 
ate. 


Like most of Pezi's problems, this one concerned his uncle Flayh. He 
and his uncle fled Lamath on the day. the dragon died, fearing 
reprisals from Pelmen the Prophet Since they were merchants of the 
House of Ognadzu, they had found refuge here, in the family castle 
administered by Pezi's uncle Tohn. The ensuing months had been tense, 
as Flayh and Tohn had wrestled for control of the family's fortunes, 
but it had really been no contest. Though this was Tohn's castle, and 
its occupants were from his line of the family, Tohn suffered from a 
weak heart. The combination of a harsh winter and unceasing tension 



proved too much for the old warrior. They'd buried him in the snow. 


Once firmly in control again, Flayh had returned with a passion to what 
had once been his favorite hobby he'd involved them in the politics of 
Chaomonous. Not that Pezi minded that at all he rather enjoyed 
dabbling in politics himself, and staunchly believed that the House of 
Ognadzu needed to reassert its dominance over the Chaon markets. While 
he and his uncle had been manipulating events in Lamath or trying to 
the rival House of Uda had established a virtual monopoly in 
Chaomonous, and it truly irked Pezi to have to buy his favorite candies 
from the competition. This very moment, a plot launched by Flayh was 
supposed to be bearing fruit they'd contracted with Adraon Faye to 
steal Bronwynn from the dungeon of Queen Ligne. But that was Pezi's 
problem. Where war Ad-mon Faye? And why hadn't he contacted them? 


Pezi got up to pace the floor. Two paces convinced him he'd better lie 
back down again. Three days ago, Flayh had told him, "Keep me aware of 
every development." Then he had disappeared into Tohn's old library 
and hadn't come out again. That concerned Pezi. Before they left 
Lamath, the old man had been showing definite signs of mental 
instability and also signs of budding shaper power. It really didn't 
matter to Pezi whether the old goat was a power shaper or was crazy 
both possibilities gave him the hives. 


"Is he in there practicing his magic?" Pezi belched at his onion. "Or 
has his mind come unpeeled?" Or, he thought without saying it, has he 
gone to join Tohn wherever the dead gather? He stifled that thought 
which was really more of a hope and tried to fill his mind with 
something else. Flayh had also learned a bit about reading minds. 


So what was Pezi to do? Interrupt his uncle to inform him merely that 
there was no news? Keep waiting until Admon Faye chose to notify them 
of his success or failure? Eat another sandwich? Truly a dilemma. 
Pezi definitely did not wish to interrupt Flayh. He thoroughly enjoyed 
his uncle's periods of absence. Yet if he didn't interrupt him, and 
Flayh was expecting him to ... Pezi sighed. Then he rolled off the bed 
and waddled toward the door, shoving piles of wadded garments aside 
with every step. He stopped with his hand on the door-latch did he 
really want to do this? "Might as well," he grunted. He knew if he 
lay back down he'd only have to eat some more. He took one more bite 
of his onion and stuffed the rest into his pocket. Then he shuffled 
out into the hall and made his way to the door of Flayh's study. He 
hesitated there, steeling himself against the expected flood of 
colorful curses that always greeted him when he disturbed his uncle, 
and knocked on Flayh's door. No reply. He knocked again, a bit 
louder. Still no reply came from within the room. He crouched down to 
plant his ear on the keyhole, but could hear nothing. Straightening 
himself back upright no mean task in itself he put his weight behind 
the blows and pounded a chubby fist against the oaken barrier. Then he 
stepped back out of the way, so he wouldn't be clobbered when Flayh 
came boiling out. 


Nothing happened. Pezi began to be concerned. He tried the door latch 
with little enthusiasm, sure that Flayh had locked it from within. As 
expected, it was locked. 


"Now what am I going to do?" Pezi mumbled. Then he recalled seeing a 
ring full of keys dangling from the belt of the castle's seneschal. He 
hurried away to find the man. He was trying not to get his hopes up 
... He puffed around the corner into the seneschal's office, his cheeks 



turning the color of ripening plums, and skidded to a stop before the 
man's desk. 


"Yes?" the seneschal asked rudely. Flayh's treatment of Tohn mod 
Neelis had created an abundance of ill will toward Pezi and his uncle. 
The castle staff feared Flayh far too much to reveal it to him. The 
bumbling Pezi felt the brunt of their displeasure. 


"I need your keys," he demanded, thrusting his palm in the seneschal's 
face. 


"My keys!" the man snapped. "Whatever for?" "My uncle's been locked 
within the library for three days. He could be dead for all we 
know." 


"I'll turn blue before I give you my key ring!" the seneschal spat 
savagely. 


Pezi shoved his nose into the man's face and bellowed, "I said, give me 
the keys!" Pezi didn't expect the reaction he received, for the 
seneschal very nearly did turn blue. He choked, coughed twice, then 
thrust his keys into Pezi's palm and bolted from the room. Pezi 
straightened up, a bit puzzled but thoroughly pleased. "I guess I told 
him," he muttered as he turned to saunter back down the hall, his 
confidence boosted by this quick response to his firm authority. He 
never gave a thought to the onion in his pocket that had made it all 
possible. 


After several attempts, he found a key that turned the lock, jerked 
open the door with a mighty heave and stepped inside. He knew 
immediately it was a mistake. 


Candles and smoke were the first things he saw an abundance of candles 
that filled the room with flickering light. Then he glimpsed Flayh, 
who had for the first time noticed him. The old man's bald pate glowed 
in the eerie illumination, and so did his beady eyes. Flayh's 
expression in that first brief instant was one of desperate surprise 
Pezi had caught him with his magical pants down. A split second later 
a horrified Pezi stared down the throat of a savage dog, who hurtled 
through space toward his neck. Pezi shrieked and fell backward. To 
his great good fortune, the lean gray animal slammed nose first into 
his tummy and bounced head over heels into the courtyard. Pezi saw the 
dog bounce out, but it was Flayh who rushed back inside, slamming the 
door behind him. He regarded his nephew with wide-eyed surprise. 


"I did it!" he gasped. 


"You almost did it," Pezi gasped back, as both hands sought out his 
threatened throat. He had to plow through a series of chins to get to 
it. 


"Do you think anyone saw?" Flayh pleaded. 


"I did," Pezi spluttered. 


"I mean anyone important." Flayh ducked back outside to check the 
hallway in both directions, then danced back inside, a frightening grin 
spreading across his wrinkled face. "I did it! I found my 
alter-shape! Oh thank you, Pezi, you can't imagine how delighted I 
am." 



Pezi squirmed in terror. His crazed uncle had actually embraced him. 


Flayh scampered across the room, clapping his hands like a schoolgirl. 
"A dog! I'm a long, lean hound! Something powerful! Not a mere 
insect, like Mar-Yilot, or a lizard, like that fellow Joooms a hound! A 
powerful hound!" 


Pezi stared, open-mouthed. At last his uncle ceased his raving and 
turned to stare back at him. "What are you gawking at?" Flayh 
snapped, and Pezi, relieved, closed his mouth. That had sounded like 
the uncle he knew. "What are you doing here? Why did you burst in 
unbidden? What's the meaning " 


"I came to give you some news." Pezi blurted out as loudly as he 
could. If his uncle was going to turn into a dog whenever he got 
angry, Pezi was determined to keep him pacified. 


"News? Of Admon Faye? What is it?" Flayh demanded in crisp brittle 
tones. 


Now Pezi was in a quandary. "Ah .. . there's no news .. ." 


"No news? You interrupt me to bring me no news?" 


"That's the news," Pezi whined. "That there's no news .. ." 


Flayh charged toward him, grabbing this nephew whose great girth 
dwarfed him by the collar of Pezi's tunic. "You loathsome " 


"Please, uncle," Pezi cried, and Flayh backed quickly to the other side 
of the room. 


"What have you been eating?" Flayh asked in horror. 


Pezi stared at him, then shrugged and began listing, "A half of A ham 
with cherry sauce, a breasted fowl's breast marinated in a mint jelly 
with " 


"Enough!" Flayh shouted. "What possessed me to ask such a question of 
you .. ." 


"Please, uncle," Pezi rushed on to say, "I only wanted to keep you 
aware of the situation as you told me to " 


"Get out! And stay out until there's some development worth telling 
about. And give me those keys." Flayh held his nose and stalked over 
to jerk the key ring from Pezi's hand. 


"But the seneschal '* 


"Out!" Flayh roared as he shoved his nephew backward and slammed the 
door in his face. The key scraped into the lock, and the tumblers 
shifted noisily. 


Pezi just stood there for a moment. He noticed again that his belly 
ached. He felt of it, and sighed. "Must be hungry," he muttered. He 
finished his onion on the way to the kitchen. 


Bronwynn sat against the wall of her prison and daydreamed. She'd 



gotten good at that during these months of darkness. Months? It could 
as easily have been weeks or years, for all she knew. No, not years 
her hair hadn't grown long enough for that. But it had been plenty of 
time for her to imagine a hundred different means of rescue. And every 
dream starred Rosha mod Dorlyth. 


Rosha, her intended warrior of Ngandib-Mar, At first she'd been 
embarrassed to fantasize about him so extravagantly. Now she just 
leaned back and enjoyed it imagining him breaking the door down, 
crushing her in his arms .. . 


The door slammed open, jolting her out of her pleasant vision and back 
into the ludicrous reality of her current predicament. In all her 
dreams of rescue, none had seemed so improbable as this. 


"Resting easy, are you?" Admon Faye asked with a mock cheeriness that 
made her groan. "No? Pity. I've come to bring a little sunshine into 
your life. Get up." 


"Why should I?" 


Adorn Faye didn't reply. He just reached down to grab Bronwynn by the 
shoulders and hoisted her up. He spun her around to face the wall and, 
before she could react, was slipping a leather strap around her 
waist. 


"I'm not going to be tied!" she shouted and she rammed her elbow back 
into his gut. He grunted, then boxed both of her ears in response. She 
stomped on his foot, spun around to rake his face with her fingernails, 
and got a punch in the eye for her trouble. That dazed her it also 
calmed her down. Admon Faye went on about his business, moving the 
strap up and wrapping it around her bust first, then dropping it down 
to her hips. "What are you doing?" she asked, though it was already 
perfectly obvious to her. 


"I'm measuring you for some new clothes. Or would you prefer to keep 
this rag?" 


"Why didn't you just say that, then?" 


"Oh, Princess Bronwynn, may I take your measurements, please?" be 
mocked in a squeaky falsetto. Then he snorted. "Suppose we get it 
straight between us who does the asking and who does the telling?" He 
read the last measure, then slung Bronwynn into a corner of the cell 
and pocketed the tape. He pointed his finger at her. He said nothing, 
just pointed that finger and looked at her. Then he left as quickly as 
he'd come. 


Bronwynn didn't bother to get up. She lay back where she was and tried 
hard to think about Rosha. But the thoughts now only filled her with 
despair. For while Ligne's dungeon was far blacker than this place, at 
least there she had felt that Rosha, or Pelmen, or someone on her side 
might be able to find her. No one knew she was here, save Admon Faye. 
And at the moment, it seemed even Ligne's hole might be preferable to 
serving the whims of the slaver. She didn't cry Bronwynn wasn't much 
for weeping. But it might have helped her feelings. Bottled inside 
her chest was a lump of disappointed hopes and nothing could make that 
lump go away. 


Still fuming, the House watched in silence as Joss climbed a small, 



private stairway into its upper levels. It felt enormous frustration; 
though it had warned its occupants in every consceivable way of the 
invasion and escape 


*0 Tke Wizard in Waiting of the intruder, not a soul within its walls 
had paid any heed. It had been hours before the theft of the captive 
had even been discovered. The warders who made that discovery then 
took another few hours to decide how to inform the Queen. Finally 
they'd drawn straws, and the luckless loser carried the message to her 
quarters. Now, after wasting a day, the Queen had summoned her Lord of 
Security to inform him of his failure. The castle hoped she'd have the 
man hanged. His guards! Ineptitude had besmirched the honor of the 
Imperial House of Chaomonous! 


The terraced gardens spiraled up out of the bowels of the castle to the 
very rooftop itself. Overall, capping the pleasure park's floral 
splendor, arched a gigantic aviary wrought of iron and delicately 
colored glass. It stretched up to a height almost equaling the 
loftiest of the castle's towers, which were themselves the tallest in 
this land. This rooftop cage was the warmest spot in the palace, kept 
so for the sake of the brightly plumed birds that fluttered from one 
man-made branch to another. Just as exotically plumed as the birds 
were the colorful courtiers who walked and talked beneath. This was 
one of Ligne's favorite spots, for she felt the gorgeous gardens, 
illuminated by the multicolored light from above, served as a perfect 
setting for the jewel of her own beauty. 


She greeted Joss with a forced smile, and quickly got down to business. 
"I hope you haven't regretted entering my service, Joss," she said as 
she tossed a handful of seeds before a peacock. "For a man of your 
integrity, such a transfer of loyalties must have been most 
difficult." 


"I would be lying if I denied it, my Lady Ligne." Joss nodded stiffly. 
He always felt out of place in this garden. He was much more at home 
in the armory, many floors below. 


Ligne smiled, her blue eyes sparkling. "And General Joss never 
lies." 


"Only for the sake of Chaomonous," he affirmed. She waited for him to 
elaborate, and unwillingly he obliged. "It was not so difficult to 
turn my back on Talith, once the King proved himself a fool. I 
determined that when he would not listen to reason, he was beyond any 
help that I might offer." 


The Wizard lit Waiting 


Jl 


"When he refused to believe I was about to overthrow him, you mean?" 
she supplied, still smiling. 


"That is correct, my Lady." Joss nodded, his discomfort growing. Ligne 
was a capricious woman with a taste for cruelty. He had no intention 
of crossing her. 


"I've been pleased with your performance, Joss, ever since you saw the 
futility of resisting me. You may relax. Your marvelous military 
talent which Talith so wastefully misused has proved much to my liking. 



I feared you as an enemy, Joss. I feel far more secure with you as a 
servant." She turned away from him, scattering seed with a wide sweep 
of her arm. "But I cannot seem to shake this tiny whisper of doubt 
that nags at me whenever I consider your service." She spun around to 
face him, her blue eyes suddenly hard. "I mean your continued 
affection for Tal-ith's daughter Bronwynn." 


Most men would have flinched under Ligne's gaze. Joss merely 
acknowledged it with one of his own. Then in deference to his Queen, 
he dropped his eyes and inclined his head. When he looked up at her 
again, his expression was humble, but frank. "As I've stated, it would 
be a lie for me to say I feel no lingering sense of shame regarding my 
break with the late royal family. But I must simply remind my Queen 
that it was I who duped the Lady Bronwynn into believing I would lead 
her army of rebellion, and who then brought her to you, bound in a 
criminal's chains. My Queen should examine only my actions to 
determine my faithfulness. My feelings are a private matter, which I 
never allow to interfere with the business of state." 


"Never?" Ligne demanded, shouting in his face. 


Joss blinked, but did not draw back. "Never," he murmured 
tonelessly. 


Ligne continued glaring for a moment, then her eyes softened, and she 
turned away. "I believe you," she said at length. "If you suddenly 
protested that you hated Bronwynn, I would certainly doubt your 
sincerity. After all, I always considered her a likeable child, didn't 
you?" 


"I did," Joss answered, very aware of those eyes fixed on his, 


"Regrettable that I've been forced to confine her to the dungeon, don't 
you think?" Ligne didn't blink. 


J2 


"If my Queen feels it is so, yes." 


"And what do you feel?" she snapped. 


He hesitated briefly, then breathed heavily, "I never allow my feelings 
to enter into the affairs of state." 


"Good," Ligne snarled, suddenly angry, "for I'm going to need your 
absolute loyalty to return her there!" 


"Return her?" Joss barked, his body cocking rigidly to attention. He 
realized now that he had just passed a very serious test. He realized, 
too, he was now facing a stiffer one. 


"She's gone," Ligne spat. "Stolen from my hole. My foremost rival, 
the only threat to my security in this position, and she's vanished!" 


"I heard no alarm." 


"No guard was fool enough to give any. Nor did I call for one when the 
warder finally made it known to me in my chambers, some hours ago." She 
gazed at Joss, and motioned toward a sparrow that glided overhead. 
"When the bird has flown, is there any point in screaming in anger?" 



"None, my Lady," Joss acknowledged curtly. 


"Of course, the guards say they didn't see a thing." Ligne sneered. 
"So I'm having their useless eyes extracted. But though their cries 
might soothe my temper, they won't change the situation. Oh!" she 
seethed, balling her fist and shaking it above her head. "I ought to 
wring Kherda's neck for keeping me from killing her while I had her!" 
Then she glared at Joss accusingly. 


Joss cleared his throat "My Queen, I have no love for Prime Minister 
Kherda, as you well know, but I did agree with that policy. To 
assassinate the Lady Bronwynn publicly would certainly build no 
confidence among your subjects " 


"Don't lecture me!" Ligne shouted, pointing her finger at Joss. Then 
her voice softened. "How can you expect me to consider public 
confidence when a free Bronwynn presents a clear and present threat to 
my reign? I am no longer concerned with appearances. I want Bronwynn 
dead, and I want you to kill her." She moved to him again, shoving her 
face into his. "I'm satisfied that your feelings will not be allowed 
to interfere." Her eyes left no room for objection. Joss offered 
none. "I have given this assignment before, I think you're aware." 


"Yes, my Queen. To Admon Faye." 


"There are few men in this land capable of stealing a captive from my 
prison. Admon Faye is the only one who comes to mind." 


"Yes, my Queen." 


t(When you find the man, put an end to him as well. We did not part on 
good terms." 


"Yes, my Queen." 


Ligne looked up at him. "Well? Go!" 


Joss turned to leave the aviary, pushing a peacock aside with his 
boot. 


"Oh, one more thing," Ligne called, and Joss turned to listen. "I've 
had the warder gutted. Display his body in the armory for several 
days. I want the palace defenses to have something to think on. 
Consider it yourself, Joss won't you?" She clapped her hands together 
to rid them of the last of the bird seed, then turned to walk swiftly 
down the garden path. Joss walked just as swiftly down the interior 
stairway to the lower levels of the castle. The further he got from 
the woman, the cleaner he felt. But duty was duty, and she was right. 
Chaomonous could not afford two Queens. 


Bronwynn gingerly fingered her eye and the swollen flesh surrounding 
it. She longed for a mirror. Not that anyone was going to see her 
down here thank goodness. The way she looked now, a rescuing Rosha 
would probably gag and just leave her behind! But a mirror would have 
been nice. There was something comforting in knowing exactly how ugly 
she looked. In her imagination, the whole right side of her face was 
twice its normal size, and as black as a ripe avocado. Admon Faye had 
punched her hard. But it was the memory of his pointed finger, and the 
threat implied in it, that made her shiver. Understandably, she didn't 



leap for joy when she heard his boat mooring outside her door. She 
fixed a sneer on her bruised features, but he ignored her as he stepped 
inside and tossed her a linen bag. "Put them on," he muttered, then he 
left the cell, slamming the door and locking it behind him. She heard 
him get into his boat. She waited, listening. 


"Put them on!" he ordered through the door, and she decided she'd best 
comply. She opened the drawstring of 


J4 The Wizart? in Waiting the linen bag and dully examined its 
contents. Her interest grew suddenly sharp. 


It held a new pair of suede boots, well-made by the look of them; a 
pair of soft leather trousers, styled like a man's but tailored to fit 
her; a shirt woven of wool and dyed a dark green, and a tan waistcoat 
to go over it; and a floor length cape, fur-lined within and coated 
without with pitch, to keep her both warm and dry in harsh weather. 


"Where are you taking me?" she shouted. 


"Are you dressed yet?" he yelled back. 


"Not yet " 


"If I have to come in and strip you myself, I guarantee you won't like 
what follows." 


Bronwynn got dressed. She was more than happy to abandon the rag she'd 
been wearing for months, and the quality of these new clothes convinced 
her that Admon Faye's sewers were indeed lined with gold. The cape 
felt especially good. She hadn't been warm in weeks. "I'm ready," she 
called, and Admon Faye flung open the door and grabbed her by the 
wrist. He moved too quickly for her to resist him effectively, binding 
her arms behind her with an expertise born of years of slaving. 


"I thought you were going to make me a Queen!" Bronwynn cried, 


"And I will. If I don't skin you first. Get into the boat." Bronwynn 
obeyed without argument, and Admon Faye poled them away from the wall. 
He turned the bow of the craft into the stream and began pushing it 
against the gentle current. Bronwynn gagged at the sight of the waste 
and rubbish that bobbed along the water surrounding them. She decided 
even Admon Faye's face was preferable, and looked back at him. "Is it 
always this deep?" 


"Often deeper," the slaver answered. "Be glad you chose to be a good 
little girl. I could have left you behind and in the spring thaw you'd 
have drowned in the stuff." He chuckled lewdly. 


Bronwynn turned away from his ugly smile. Maybe the garbage was 
better. "Where are we going?" 


"You'll know it when we get there." 


"It must be somewhere in the Spinal Range, or you wouldn't have 
provided this cape " 


"I told you once, girl. You'll know it when we're there." 


The Wizard in Waiting SJ 



It was clear Admon Faye would say no more. Bronwynn snuggled back into 
the cloak and rested, watching reflected light dance on the granite 
vault above her. The rhythm of the pole ramming into the sewer bed and 
the gentle rock of the boat made her drowsy .. . 


Then she was wide awake, as many pairs of hands lifted her out of the 
rowboat. She was carried like a rolled-up carpet up a flight of steps, 
under the rough arms of several most ungentle porters. They sniggered, 
pinching and tweaking her flesh all the way across an underground 
stable toward a waiting horse. There they tossed her skyward, and she 
instinctively spread her legs to slam down into the horse's saddle. Her 
hands were untied, then quickly bound again in front of her, and 
someone slapped the animal on the rump. It moved sluggishly out of the 
stable, into the sunlight. 


Bronwynn squinted. This was only the second time she'd seen the sun in 
months. She ducked her head, protecting her eyes against the glare, 
but they soon adjusted, and she saw that she was just one of many 
riders, mounted and ready to move. She heard many shouts and cries 
around her, but easily singled out Admon Faye's voice above the rest. 


"What about Joss?" 


"He rides to Dragonsgate. The barman at the Bull's End told him your 
plans." 


Admon Faye swore savagely, then muttered, "Have you dealt with that 
barman?" 


"His body floats in the sewer." 


"But Joss knows," Admon Faye snarled, and he cursed again. "Very well. 
We'll have to go by way of the Great South Fir. That's well out of our 
way but no matter. We'll break from the woods due south of Tohn's 
castle. Joss will find nothing in the pass but a lot of snow." Admon 
Faye chuckled. "Wonder how he'll justify that to our gracious Queen?" 
Admon Faye spurred his horse to move abreast of Bronwynn's. "Well, 
little girl, are you ready to ride?" Before she could answer, he 
grabbed the reins of her horse and dug his heels into the flanks of his 
own. Bronwynn clamped her knees tightly onto her saddle and leaned 
forward, as Admon Faye's band of rascals charged westward toward the 
Great South Fir. 


CHAPTER FOUR 


A Swordsman's Surprise 


"PERHAPS you didn't hear me the first time, Rosha. You are crazy!" 
Dorlyth mod Karl's' face was redder than his beard. 


"I d-did hear you the first time, father. And every t-tiroe since." 


"Then why do you persist in making a fool of yourself. There's a 
blizzard outside!" 


Rosha mod Dorlyth, pretended champion of Heinox, friend of Pelmen 
Dragonsbane and a bear's-bane in his own right, did not reply. Instead 
he cinched the saddle of his war-horse a notch tighter, then turned to 
fetch his saddlebags. 



Dorlyth ran his hand through the unruly curls that ringed his mouth, 
and sighed. "Son, I know it's very difficult to come home once you've 
become a hero, but " 


"It's not difficult to come home, father. It appears the d-difficulty 
is in leaving again. Would you hand me that?" He pointed to a 
scabbarded great sword that hung on the wall. Dorlyth nodded and 
pulled it down, fingering it lovingly before passing it to Rosha across 
the horse's back. He had given the sword to the lad only six summers 
before, and already it was the premier weapon in the land. King 


Pahd mod Pahd-el, ruler of Ngandib-Mar, had honored it with a name, 
making it the first named sword in Dorlyth's memory. "Thalraphis" he 
had dubbed it "the eye needle for though the weapon was five feet long, 
it had been no more than a needle in the eye of the great dragon, 
Vicia-Heinox. With this very weapon, Pelmen had slain the mortal enemy 
of all mankind. 


Rosha took the sword and strapped it to his saddle. Then be glanced 
around the stable, trying to think if he were forgetting anything. 


"Rosha son think it over! If she really did call you her treasure, the 
woman's not going to run off and marry someone else before spring!" 


"It's not just B-bronwynn, father. It's s-s-simply time to go!" That 
was true. From the moment he had arrived home he'd been wined and 
dined by every wealthy family in the land of Ngandib-Mar. King Pahd 
had given him the biggest banquet anyone could remember. His stomach 
still felt bloated. 


The celebrations of his heroism had barely passed before the yule 
season arrived, and once again the lords and barons of all Ngandib had 
clamored for his presence. He was so tired of eating and of honors 
that he hoped never to see another breast of pheasant or golden goblet 
again. Being a hero had grown boring to him, at last, so he'd ridden 
home to the comfort of his father's fire. 


Dorlyth and Rosha had watched the yule log dwindle together, wrapped in 
bear furs, and had finally talked themselves out. Rosha learned a sad 
truth. Being a hero was much less satisfying than doing heroic things. 
It grew dull and stale in a hurry. 


And then there was Bronwynn. Princess of the Golden Kingdom of 
Chaomonous, far to the south, her last words to him had been a 
declaration of her love. Then she'd ridden away, to reclaim her throne 
from the false Queen Ligne, and he hadn't heard another word from her. 
Day after day he had watched the southern horizon for a blue-flyer 
bearing a message, but those carrier birds that did arrive at the 
castle brought only more invitations to dinner. Worst of all, he was 
stuttering again. He had to go! He stepped to the doorway of the 
stable and gazed out the open gate. Large flakes of snow tumbled 
gracefully 


J8 The Wizard in Waiting from the sky, adding to the three-inch blanket 
of the stuff that already covered the cobblestoned courtyard. 


"Only a fool would ride east in this weather," Dorlyth growled, "and I 
didn't raise a fool." Rosha slung himself up onto the back of his 
war-horse. "On the other hand," Dorlyth muttered, "maybe I did." Rosha 



wheeled his mount and would have ridden out, but Dorlyth shouted, 
"Wait!" and grabbed the reins. 


"No, father!" Rosha yelled, then he clasped his arms tightly around 
his horse's neck, as the animal reared to protect its master. The 
horse had been a gift from King Pahd, and was nervous and spirited. 


An old warrior like Dorlyth hadn't lived to become old by being stupid. 
He beat a hasty retreat to the far side of the stable, and Rosha's 
warning shout disintegrated into a chuckle. The young swordsman 
slipped down to the ground and caught the beast's head jn his hands, 
saying. "It isn't good to trample your master's father, my friend. 
Relax." Then he turned to look at Dorlyth, still twenty feet away. 


His father made a wry face. "Can I come tell you goodbye without 
getting stepped on?" 


Rosha grinned, and spread his arms wide. Dorlyth mod Karis hugged his 
son powerfully, then stepped back to look at him. "Can't blame an old 
man for being lonely," he said gruffly. Rosha understood what Dorlyth 
was truly saying to him .. . "Go with blessings." The young man 
nodded. Then he laid a hand on his father's shoulder and squeezed it 


"Take c-care of yourself, will you?" 


"Me, take care of myself? Lad, I'm not the one going out into a 
snowstorm!" Dorlyth frowned. Then he winked, and growled, "I thought 
you said Pelmen was coming to visit?" 


"He said he was. B-but you know P-pel men 


"Indeed I do." Dorlyth nodded sourly. "If he says he's on his way, 
that means don't expect him." Rosha climbed back onto the horse's 
back, and the animal allowed Dorlyth to come up close without moving. 
"One thing more," Dorlyth muttered, and Rosha looked at him 
expectantly, "If you get married, at least let me know. Fathers are 
interested in that sort of thing." 


Rosha laughed, and with a twist of his hand was gone, out the stable 
door and into the crisp air of early morning. 


In a moment both horse and rider had disappeared into the swirling 
snow. 


"Merciful, that," muttered Dorlyth to himself. He hated long 
good-byes. 


Admon Faye did not permit his troop of brigands any rest until they 
swept past the last cultivated field and entered the edge of the Great 
South Fir. 


The three lands were divided from one another by two great natural 
barriers. The Spinal Range, a wall of rock that separated Chaomonous 
from Lamath, started in the sea itself as the formation of islands 
called the Border Straits. From the coast it ran one hundred and 
thirty miles inland to the west. Its granite cliffs were unbroken, 
save for that one legendary pass known as Dragonsgate, At Drag-onsgate, 
the mountain range divided, and separate arms extended into both 
sections of the other geographical barrier the Great Fir. This band of 
rugged forest was fifty miles wide at its narrowest point, but that was 



around the base of the mountains, where it was also so dense as to be 
impenetrable to all but wood creatures. The mountains formed the 
dividing line, separating the Great Fir into northern and southern 
sections. 


Eighty miles southwest of the Spinal Range, the Great South Fir could 
be passed. But few people attempted the feat. Most of those who did 
were slavers. Any other small party travelling alone in the Great Fir 
was likely to finish the journey with slavers in chains. 


The Great Fir was the closest thing Admon Faye had to a home or it had 
been, until his recent conquest of Dragonsgate. Scattered through the 
forest were his cleared campsites. Some of these were of enormous size 
but so skillfully hidden in the thickets as to be unrecognizable to all 
but the trained woodsman. It was not until they reached one of these 
hidden shelters that Admon Faye let his weary band stop. 


His little army of forty swords had more than tripled in this latest 
visit to Chaomonous, and now a hundred and fifty men scrambled for the 
best of the tent sites, and fought one another for firewood. 


Bronwynn, however, stayed astride her horse. Though exhausted by the 
journey, she refused to budge until some 0 The WiztrJ in Waiting one 
cut her bonds and lifted her down. If she were to be the Queen of this 
ragged rabble, they could begin now to show her a little respect. 


"Are you planning on going somewhere, girl?" 


Bronwynn stiffened her shoulders at the sound of Admon Faye's voice. He 
was behind her, but she refused to turn her head. "I'm going nowhere 
until someone does me the courtesy of cutting my bonds and getting me 
down." 


"Take that attitude about it," he growled, "and you may be sure no one 
will. Get off." She didn't budge. "I guess you must like it up 
there," he said after a moment. 


"Like it?" Bronwynn snapped. "My bottom is black and blue." 


"If it isn't, it will be," he threatened, "unless you hop down off that 
horse and start collecting some firewood. Your hands are tied in front 
of you. You can get off easily enough." 


Bronwynn sighed, then kicked her right leg over the horse's head and 
pivoted on the saddle, dropping easily to the ground. She groaned. The 
insides of her thighs were raw, and her legs were cramped from clamping 
tightly onto the saddle. Admon Faye chuckled behind her. She turned 
to glare at him, loathing everything about him. 


He chopped a point on one end of a branch with a heavy knife. Then he 
reversed the stake and lopped off two forking branches at the other 
end, leaving the fork in it to hold a spit of meat. Then he looked up 
at Bronwynn. "You want your ropes cut? Here's the knife." The weapon 
came flipping at her end over end, and Bronwynn jerked away, but it 
buried itself harmlessly in the mulch several inches short of where her 
foot had been. "Wouldn't have hit you, your Highness." Admon Faye 
snickered, as did the other outlaws who happened to be standing nearby. 
Then the slaver turned his back on her and buried the point of his 
stake at the edge of an old fire pit Bronwynn picked up the knife and, 
after an awkward moment of pushing and reaching, managed at last to cut 



through her bonds. Then she looked around. No one was watching her. 
Admon Faye's back was turned, as he leaned on the stake, driving it 
into the ground. 


Bronwynn was angry, and that anger clouded her good sense. Dismissing 
the possible consequences of success, she grabbed the knife in both 
hands and vaulted toward Admon Faye's broad back. But before she would 
reach it, that back had moved the stake wasn't in place anymore either. 
Admon Faye sidestepped her charge and brought the stick arching around 
behind her. At the very instant she realized he had moved, the stick 
cracked painfully across her backside, and she fell most ingloriously 
into the ashes of the fire pit It wasn't the blow that hurt her most. 
It was the shout of laughter that greeted her humiliation. 


"Remarkable, isn't it," Admon Faye remarked to a comrade, "how they all 
try exactly the same thing?" 


"Get up, girl," someone laughed, "and take comfort in the fact that you 
aren't the first who's pitched headlong into a fire bed 


"My Lady," Admon Faye mocked her, "I hope you are appreciative. I did 
at least wait about starting the fire until after you took your 
tumble." 


Bronwynn felt certain that no fire could burn as hot as her cheeks did 
right now. She could hear the laughter rippling through the far side 
of the camp as the news was quickly relayed. 


Admon Faye stepped down into the pit it was shallow, only a foot or so 
deep and dragged her stumbling and choking to her feet. She cowered 
away, expecting another blow to blacken her other eye. Admon Faye felt 
her jerk and grinned. He was, by both instinct and training, a bully. 
And he knew from long experience that to withhold an expected blow 
sometimes struck the soul with more savagery than a punch. He withheld 
this one. He shoved her away with a derisive snort, and left her 
standing in humiliation in the ashes. 


Bronwynn felt the intended shame she wasn't even worth hitting! She 
dragged herself out of the pit and sat down on the edge of it. For the 
first time in a long time, she filled her hands with hot tears. 


Rosha thoroughly enjoyed his first day of travel. The snowstorm, 
moving rapidly westward toward the High City of Ngandib, passed over 
him by midmorning, and when the sky cleared, the rays of the sun turned 
the snow-blanketed landscape a dazzling white. Though many miles away 
still, he fancied he could see the summit of Dragonsgate far to the 
northeast, and his heart quickened at the memory of the recent triumph 
there a triumph in which he'd played a leading part. He booted his 
mount, and they plunged onward at a trot. Snow sprayed up around the 
hooves of his war-horse as they journeyed down through shallow valleys 
and over small hills, past small stands of trees denuded by the winter 
cold. 


They passed few castles, and Rosha gave these a wide berth. It wasn't 
that he feared danger from them. He just couldn't shake the memory of 
a dozen ugly daughters, girls who'd been pushed at him by the most 
influential rulers of the land in fits of fatherly matchmaking. Rosha 
swore under his breath that he would not attend another banquet. 
However, should he be spotted by the lords of these local manors, he 
feared he would have no excuse not to. He pushed on, stopping little. 



His goal was to be at Dragonsgate inside three days. 


Launched at last on a new adventure, his spirits rose, and his thoughts 
turned from the past to the future. The sound of hoofbeats was muffled 
by snow, and nothing moved in the white stillness to interrupt his deep 
deliberations. 


He wondered about the world. With Vicia-Hemox dead, the barrier that 
had separated the three lands for centuries was gone as well. There 
had been only war between the lands for so many centuries could peace 
really be possible now? His father thought not. But Dorlyth was old, 
and his foreign adventures had left him bitter toward all ideas that 
weren't Man in origin. Could his father and the other leaders of 
Ngandib-Mar ever look with favor on the words of a Lamathian? 


Of course, Dorlyth listened to Pelmen, and Pelmen was no, Rosha 
thought. Pelmen wasn't really a Lamathian. But he wasn't a Mari 
either. Still and all, Pelmen was a power shaper and didn't that make 
him Mari, at least in part? 


More critical for Rosha, of course, would be Mari reactions to Chaons. 
His Bronwynn was the Chaon Queen or would be soon. For a moment Rosha 
speculated on the reactions of those wealthy lords who had hosted him, 
once they heard of his marriage to the ruler of their hated southern 
rival. 


"Let them talk," he announced to his horse's mane. "I will marry 
Bronwynn!" Rosha smiled, pleased with himself. He hadn't stumbled on 
a single word. 


His second and third days out were as miserable as his first day had 
been fun. A new storm struck about noon of the second day, forcing him 
to pitch 4us tent early to wait out the worst of it. Within the 
confines of its fish-satin walls, he and his horse got better 
acquainted a bit too well acquainted for Rosha's tastes. He broke camp 
early the next morning and pressed on, but the storm had been followed 
by a dreadful drop in temperature, and Rosha recounted ruefully his 
father's pleas for him to wait until spring. The sun came up at last 
to light his way, but its heat never penetrated the bitter cold. 
Rosba's breath froze on his face, and even the layers of bearskins he 
wrapped around himself couldn't slow the chatter of his teeth. 


He began to long for a companion, anyone to talk to, to keep his mind 
off the chill. He talked to his horse for a time. Then he told his 
plans to his sword. Finally, for want of anything better to do, Rosha 
began to sing. The afternoon of the third day found him riding up the 
short incline of the western mouth of Dragonsgate, singing at the top 
of his lungs while his teeth chattered merrily between choruses. 


Had Tibb been sitting any closer to the fire he would have been in it. 
"Why'd I ever let you talk me into this?" he chattered. 


"Greed," his companion snorted, as he clapped himself on the shoulders 
in an effort to keep them from freezing. "A pure lust for stolen gold. 
That's the only thing that could ever budge you from Lamath." 


"Yeah, well, when am I gonna see some of it?" Tibb responded sourly. 
"You promised me there'd be piles of it in this cave. There's piles 
all right .. ." Tibb turned his baleful gaze upon the enormous mound 
of dragon-droppings 



: that lined the back of their freezing abode. "Does that 


' smell like gold to you?" 


: "We could have had the gold, if we'd gotten here quick enough," 
Pinter snapped. "But no. You had to wait around to loot the Temple of 
the Dragon." 


"How was I to know the funny little Prophet was gonna board it up?" 


"Piles of gold and diamonds, boarded in this cave for centuries, and 
you pass it up to steal altar cups!" 


"Those cups were pure gold! A goblet in the hand is worth two piles of 
dragon dung any day!" 


"Yeah?" Pinter snapped back, now flapping his long arms like a bird. 
"Well, you'd better be glad we've got it here to burn, or you'd be a 
solid block of ice." "And that's my fault, I suppose?" 


"Yes, it's your fault. If you hadn't wasted time we'd be with Admon 
Faye now, wherever he is. Ill wager he's not freezing." 


"So let's go find him, then." 


Pinter regarded Tibb with sheer revulsion. "Two La-mathians in 
Chaomonous? We'd be in irons by tonight" "Then let's go back to 
Lamath," Tibb pleaded. "Through the snow?" Pinter stomped to the 
entrance of the lair and pointed down at the Dragonsgate Pass, fifty 
feet below them. "Look at it!" 


Tibb didn't need to. The pass had been snow-clogged for weeks. "We 
can't just sit here," he mumbled. 


"Oh, yes we can," Pinter challenged. "We can just relax and wait for 
Admon Faye's return, as we agreed. Spring can't be very far away .. ." 
he added mournfully. 


Tibb hunkered down closer to the small fire. It was giving off more 
smoke and stench that heat, but it beat no blaze at all. "What if he 
doesn't want us?" the stocky thief inquired sensibly. "What if he 
decides to sell us instead? It's been done," he protested. 


"Tibb." Pinter sighed in exasperation. "You're talking about Admon 
Faye, This is not just some small-fish cutthroat. This man is a true 
outlaw. He's got class, style, taste " 


"We talking about the same Admon Faye? Mean fellow with a mug that 
would scare the wrinkles out of tugolith's hide?" 


"Tibb, this is a man who is truly free. He bows his knee to no 
King." 


"Still ugly, just the same." "And when he returns, we'll offer him our 
swords " 


"And hope he doesn't use 'em on us." 


" and offer him the tribute we've collected in his absence," Pinter 



finished loudly, glaring at his comrade. 


"Which is exactly nothing," Tibb snorted. 


"There'll be some," Pinter affirmed confidently, "There will!" he 
repeated in the face of Tibb's snide expression. 


"Oh, certainly," Tibb nodded. "Piles of it." 


Pinter suddenly straightened up. "Do you hear that?" 


"Hear what?" 


"I hear singing .. ." 


Tibb smiled uneasily. He'd been fearing it ... the combination of the 
snow and these cramped conditions had caused his friend to come 
unravelled 


"Listen!" Pinter shouted. "Don't you hear it?" 


"Sure, Pinter, sure," Tibb responded with exaggerated calm. "Why don't 
you come sit " He cut off. Now he was hearing it too. 


"A merchant!" Pinter shouted, and he jumped with excitement an 
unfortunate move, since he was tall, and happened to be standing under 
the low lip of the cave's entrance. He yelped as his head grazed the 
rock and he landed hard on his rear. But the blow couldn't faze him. 
He was too thrilled. "Come on, we've got to stop him." 


"It's, ah, it's probably not a merchant," Tibb argued nervously. "Why 
would a merchant be coming through now?" 


"Get the weapons! Throw me my helmet! We have to get down and stop 
him before he gets through." That would be no easy task. Vicia-Heinox 
had favored this particular cavern for its inaccessibility. Its 
entrance, fifty feet up the sheer face of Dragonsgate's northern cliff, 
had proved a formidable obstacle to the pair when they'd first arrived. 
Sheer desperation for some protection against the cold had finally 
driven Tibb to scale the wall that, and his expectation of diamonds and 
gold. Once inside, they'd discovered the remnants of Admon's Faye's 
encampment and a neatly rolled rope ladder of hemp. Now Pinter danced 
from one side of the cave mouth to the other, shouting orders while he 
tried to toss the ladder out and down. In his haste he succeeded only 
in turning the neat roll into a tangled, knotted pile. 


Tibb was loathe to leave his fire especially for a fight. 


"I'll bet he's a cutthroat. Nothing but a cutthroat. Has to be a 
crazy cutthroat to try to pass Dragonsgate under these ridiculous 
conditions." 


Pinter jerked feverishly at the pile. "Quit blithering and get that 
equipment over here. He'll be past us before we can even get off this 
cliff." 


"What purpose will it serve?" Tibb demanded, stalking stiffly across 
the cave floor toward a pile of arms. "We'll get nothing but trouble 
out of this one. He's a cutthroat, I guarantee you. No one but a 
cutthroat would be in this pass in the wintertime." 



"We're here, aren't we?" Pinter snarled, freeing one knot with a 
mighty jerk, and putting in two more in the process. 


"That's what I said," Tibb yelled. 


"We're not cutthroats," Pinter barked. "We're outlaws. Outlaws!" 


"So you keep saying," Tibb muttered as he shuffled across the cave 
toward Pinter, his arms loaded. He slammed the load of weapons and 
gear onto the stone and turned around to look for the rope ladder to 
lower them. "Where's the rope?" 


"Where do you think it is?" Pinter yelled in exasperation. "Where 
does it look like it is?" 


"It looks like it's in knots," Tibb observed. Pinter roared in 
frustration as yet another tangle came into the ladder; in anger he 
buried the toe of his boot in the pile of gear. It plummeted over the 
edge, turning end over end to the canyon floor and landing in a snow 
drift. 


"Now why'd you do that?" Tibb scolded. "I bet your precious Admon 
Faye doesn't kick his weapons off cliffs." 


"Say one more word to me, Tibb, and I'll send you down the same way!" 


"You bent my sword!" Tibb griped, peeking over the edge. His sword 
was sticking point down in the snow. "Look at it. You ruined it." 


"Would you help me untangle these knots?" Pinter screamed. "He's 
getting past." 


Rosha stopped singing. He had seen the large bundle tumble from the 
cliff face, and it aroused his curiosity. He focused his gaze on the 
cave entrance above him and shouted for joy when he saw a rope ladder 
drop freely from it, followed by two scurrying figures, who fought to 
keep from falling as they hurried to the ground. "Ho there!" he 
cried. "At last here's some company!" 


Dragonsgate was wide at this point, nearly a quarter of a mile from 
cliff to cliff, so Rosha could easily have avoided the ragged-looking 
characters who now wrestled with the bundle in the snow. But he was so 
eager for the company of others that the thought of danger never 
entered his mind. He guided his horse toward them through the drifts, 
climbing leisurely to meet the two thieves who hustled to block his 
way. "Greetings, my friends," he called as he reached them. 


"Halt there!" cried Tibb, waving a sword in his face. 


"Stay your mount, or I'll cut his forelegs," Pinter added, seizing his 
weapon in both hands and swinging it back to strike. 


"And touch not your blade," Tibb went on sourly. "Or I'll drop you 
here." This mounted warrior had dragged him away from his warm fire, 
and the stocky thief was determined to make him pay for it. 


Rosha hadn't thought to reach for Thalraphis. He was trying to control 
a cackle. The sword Pinter waggled at him was bent at a ridiculous 
angle. "Your weapon, sir," fac managed to get out, "is somewhat .. . 



misshapen." 


"Yes, well," Tibb grumbled, talking his eyes off Rosha and glancing up 
the blade of his sadly bowed sword. He shouldn't have. Rosha's left 
foot had slipped its stirrup, and now slashed out to crack across 
Tibb's knuckles. The sword in question sailed into the air, turning 
slowly and flashing once in the sunlight before clattering against the 
near cliff and dropping into the bank. Both thieves followed its 
flight in surprise. There was plenty of time for Rosha to jerk out 
ThaLraphis if he'd wished to, but he left it where it was. He was 
enjoying this encounter. 


Tibb put his hands on his hips and frowned at Rosha. "I don't imagine 
you've helped its shape any by that." 


"Who knows?" Rosha grinned. "The blow just might have straightened 
it." 


Tibb stomped angrily after his sword, tossing up a shower of snow with 
every stride, and Rosha turned back to face Pinter, who watched him 
uncertainly. 


"Here now," Pinter said nervously. "Don't try any tricks. Get off 
that horse, or I'll maim you both." 


"Oh, I shouldn't bother this animal if I were you, my friend." Rosha 
smiled, "He's a very special horse, you see, and he doesn't take kindly 
to anyone who threatens me." Rosha was pleased with the performance of 
his tongue. Perhaps it was because he was on his own again, but for 
some reason he felt very confident in his speech today. "What are you 
two doing out here, anyhow? You ought to be sitting by a fire 
someplace." 


"I was," Tibb called, "until you showed up," He picked up his sword and 
gazed at it in disgust. 


"We are defending our pass against intruders like yourself," Pinter 
shouted. "You'll not leave Dragonsgate without paying the toll you owe 
us." 


"Toll? You make it sound like you owned the place," "And so we do." 


"Own Dragonsgate?" Rosha said, incredulous. "No one owns Dragonsgate. 
Not since Vicia-Heinox died. If anyone could claim title to it, it 
would be my friends and I. After all we evicted its last owner." 


"What? Who are you?" Pinter queried aggressively. 


"Rosha mod Dorlyth, bear's-bane," Rosha said flatly. 


Pinter was visibly shaken. He swallowed hard, then shouted, "Tibb!" He 
took several awkward steps backward in the snow. 


"I'm coming, I'm coming," Tibb mumbled as he slogged his way back 
toward them, turning his battered Wade over in his hands and shaking 
his head in disbelief. 


This is one of them!" Pinter shouted, suddenly dancing and weaving 
from side to side as if he expected Rosha to fall on him any moment. 
"This is a companion of the dragon killer!" 



Tibb looked up at Rosha with a new admiration. While in Lamath he had 
followed Pelmen's prophetic ministry with some curiosity and here was 
one who had travelled with the Prophet. "Really?" he asked. 


Rosha had heard that tone before, and it made him wince. He 
half-expected Tibb to ask him the same insane question he'd left 
Ngandib-Mar to avoid: "What was Vicia-Heinox really like?" 


<fYou ah you put your hands in the air, bear's-bane!" Pinter shouted 
nervously. He was growing breathless. In spite of his long legs, it 
was difficult to dance and shuffle in this snow. 


"Why?" Rosha asked sensibly. 


"We need some tribute from you (puff!) to present to our master (puff!) 
when he returns." 


"Oh?" Rosba smiled. "And who is this master of yours 


"Admon Faye, of cour " Pinter's voice abandoned him in mid-sentence. 
The point of Thalraphis was suddenly hovering two inches from the tip 
of his nose. 


"How did you do that?" Tibb asked Rosha, admiringly. 


Rosha ignored him. "Where is he?" he demanded. All humor had left 
his voice. 


Pinter minced no words, quickly spitting out, "He's in Chaomonous." 


"Where in Chaomonous?" Rosha demanded. 


"I don't know." The sword tip moved an inch closer to Pinter's nose. 
"I don't. Who can know where " 


Rosha touched his heel lightly to the flank of his war-horse, and they 
were gone in a burst of powdery whiteness. Both Pinter and Tibb were 
left lying on their backs in the drifts. 


"How did he do that?" Tibb asked again. 


"You were certainly right about one thing," Pinter choked, staring at 
the sky. "He was nothing but a cutthroat!" 


Joss studied the road carefully. "I begin to disbelieve the barkeep. 
Either he lied, or Admon Faye has changed his plans," He turned to look 
thoughtfully at his squire. "Would you care to wager that he's riding 
hard toward the forest?" 


"Couldn't we cut him off?" the boy wondered. 


"Not a chance. He knows the Great South Fir better than a tree gnome. 
I should have jailed that barman." 


"Because he lied to us?" 


"Yes or because he lived to suffer for telling us the truth. Probably 
dead already. We'll camp here." 



The young man wrinkled his nose in confusion. "I don't follow." 


"We've come this far, and the slaver isn't ahead of us. We'll camp and 
wait. He may surprise me and ride into a trap. Summon my staff. I 
want an ambush set up within the hour." 


Three hours passed, and Joss dismissed the idea of trapping Admon Faye. 
But as the sun was setting, his squire raced to him with great 
excitement. A single rider had been spotted approaching from the 
north. Joss mounted his charger and rode out to meet him. 


Joss did not come to his lofty rank by battle alone. He had risen 
through the Golden Army on the strength of his disciplined mind and a 
memory that held a tight grip on detail. Had he never met Rosha 
before, he still would have recognized the young warrior, for Bronwynn 
had described him at great length. But Joss had met Rosha in 
Dragonsgate, only a few hours after the conquest of the dragon. And 
there was no doubt. This was the man. 


Rosha rode through Cbaomonous with an arrogance born of innocence. He 
was, after all, a hero, and heroes never travelled any other way. When 
he saw General Joss waiting for him in the road, he drew Thalraphis and 
saluted with it "Greetings, my friend," he called, and he reined in his 
charger thirty yards from the General. 


"Greetings, Rosha mod Dorlytb," the General replied, his face fixed in 
a smile. 


"You know me?" Rosha said, flattered. He urged his war-horse forward 
a few yards. 


"Of course I know you," Joss called gravely. "But I see that you do 
not remember me!" "Do I know you?" Rosha asked suspiciously. "But of 
course you do. I am from the court of the Queen!" Joss watched the 
lad closely as he said these words. He was pleased with the boy's 
reaction. 


"Bronwynn?" Rosha touched his horse gently and the animal trotted to 
within a yard of Joss. Rosha eyed the General, then nodded in 
recognition. "Yes. You were the man who took her from the pass." "I 
am." Joss smiled. "Where is she?" Rosha demanded. "Why, in 
Cbaomonous, I believe," Joss said smoothly. "I'm I'm surprised. I 
didn't expect you to put her on the throne so quickly. I expected to 
be ah needed, somehow, in the struggle." 


"The Queen," Joss responded with a sly grin, "came to the throne quite 
unexpectedly. I humbly confess that the Queen has been most 
appreciative of my assistance." 


"The Queen," Rosha muttered, trying to accustom himself to seeing 
Bronwynn in that light. "That sounds quite good." 


"But, of course," Joss said, "her problems are not at an end. It seems 
that Admon Faye has rescued the false Queen from the dungeon and plots 
to place her on the throne of the land." The General found he was 
enjoying this deception. 


Rosha seized the pommel of Thalraphis with a fierce frown. "I am aware 
that Admon Faye is still abroad in the land. I met two thugs in 
Dragonsgate who told me so." 



"Oh, then he is there." Joss nodded. 


"No, only those two. They told me he's somewhere here, in Chaomonous." 
Rosha drew Thalraphis again and held it out before him. "I ride to 
pledge my sword to the Queen," he said, "to help to rid this land of 
the plague of Admon Faye." 


Joss smiled broadly. "I can think of nothing that would please our 
Queen more." For the first time in many days Joss felt the urge to 
laugh aloud. He resisted it, as he led the proud young warrior into 
his camp. 


Rosha was pleased. Throughout the ride to the capital city his tongue 
had not stumbled once. In fact, it had wagged as freely this day as 
any day in his memory. He heard himself telling General Joss of 
personal things he'd never revealed to anyone before. Of course, there 
was no harm in that. After all this was the man who had placed his 
Bronwynn on the throne. 


Joss was a patient, attentive listener. His interest in Ros-has 
background never seemed to flag. When Rosha exhausted one area of 
discussion, Joss would ask a pointed question that would open up a 
whole new area, then would nod encouragement to the young warrior and 
listen for another hour. Rarely did Rosha have an opportunity to ask 
Joss a direct question, so skillfully did the General steer the 
conversation away from himself. He also tended to avoid conversation 
regarding Bronwynn. Joss' standard reply to any question regarding 
Rosha's beloved was, "That will be known when you meet with the 
Queen." 


Rosha talked at length about his attitude toward Bron-wynn's crown. 
"Perhaps it would appear unseemly to you for someone of my rank to 
aspire to marry your Queen. But the crown of Ngandib-Mar doesn't pass 
from generation to generation as your crown does. Bronwynn told me 
that the throne of Chaomonous always passes to the oldest male heir. 
Isn't that correct?" Joss would only nod. "But Ngandib-Mar isn't so 
well organized," Rosha went on. "It's ruled by a confederation of 
chieftains, who must agree who will rule in the High City of 
Ngandib." 


Joss smiled grimly, his eyes on the road ahead. "And how well does 
that system work? Does it prevent war?" 


"Prevent war?" Rosha asked, surprised. "Not a chance, But it's a rare 
Man who wants to prevent war." 


"I had heard that." Joss nodded. 


"My father does but since the dragon's death, I've dined with above 
fifty of the Man chieftains, and most of them encourage battle." 


"To what end?" 


"Why to have the opportunity to test one another and to gain glory in 
victory," 


"And what if they lose?" Joss asked, cocking his eyebrow. 


"Then they wait impatiently for the next battle, for a chance to redeem 



themselves." Rosha grinned over at Joss. "The discussion over who 
should be King provides plenty of opportunity for battle." 


"Then I would imagine you Maris have a new King every year." 


"Oh no. Pahd mod Pahd-el, the present Lord of the High City, is the 
third Pahd mod Pahd to rule as King. And he's been King since he was 
my age." 


"It sounds as if the Pahds have gone far toward establishing their own 
dynasty. The family of Pahd must be very strong." 


"Not really," Rosha shrugged. "My father says Pahd is a very powerful 
swordsman on his own, but he's not an especially strong ruler. He's 
King now because, whenever the confederation of chieftains tire of 
fighting one another, Pahd seems a harmless enough compromise choice. 
Besides, he's already moved into the palace, and it would take a 
considerable army to crack that citadel. 


"What I'm trying to say is that any Mari can aspire to wear the crown. 
He may not be powerful enough to take it and it may be worth little to 
him if he does but it means there is no royalty in Ngandib-Mar and a 
person can marry whomever he chooses." 


"Are there no slaves in Ngandib-Mar?" 


"Of course there are! All of my father's vassals are freed slaves." 


"Then there is a royalty in Ngandib-Mar," Joss said quietly. "It 
consists of any who are free." 


Rosha thought. "What you say is true," he replied grudgingly. "But 
not royalty as you speak of it." 


"Perhaps not." 


"You don't think it will cause any problems for me to marry Bronwynn, 
do you?" Rosha asked. 


Joss did not meet the young warrior's eyes. Calmly, he replied, "That 
will be known when you meet With the Queen." 


Rosha made a face. "And when will that be? It appears Chaomonous is 
much further away than I thought." 


"Perhaps you underestimated the size of our nation," Joss suggested. 
"With all respect to your native land, our Chaomonous is by far the 
largest, most powerful state in the world." 


"Oh? Then how do you explain the Battle of West-mouth? My father and 
a few thousand Maris destroyed your whole Golden Army!" 


General Joss' expression didn't change. He replied quietly, "The 
Golden Throng had no leader on that day. Had I been allowed to guide 
them as I'd planned, the outcome might have been very different." 


Rosha watched the General's face, his hand moving to the pommel of 
Thairaphis. "Do you deny the achievement of my people?" 


Joss chuckled. "You may take your hand off your weapon, Rosha mod 



Dorlyth. I intend no insult to your father or your King. I only 
suggest you may be surprised by what you find in Chaomonous." 


Rosha sat back into his saddle with a haughty laugh. "I've seen 
Ngandib and I've seen the city of Lamath. Nothing can surprise me 
anymore." 


Joss smiled and turned to look at the powerful young warrior. "I 
imagine you believe that. But, of course, an expected surprise 
wouldn't be a surprise at all, would it?" They did not reach 
Chaomonous by nightfall, camping instead some thirty miles from the 
city. When he awoke the next morning, Rosha was informed that Joss had 
preceded him, to prepare the way for his arrival. When Rosha rode into 
Chaomonous later in the day he was grateful that Joss wasn't beside 
him. He had forgotten how impersonal and intimidating large cities 
could be. Rosha was so frightened his hands shook and he was 
stammering so fiercely that no one could understand a sentence he 
uttered. 


Late in the afternoon, Rosha was waiting in a marble-floored hallway in 
the third level of the royal palace. He devoutly wished that Bronwynn 
would hurry up and grant him an audience, for the strangeness of the 
place was making him tremble. This was not at all what he had imagined 
during those cold nights in his father's castle. It was nothing at all 
like what he'd planned. 


No one said Bronwynn's name, and no one but Joss* squire addressed him 
directly. They all spoke only of the Queen, and with such reverence 
that he was hard pressed to hold in mind that picture of his little 
golden-haired comrade of many travels. He longed for a glimpse of her 
friendly face, and considered breaking into her apartments. After all, 
hadn't she called him "Rosha mod Bronwynn" Rosha, Bronwynn's treasure? 
Did Bronwynn's treasure need to_ wait for a summons? 


As he considered this possibility, the double door down the hall 
clacked open, and Joss, smiling, walked toward him. "I know you have 
been kept waiting for some time, bear's-bane. I have had some 
difficulty convincing the Queen that it is truly you. She's suggested 
that if she could see the sword which slew the dragon, she would 
believe me." 


"S-see my s-s-sword!" Rosha answered sharply. "All she has to d-d-do 
is look out the d-d-door!" 


Joss gave him a patient smile. "Nevertheless, she is the Queen, and we 
must do as she suggests. Please?" He held out his hands. 


Rosha angrily ripped Thalraphis from its scabbard and laid it across 
the General's palms. Joss nodded slightly and turned on his heels. The 
door closed behind him, and Rosha was alone in the hall once more. 


He had felt only awkward before. Without his weapon, he felt naked. 
But Joss returned with merciful swiftness, wearing a wide smile. "The 
Queen will see you now," he said and he motioned the young warrior 
forward. 


"Bronwynn?" Rosha bubbled as he ran to the door. "Bronwynn!" he 
cried as he bolted into the throne room. 


The woman who slouched on the ornate chair of office had beautiful blue 



eyes like Bronwynn's. But there the resemblance ended. Rosha stopped 
in the center of the room, then turned all the way around, his eyes 
scanning the line of armed warriors who ringed the walls. Then he 
looked back at the woman, his handsome face twisted with 
disappointment. 


Ligne smiled maliciously, fingering the flat edge of the sword she held 
on her lap. "Unfortunately, Bronwynn is no longer with us," she said. 
Then she passed the sword to an aide, stood up, and smoothed her tight 
dress over her hips. "Will I do, instead?" 


"A very handsome creature, isn't he?" Ligne said later, as a bound and 
gagged Rosha knelt before her, shivering with rage. Four men had 
suffered broken bones before the company of guards had managed to 
subdue him. One guard still lay unconscious in the infirmary on the 
floor below them. Joss had appealed to the Queen to allow him to chain 
the boy in the dungeon right then, but Ligne was a connoisseur of the 
male body, and would not part with this one so readily, 


"I assure you, my Queen, he is a savage, handsome or no. It would be 
best for your safety if you would allow me to cage him immediately." 


"Come now, Joss, he's only a boy ** 


"Who is an. extremely competent swordsman. Please remember that he 
has battled Admon Faye and has survived " 


"Pity you didn't kill him," Ligne whispered to Rosha, walking behind 
the trussed youth and gliding her hand along his bare neck. They had 
tied him and forced him to his knees. Now she knelt beside him, 
admiring his legs as Rosha strained against the ropes. "He's like a 
mountain cat or a bear sleek and shining and powerful." Ligne's eyes 
glistened with excitement. 


"He's a bear's-bane, my Lady, and most dangerous," Joss continued, eyes 
following every thrust of the young man's arms as Rosha wrestled to get 
free. "I must ask you to allow me to " 


"And I order you to keep silent!" Ligne snapped. Then, 


more softly, she added, "I want to play with him awhile." 


Joss struggled to hold his temper in check, thea said tersely, "Is it 
that you favor the lad so much? Or do you just treasure what is 
Bronwynn's?" 


Ligne stood up and looked at her chief warrior, her hlue eyes icy, her 
jaw jutting out sharply. "Do you dare repeat that?" 


"There's no need, my Lady. You heard me." Ligne studied the man for a 
moment, then turned her head away. "You are too valuable to be wasted, 
Joss. I choose to take no offense in your words. But in the future, 
you will refrain from involving yourself in affairs that do not concern 
you." 


"Any threat to the security of my Queen must involve me, my Lady, and 
the young barbarian constitutes such a threat. Should he manage to 
free himself from those ropes, he will seize the nearest weapon and 
turn on you." 



"I know." Ligne smiled, shifting her hips salaciously and running her 
fingers through Rosha's curly dark hair. "It's a most incredible 
feeling. Quite enjoyable." She glanced back at Joss' leathery face 
and shrugged. "Perhaps the fact that he came seeking my rival does 
play a part in the excitement I'm amazed the skinny little witch could 
interest such a magnificent creature." She looked back down at Rosha, 
who had jerked his head free and now focused his fierce gaze on her 
hand, longing to bite it. "But I think he would interest me in any 
case." 


"He's dangerous " 


"Exactly," Ligne finished, cutting her General off. "If it would make 
you feel any better, give the order to remove all weapons from this 
room if you feel that would minimize the threat." 


Joss gave an angry wave, and the armed warriors began clearing the 
room. "As you say, my Queen. But I feel certain that the man could 
easily break your neck with his hands alone." 


Ligne's teeth sparkled as she flashed a smile. "The very idea gives me 
chills." Joss followed her gaze to the struggling form of the young 
warrior. Rosha had flipped onto his back and now was kicking at his 
captors with his bound legs. "He's so aggressive!" Ligne husked, 
watching a pair of unarmed soldiers wrestle Rosha back into a kneeling 
position. "Tie him like that," she ordered, "so that he's forced to 
remain on his knees. Then leave the room." 


"My Lady Ligne!" Joss protested. 


"Joss, be quiet!" she ordered, as her mail-clad guards produced more 
rope and bound Rosha more securely. Then they went out, leaving only 
the captive, the Queen, and the General behind in the throne room. 


"Queen Ligne, please reconsider " 


"Leave us, Joss." 


"He is enraged and frightened, the most dangerous " 


"I said get out!" 


Joss nodded curtly, and Ligne's hard look softened a fraction. "Believe 
me, General. If there is anything I am equipped to handle, it is a 
man." She winked at him and dismissed him with a wave, then went back 
to sit on her throne. As Joss reluctantly closed the door behind him, 
he could hear her saying, "Now, Rosha. You and I are going to become 
very well acquainted .. ." 


CHAPTER FIVE 


Birds of a Feather 


THE REAR OF PLECLYPSA'S GRAND PLAYHOUSE was honeycombed with small 
attiring rooms. About midmorning, the troupe crowded into one of these 
to stare at one another in shock. The Winter Festival had been rocked 
by scandal and they were the victims of it. It made little difference 
that they had the sympathy of the vast majority of the Pie-clypsans. 
They'd been had and they knew it. 



Their splendid scene on opening night had won them the last night on 
the program. So thoroughly had they carried the evening that several 
Pleclypsan officials had suggested they be acclaimed immediately as 
winners. Unaccountably, this notion won the support of Eldroph-Pitzel 
and his wife Berliath, the leaders of the local Pleclypsan troupe. They 
suggested that the competition be held, but for second place only, and 
that Ligne's Lord of Entertainments be invited to attend, to witness a 
wonderful play inspired by the Queen's rise to power. Grudgingly, the 
other troupes gave in they, too, had been impressed with the 
competition. 


Lulled by such praise, the troupe had made the most of the Festival. 
They had starred at a half-a-dozen parties, hobnobbing with the 
regional governor himself. They had attended each evening's 
performance as spectators rather than competitors, watching with the 
smug self-confidence of judges. On the night before their own final, 
triumphal performance was scheduled, they were briefly reintroduced to 
Maythorm, Ligne's Lord of Entertainments, before going in to witness 
Eldroph-Pitzel and Berliath perform. They were laughing and joking as 
they took their seats. Then-laughs turned to gasps, however, as they 
watched the troupe from Pleclypsa perform Pelmen's play about Ligne. It 
had been stolen. 


Oh, it was a pale copy, true. They couldn't duplicate the cleverness 
of Pelmen's lines. Obviously they hadn't managed to steal the script. 
Yet the basic structure of the show was the same and so was the 
reaction of the crowd. Her-laith, who had made a point of picking 
Danyilyn out of the audience, smiled directly at her throughout. 


That had been last night. And this morning the news had swirled 
through the city that Maythorm had already departed for Chaomonous with 
his enthusiastic report for the Queen. No one had bothered to tell him 
that tonight was the final night. 


Apparently, the Pleclypsan troupe had not been able to get to all the 
organizers already the troupe had received a public apology from an 
apoplectic Minlaf-Khen, director of the Winter Festival. But as far as 
an invitation to court was concerned, the damage had already been done. 
The actors were bitter. 


"It must have been that skinny peasant who stood just to the left of 
the stage," Gerrig spat. 


"No," Danyilyn snorted, "it was Berliath herself. She stood back in 
the shadows by Sherina's wagon through the entire performance. She 
probably even took notes." 


"What difference does it make who stole the play?" Yona Parmi asked. 
"Someone did, obviously." 


"But who'd have thought they'd be interested in us?" whined Gerrig. 


"Of course they'd be interested in us!" Yona Parmi's aggravation was 
evident. "We've taken the prize three years out of the last five. This 
year they'd counted us out, then suddenly got word we had entered late. 
Of course they'd be interested in us. I'm just disgusted with myself 
for taking so much for granted. The Pleclypsans didn't do this to us 
we did it to ourselves." 


Danyilyn rose from her stool and stalked around the room. Players 



shuffled their feet to let her pass, as she paced the full length of 
their cramped space. Suddenly she stopped and spun around to look at 
Yona Parmi. "Where's Pelmen?" 


Yona glanced around the room, then shrugged. "Not here, evidently." 


Danyilyn's jaw clenched. "I'm getting tired of all this secretiveness, 
Parmi! Is Pelmen with us or isn't he?" 


"Danyilyn, it's his play that was stolen," 


"Then where is he? Why isn't he here, helping us plan what to do 
next?" 


"Plan? What's to plan?" Yona Parmi's tight-lipped expression was 
hard. "We have a play to perform tonight. He'll be here for it. Until 
then, I suggest we let Pelmen do whatever he thinks best." Yona 
struggled down off his high stool and dodged through the legs to the 
doorway. There he paused, and looked back over his shoulder. "If past 
experience is any guide, he'll probably surprise us." 


Riding an up-draft two-hundred feet above the Chao-mo nous Road, Pelmen 
struggled to maintain his alter-shape without becoming exhausted. He 
had already spotted his quarry Maythorm and his bodyguard. Now he was 
choosing a spot to make his play. He'd been up and down this road a 
hundred times in his lifetime, but this was the first time he'd ever 
flown it. As always, he felt a powerful temptation to turn aside from 
his human responsibilities and explore the scene below for the sheer 
joy of it. Fighting that temptation added to his growing weariness yet 
he had far too much to do today to succumb to exhaustion. 


A power shaper did not choose his alter-shape. When it came, it came 
in a moment of insight of inspiration. There was no midpoint of being 
half-human and half-shaped. Normally, a wizard took the shape the 
first time almost by accident, when some conscious or unconscious need 
for that identity arose. Thus Mar-Yilot had become a butterfly when 
she learned the boy she loved collected them, and Joooms became a 
lizard when trapped in a windowless cell. One day Pelmen had needed to 
stop a blue-flyer before it could deliver a dangerous message. He'd 
flown up and caught it before realizing what he'd done. Since that 
time, he'd been able to take his falcon-form anytime he chose as long 
as there were powers present to shape. 


The very presence of those powers in Chaomonous prompted him to haste. 
Never had he sensed the forces now loosed upon this land and he felt 
hesitant to use them. It was as if he expected someone or something to 
say any minute, "You can't do that here," and spill him from the sky. 
Then, too, since his religious vocation had claimed him the year 
before, he'd felt a kind of moral dilemma each time he'd shaped. He 
had to wonder now, with every act of magic, if his molding harmed or 
angered whatever power he made use of. For some strange reason, the 
closer he got to the Chaon capital, the greater his hesitancy grew. 
Clearly, he needed to deal with Maythorm in a hurry. 


His falcon eyes were far superior to his human vision. The road had 
passed a large manor and into a small forest Forty yards off the road 
he spotted a thatched roof among the trees, and swooped down to 
investigate. It was a charming peasant dwelling, cheery and clean, 
with whitewashed walls and a carefully swept porch. Pelmen circled the 
house, dropped down behind it and stood on the earth, a man. There was 



no glass in the single window; and, though it was a brisk morning, the 
green shutters were open. "Hello?" he called. There was no answer. 
He circled the house on foot, knocked on the door, and at last went in. 
The householders were gone though, by the warmth of the soup pot 
sitting on the hearth, they'd not been gone long. "Probably plowing," 
Pelmen murmured. If so, they would be at it all day. "I hope you'll 
not mind if I borrow your home," he announced, "and a bit of this 
cooling soup. I promise to make it worth your while." In a small 
pocket on his sleeve was a golden coin he'd brought it for just this 
purpose. 


His garments belied the wealth tucked into that sleeve. He was clothed 
in rags, specially selected from the costume cart late the previous 
night. Through the early hours of the morning he had carefully 
sculpted lines of age into his face by candlelight, until he looked 
every bit the aged peasant he would soon portray. His artistry with 
makeup had nothing to do with wizardry. It was stage magic, a skill 
that had often proved useful to him and which would need to again, if 
he were to survive within Ligne's castle. 


It didn't take long for him to feel that he knew the small cottage as 
well as its owner. That done, he shot through the open window on 
flashing brown wings. He had a rendezvous planned with Maythorm, and 
he wasn't about to miss it 


Maythorm did nothing in half-measures. He either loved something or he 
loathed it, and he had loved the play he'd witnessed the night 
before. 


"Wasn't it marvelous?" he gushed to Craghimp, the taciturn, stolid 
soldier who'd drawn the unenviable task of guarding Maythorm's body on 
this trip. Craglump didn't usually talk much, which made him the 
perfect companion for Maythorm, since the handsome Lord of 
Entertainments rarely stopped. "The class of the Festival, obviously. 
Such elegance on stage! Berliath, as Ligne, caught our hearts as if 
they were doves and held us, fluttering, until the final curtain!" 


"Yeah." Craglump nodded. 


"And Eldroph-Pitzel! Such thunderous power as the shrewd tactician who 
engineered her rise! His voice, like a fist of iron, hammered upon our 
senses with the ringing zest of a joyful blacksmith!" 


"Right." 


"Who's that?" 


Craglump sat up rigidly in his saddle. Maythorm's change of tone 
startled him he realized he'd been half asleep. "Who? What?" 


"There." Maythorm pointed. They had topped a tiny rise, and he'd 
spotted a ragged, barefoot peasant racing away from them. 


"Oh. Just a peasant," Craglurop muttered, almost disappointed. 


"But why is he running?" Maythorm asked, and he spurred his mount to 
pursue the retreating figure. "You there," he shouted when he came 
abreast of him. "Why are you running?" 


"To get out of the storm!" the peasant shouted, and he scurried on 



ahead as Maythorm reined in and tossed a puzzled look at the sky. 


"Storm?" he asked. He chased the peasant down again, this time 
blocking the old man's path. The winded runner leaned on his knees, 
gasping for breath. "What storm?" 


Maythorm sneered, winking his amusement at Craglump, who had now caught 
up. 


The peasant looked up to meet the court ling gaze and puffed, "The one 
that's on its way!" 


"Why, there isn't a cloud in the " 


Lightning tore open the heavens, and Maythorm's eyes jerked upward in 
disbelief and terror. 


"Took my wife just that way not four years ago. I'm to my cottage!" 
the old man yelled and he raced toward a clump of woods just ahead of 
them. Maythorm and Crag-lump took one horrified look at each other and 
pursued him. Actually, they arrived at the single-roomed dwelling well 
before he did, and were comfortably inside when he huffed up to the 
doorstep. He saw them crowded together at the open window, peering 
skyward. Had they been watching the ragged peasant instead of the 
bright, clear heavens, they might have caught the quick flash of a 
smile he allowed himself as he closed the door behind him. 


Maythorm and Craglump had an eventful morning, to say the least. Balls 
of colored fire danced before their eyes with hypnotizing power. At 
times their peasant host disappeared, and a screeching bird of prey 
swooped over their heads and glided between their legs. Each time they 
dashed for the door to escape, bolts of lightning collapsed upon the 
cottage, threatening to rend its rafters from their moorings, and the 
two cowered in one another's arms. The dizzying whirlwind of 
incredible occurrences spun round them faster and faster, until both 
were giddy with confusion, and they dropped, unconscious, to the 
stonework floor. 


They remembered little of the morning's activities when they came to 
themselves later that afternoon. They were seated in their saddles, 
then horses casually plodding the dusty road toward Chaomonous. Each 
felt a bit embarrassed at dozing off, and hoped the other hadn't 
noticed. Maythorm compensated by bursting into a new review of the 
previous night's performance, using even more superlatives than before. 
"I've never seen Gerrig so powerful! What a wondrous instrument he's 
made of his voice! And Danyilyn! The exquisite delicacy of her 
performance could curl the hairs of a cavern bear! I certainly must 
look that luscious beauty up when they arrive in the palace," the 
lady-killer drooled. 


Craglump wasn't listening. He was watching with a curious discomfort 
the lazy flight of a falcon, as it skimmed the treetops to their left, 
heading southward toward Pleclypsa. 


That night, a weary peasant woman found no soup left in her pot but the 
gold piece she found in the bottom of the kettle more than made up for 
the loss. 


Through tedious days of silent enchantment, amid much earnest effort 
and sweating of walls, the castle had managed finally to regain full 



consciousness of its rooftop areas. It wished almost immediately that 
it hadn't A good part of its motivation for moving into these rebuilt 
upper structures first was to get at that strange annoyance it felt 
marginally aware of, but couldn't quite comprehend. Now it understood 
thoroughly. Too thoroughly. And at that moment, the indignity was 
happening again. 


Plop. 


The Imperial House of Chaomonous reacted much the same as would anyone 
else who awoke from a long nap to find someone had built a birdcage on 
his head. It cursed. Eloquently. 


Filthy, loathsome, tasteless, stupid .. . 


Such phrases could not begin to translate adequately the castle's lucid 
descriptions of the fowls who befouled its roof tiles. Its vocabulary 
of expletives was extensive, involving unfavorable personal comparisons 
that might have both shocked and delighted Chaon historians. 
Unfortunately, they were lost on both the stupid, feathered objects of 
its wrath and the stupid human officials who might have been able to do 
something about the problem. Which simply infuriated the castle 
further. 


Plip-splip. 


Despicable pigeon! May a sadistic eight-year-old pluck your feathers! 
May your beak rot off! May your eggs crack even as you lay them! 


In spite of such venomous outbursts, the birds that populated Ligne's 
aviary continued to consume their birdseed, and persisted in all of 
their other normal biological functions 


Flip. 


That pigeon has sealed its fate! the House cried aloud to no one but 
itself. In fact, it wasn't a pigeon at all, but rather a long-tailed, 
two-colored warbler. It was an exotic specimen, as were all the birds 
in Ligne's aviary, and was a real prize, having been brought from 
somewhere far away upon a merchant's spice-ship. The castle couldn't 
have been less concerned with such distinctions. A bird was a bird, 
and while the House could tolerate a certain degree of relationship 
with such necessary winged creatures as hunting falcons and 
blue-flyers, nothing in its long experience had prepared it for such 
regular, repeated humiliation. 


It had already concentrated much attention on the gigantic grillwork 
itself. In its vivid imagination the House fantasized the cage 
toppling from the roof to the cobblestoned streets of the city far 
below. What foul-feathered flutterers managed to survive in the 
twisted wreckage would be free, then, to fly off and besmirch some 
other, less august manor! 


Yet the cage itself had thus far resisted the castle's every effort at 
control. Thus far, the House could only look at it, and suffer under 
it and curse. 


There was one bright spot in all of this. Though its colorful curses 
were quite untranslatable into human speech, they were nevertheless 
perfectly audible to human ears. Whenever it cursed, every servant's 



bell in the entire palace threatened to ring itself right off the 
wall. 


"Those bells again!" Ligne snapped, as fourteen guards, nine serving 
girls, four butlers, a maid, and the bearer of royal chamber pot came 
scuttling breathlessly into the throne room. "When is Kherda going to 
fix those bells?" she screamed. The collection of servants all 
disappeared as hastily as they had assembled except for the pot bearer. 
Experience had taught him to move deliberately. 


"Have you any idea why they ring so?" she asked her sinewy young 
captive. As usual, Rosha made no reply. 


He felt little motivation to there was nothing to be gained by 
replying. Nor, in fact, would he gain anything by not replying. He'd 
been cut off from his love, cut off from his sword, cut off from his 
land all those things that had made his life worthwhile. And now he 
was cut off even from looking at the world, for Ligne had ordered her 
chief falconer to fit the young man's head with a hood of brown 


leather. It covered his face down to the bridge of his nose, cutting 
off all light. His arms were manacled behind him above the elbows. 
He'd been kept so for three days, and was gradually losing interest in 
anything but his own thought. His difficulty with speech had always 
made talking a chore. He felt little inclination to engage in 
meaningless conversation now. 


Prime Minister Kherda came dashing down the hall, holding his long 
skirts out of the way of his feet as his sandals clipped along the tile 
floor. When he reached the doorway of the throne room he paused, 
leaning against the richly carved walnut doorjamb to suck in gulps of 
air between stammered phrases: "I don't .. . understand why .. . these 
bells .. . keep ringing so!" He panted momentarily, then continued 
bravely in the face of Ligne's ice-cold stare. "I've done .. . my best 
... to find .. . someone who's qualified ... to find the problem. No 
one knows!" 


"Then why not send to Ngandib-Mar for a sorcerer?" Ligne asked 
sweetly. "Surely a power shaper could find the problem." The Queen 
was mocking him, Kherda realized. Ligne didn't believe in magic any 
more than he did. 


"There are no power shapers he muttered wearily. 


"But there must be power shapers she continued, sneering. "Who but a 
power shaper could have witched this castle to behave so?" Suddenly 
Ligne dropped her mocking pretense and snarled: "I don't want to see 
your face until you find me a craftsman who can fix those bells. 
Unless, of course, you wish to be strangled with a bell cord?" 


Kherda had grown accustomed to such threats from his tigerish monarch. 
Even so, he retreated from her chamber hastily. Ligne turned back to 
her captive in time to catch the shadow of a grin chase across his lips 
and disappear. "And what are you laughing at? Are you laughing at 
me?" she demanded. 


Rosha said nothing. But Ligne imagined that she saw in his 
tight-lipped frown an expression of self-satisfied derision. It both 
irritated and inflamed her. Her voice softened. "You're the only one 
who dares. Why do I allow it?" She ran her hand down the length of 



one of his bound forearms, and he balled his fist in response a silent 
signal, 


but one she clearly understood. "I know. You don't like for me to 
touch you." To tease him, she began massaging the corded muscles in 
his back and shoulders, cautiously staying out of the short range of 
that fist. Rosha would swing at her, given the chance. That was the 
reason for his chains. "Why is that, Rosha mod Dorlyth? Do you hate 
my entrails so passionately that you've never noticed my more visible 
physical attributes?" Ligne felt she had good cause to boast in her 
appearance. She was still a young woman, and her oval face was free of 
any trace of those lines of care so frequently in evidence on the faces 
of more responsible monarchs. Her blue eyes could be dazzling if she 
chose to charm, dangerous if she chose to threaten but never could they 
be dull. It was on the basis of her great beauty that she had vaulted 
to her exalted position by way of Talith's bed, of course. Nor did she 
feel any shame in that. It fact, it fed her ego to recall how she'd 
seduced the late King not only into bed, but into his grave as well 
assuming anyone bothered to bury the proud oaf. Ligne carefully 
cultivated her saucy, brazen appearance, clothing herself in 
scintillating materials of shocking colors, tailored to expose to best 
advantage those portions of her figure she thought most entrancing, 
while hiding those flaws visible only to herself. With flowing hair 
the color of a raven's inky cloak, Ligne was far more than just 
striking. She was more than just lovely. Hers was the perfect 
standard of beauty, against which all the men who knew her measured 
their wives and lovers. She praised her own appearance by that 
unconscious arrogance of one who has never been anything but 
beautiful. 


Yet it was all lost on Rosha. And for a perfectly obvious reason. 


"How am I to s-s-see your f-f-fabled beauty while you c-constantly keep 
this hood on my h-head?" His frustration nearly gagged him. 


"You know I'd gladly remove that mask, my pretty friend. Such a shame, 
to hide such handsome dark curls. But how can I, when you've promised 
that the moment I do, you're going to kick me in the face? Can you 
tell me if that good night's rest on the cold floor of my dungeon 
brought about some change of heart?" 


Rosha had subsided again into silent attention. His lips wore the 
patient expression of a carnivore on the prowl mute, passive, but ready 
to strike any time. 


"I thought not," Ligne answered herself, smiling with feigned 
indifference. "I suppose I should give my guards permission to burn or 
club you into submission to me .. ." She tried to make it sound like a 
threat, but it wasn't, and Rosha knew it. Ligne sighed. "But, of 
course, I couldn't do that, any more than I could beat the spirit out 
of one of my falcons. Would you like to visit the falcons again, 
Rosha? Would you like to have fellowship with your brothers under the 
hood?" 


Rosha shrugged. It meant nothing to him. He heard Ligne summon a 
guard and soon felt a tug on the chain that encircled his chest. That 
meant he was to move forward. Rosha obeyed without a struggle waiting 
patiently. 


The mews where the royal falcons were kept contrasted sharply with the 



giant aviary that stood on the roof nearby. Where the floor of the 
aviary was lined with white dung, the floor of the mews was spotless. 
While the aviary rocked with the constant chaotic screeching and 
fluttering of brilliantly plumed birds from exotic jungle climes, the 
mews was as silent as a cliff. Its gray and brown occupants stood on 
their perches at quiet, sightless attention, like feathered soldiers 
awaiting orders to charge. Maliff, the falconer, shuffled from bird to 
bird, giving vigilant attention to each scrape of a talon or fluffing 
of wings. 


"Hushhh .. ." Maliff whispered softly. "Hush now. Be cam." His 
voice soothed his feathery charges. "You'll see. You'll get some fine 
red chunks of dinner soon, when my boy crimbs back up from the 
kitchen." The birds seemed satisfied fay his words. They were not 
bothered by Maliff s inability to pronouce the middle consonant of his 
own name. 


The falconer heard the wicket gate open behind him and scowled. "Took 
you long enough!" 


"Just what do you mean by that?" Ligne snapped, and Maliff whipped 
around to apologize to his Queen. 


"My Rady! I had no idea! I thought it was my boy fetching me some 
broody meat for my far cons 


Ligne had already dismissed the falconer from her mind, 


and was strolling down the line of birds as if reviewing a perfectly 
disciplined regiment. "Here, Rosha," she said to the young captive 
who'd been dragged in behind her by a guard. "How orderly, how 
obedient your winged brothers are. They wait only for my command." She 
reached forward to stroke a tercel. 


"Stop," Maliff said without thinking, and won himself a cold hard 
look. 


"What?" Ligne asked icily. 


"Prease, my Rady, they don' trike to be stroked," he said bravely. 


"They are my birds, Maliff, and I'll touch them if I choose!" 


"Yes, my Rady." The falconer nodded. "Onry I must warn " he said 
involuntarily as she reached out to the peregrin again. 


"I don't recall giving you or anyone else permission to instruct me, 
Maliff!" 


"Of course not, my Rady, and I'm not, but you did keep me on as 
caretaker of these rovery birds, and I'm aiming to do the best job 
possibre. Ret one ride on your fist, but don't stroke him. You'rr put 
him off if you do rike that." 


Ligne leaned on the perch of a young eyas and propped her head on her 
hand. The eyas scraped down to the other end of the bar. "You're just 
full of instructions, aren't you? Well, tell me then, oh mighty 
trainer of the hunting bird, how do I get this one to obey me?" She 
jerked her head to the hooded Rosha. Maliff averted his eyes from the 
hood. He'd made it himself, but he hadn't enjoyed the chore. 



"That's a man, not a far con he muttered softly. 


"I know that!" Ligne exploded, and the room's occupants responded with 
fluttering and flapping. 


"Hush! Hush now!" Maliff soothed and the commotion subsided. Ligne 
was gazing at him angrily, and he looked away as he explained, "I was 
hushing my charges, my Rady. Not you." 


"Well?" 


"If he were a bird, I'd free his wings and train him to my fist. But I 
fear if you were to loose this one, he'd kill you sure as gord. You'd 
be safer if you ret him fry free. That's Mariffs advice." 


Ligne gazed intently at him for a moment, translating 


Tie Wizard in Waiting his words. Then she shook her head and dismissed 
him once again from her mind. "I refuse to listen to a man who can't 
even pronounce his own name. Tosha, this bird-minded fool has a 
clumsier tongue even than you!" The young warrior's muscles corded 
across his back as he strained relfex-ively at his bonds. 


Ligne noticed, and chuckled. "Got you again, didn't I. A sure means of 
angering you at will mention your stammering speech." Rosha jerked 
toward her but was stopped short by the length of his chains. Ligne 
had turned her back on him, and reached for a leather glove that hung 
on a peg above her head. "I'll take this one," she told Maliff as she 
slipped the glove over her right hand, motioning toward the untrained 
eyas whose perch she had disturbed. 


"He's not furry trained yet, can't I get you " 


"Enough!" Ligne shouted, and Maliff stepped back submissively and let 
her have her way. She unwrapped the thong that tethered the eyas to 
its perch, then touched its underbelly with her gloved hand. Blindly 
it climbed aboard, and the Queen spun around and stalked out of the 
mews into the bright sunlight of the castle's roof. 


"Prease," Maliff called after her, "don't ret go of that feather rash 
rine!" But the woman was gone, and he was speaking only to the backs 
of Rosha and of the guard who hurried the youth through the wicket gate 
after the Queen. "He'rr fry away .. ." Maliff worried aloud. He 
shook his head sadly, and turned back to his silent falcons. 


The Imperial House watched as Ligne crossed the few steps to the outer 
door of the aviary and shouldered her way inside it. Its hot rage at 
this dull, ignorant Queen with, her total disregard for its feelings 
had faded to a cold distaste for her. The House didn't mind her 
cruelty it could be quite cruel itself. Nor was it particularly 
offended by her arrogance. It expected such foolishness from human 
monarchs. It was just that she was so shockingly rude! The Imperial 
House had not yet admitted that no one could understand it. Rather, it 
felt sure it was being snubbed. 


At the moment, however, it was more concerned with thinning the 
population of the cursed aviary than anything else. Its halls felt a 
great draft of mirth at the welcome sight of a falcon being carried 
into that gigantic cage. 



It watched, too, as Rosha was pushed inside the outer door behind 
Ligne. The guard followed them in, closed the outer door behind them, 
then all three stepped through the inner door into the aviary proper. 
The House listened as Ligne trilled to the anxious bird on her fist in 
the syrupy singsong of baby talk: "Ho ho, you know where are you, 
birdie? In the midst of a hundred other little birdies who are scared 
to death of you. Yes, they are. You could crush each one of these 
little darlings in your bad old claws, you know that? Ah, but you 
can't, can you, birdie? Because you're like Rosha here, birdie you 
can't see a thing, and I've got a tight hold on your leash. Would you 
like me to free you, birdie?" The falcon slapped its wings tentatively 
as if in answer, and Ligne laughed harshly. "You would, would you? Not 
a chance!" She aimed this last at Rosha, who stood passively where his 
guard had positioned him. 


"There you are, my Lady, I've been looking all over for you." Kherda 
came walking toward them from the interior entrance, herding a pair of 
arrogant peacocks before him. 


"What is it now?" Ligne complained, wrapping another loop of the leash 
around her left hand. 


"Maythorm has returned from Pleclypsa with a report on that play that 
" 


"Who's Maythorm?" Ligne demanded testily. "Maythorm is a member of 
your court, my Lady surely you remember him? Lord of Entertainments? 
Smells of lilac?" 


"Go on," she sighed. She began to stroke the falcon absently. It 
stepped away from the offending hand, but she paid no notice. When the 
hand continued stroking, the hooded bird fluffed its feathers and 
carefully stepped back to its original position on the leather glove, 
settling there to endure this torture stoically. 


"Maythorm has returned from Pleclypsa with a report on that play that 
" 


"What play?" Ligne snapped, turning her eyes back to the bird. 


Kherda forced an indulgent smile onto his aging features. He'd made it 
a practice lately to avoid mirrors. The tensions and irritations 
thrust upon him by this unappreciative tart of a Queen had ravaged his 
face with premature wrinkles. Nevertheless, he kept on smiling , .. 
"There were reports of a play rather complimentary toward yourself 
being performed in the southern reaches .. ." 


"Play? Is Pelmen in on this?" she demanded, arching an eyebrow. 


"According to Maythorm's confused accounts, the play is performed by 
Pelmen the Player's old company, but that " 


"I want him arrested! I want him brought here, immediately, to stand 
trial for high crimes against the state!" Ligne's pretty face was red, 
her lips were curled into a savage snarl. 


The Imperial House watched this conversation with interest. It watched 
the uneasy movement of the alarmed falcon from one end of the Queen's 
glove to the other. It noted the way the woman's hand alternately 



clenched and released the loop of leather bound to the falcon's fesses, 
which held the predator in check. It also watched with a consuming 
hatred the swoops and dives and twirls of that cursed two-toned 
warbler; that bird had just spattered the pavements again, and its song 
seemed to the House to be a trill of mocking laughter. 


Kherda held his tongue in check by clamping it between his teeth. He 
had become a master of that art. He smiled again with exaggerated 
graciousness, and replied, "I think the Queen will remember that this 
Pelmen is firmly installed in a position of power as the Prophet of 
Lamath. It would seem most ridiculous for a man in his " Kherda broke 
off, for Ligne had turned her back on him, and was looking with 
suspicion at Rosha. The young warrior was smirking to himself, he 
thought, unaware that he held Ligne's irritated attention. 


"You know something we should know?" she demanded, and Rosha closed 
his mouth and banished his mirth. "I've seen that stony expression too 
often lately!" Ligne shrilled and she lashed a foot viciously into his 
bare shin. Rosha winced briefly at the unexpected pain but didn't 
budge from his place by the cage wall. That mask of rock settled 
immediately back onto his features. 


"Talk to me! I demand that you speak! I'll rip that expression off 
you .. ." Ligne tore off the leather hood that covered the head of her 
falcon, and would have thrust the frightened bird into Rosha's face had 
not Kherda and Rosha's guard caught her by the shoulders and pulled her 
off. 


My Lady! Ligne, please! Control yourself," Kherda shouted as the 
woman cursed him and struggled to get free. The falcon fluttered 
around their heads, beating its wings to keep from falling, while 
surveying for the first time the rainbow-feathered feast that filled 
the aviary. Maliff had only lately trained him to the lure, and here 
was live meat wherever he turned his head none of it further than 
twenty strong beats of his wings. 


The Imperial House watched all this with fascination. 


The Queen at last succeeded in controlling her own temper and turned 
her attention to controlling the falcon. She'd kept a tight rein on 
its leash primarily because she'd clenched both fists in her rage. Now 
she looped it again around her left wrist and spoke soothingly into its 
ears. When she turned her face back up to the others, her lips wore a 
flippant grin. "I don't know why I let myself get so angry when you 
won't speak to me," she told Rosha. "Why should I want to listen to 
you maul the language, stumble over every word, stutter and stammer 
through the simplest of spec lies 


The guard groaned inwardly as he struggled to restrain Rosha's 
automatic reaction. This was the hardest part of his job holding the 
powerful warrior in check when Ligne was in the mood to bait him. 


Kherda took a deep breath. "My Lady, if you could leave the lad for 
just a moment, perhaps we could deal with this play business and I 
could then leave you to your game." Kherda ignored Ligne's sharp look, 
continuing blithely, "Of course, Maythorm always tends to exaggerate, 
and he seems rather more addled after this last trip than any 
previously still, he swears loudly that this play is a masterpiece. The 
fact that this troupe was at one time connected with Pelmen may be 
dismissed as entirely coincidental. In my analysis, this event holds 



no danger whatever. Rather, it would indicate that these players are 
attempting to win their way back into court favor which implies public 
acceptance of your legitimacy as ruler. Perhaps you would like for me 
to issue tham an invitation to court?" 


Ligne was still gazing at him when he finished. Her sapphire eyes made 
no secret of her annoyance. "Must you bother me with such petty 
details? Can't you invite this troupe by yourself?" She turned her 
back on the Prime Minister, effectively dismissing him. Kherda 
stiffened, and turned his own back on her. 


"Kherda," she said sharply, and he froze. "What are we going to do 
with this pretty young warrior who can't seem to talk?" Ligne chuckled 
at Rosha's strugglings to get free. It was easy to see that he longed 
to get his bound hands loose and to wrap them around her throat. 


"You know very well what I think you should do with him!" Kherda 
snarled. 


"That's right. You want to lock him away, don't you, so that I can't 
look at him? You'd prefer me to get my mind back on affairs of state, 
wouldn't you? Well remember, Kherda, I am the state now " She paused 
and touched Rosha's shoulder affectionately. " and this is one affair 
I can handle all by myself." 


"So you say," Kherda snorted, "but I've yet to see him in your bed " 
Kherda swallowed the rest of his statement, shocked that he would allow 
himself to be so dangerously familiar. 


Ligne's eyes were on his once more, and Kherda braced himself for the 
lash of her tongue. Remarkably, it didn't come. Ligne was smiling 
instead a girlish, almost modest smile. "Nor will you, when he finally 
is," she said, and she raised her eyebrows flirtatiously. Kherda would 
have preferred the tongue-lashing. She'd just revealed how much she 
cared for this savage young captive and such affection was dangerous. 


"My Lady, the boy's a killer! He is a consort to your rival, and a 
known follower of your enemy Pelmen. Lock him away at once, before he 
wriggles free and strikes you down." 


"Lock him away, Kherda?" Ligne snarled. "Lock him away in my dungeon, 
so that he can be stolen away in the night, as was my rival? I never 
have gotten a clear explanation of how that happened, Kherda, Do you 
have any idea?" Ligne advanced on him menacingly, keeping her voice 
low to keep Rosha from guessing what had happened to his love. Kherda 
stepped backward, nearly tripping over the back of a curious peacock 
that craned its head around 


9J 


his knees for a look at the angry Queen. "As to Pelmert, you say he's 
far away, in Lamath, no longer any threat. Is that true, Kherda? Do 
you know that, for certain? Or are you trying to lull me into a false 
sense of security, plotting against me, just as you once plotted with 
me?" 


"My Lady, you know the measure of my loyalty. I've supported you in 
every way " 


"See that you continue, Kherda! And keep your pointed little nose out 



of matters that don't concern you!" "Yes, my Lady." He nodded 
vigorously. "Now get out of my aviary!" she screamed, and he whipped 
around to obey. He didn't leave very quickly, however. He knew Ligne 
well, and had learned always to expect further orders after being 
abruptly dismissed from her presence. She acted now true to form. 
"Kherda," she yelled, and he turned back to face her. "Anybody in that 
troupe any good?" 


"Ah ... I believe ... the heavy player Gerrid, Gerrig, something like 
that .. ." 


"Gerrig, really?" Ligne said, pleased. "I remember him from Shadows 
of a Night at Sea yes, he will do nicely. Summon his troupe to 
court." 


"Then you are interested?" Kherda growled. "Of course I'm interested. 
Who wouldn't be intrigued by a masterpiece based on oneself? After 
all, Kherda I'm only human. Besides, it will certainly be an 
improvement to listen to someone who can talk without gagging on his 
own stumbling tongue." 


Ligne jumped at the bellow of rage behind her, and spun to see Rosha 
hurtling blindly in her direction. Her jibe had caught the guard by 
surprise. Rosha had jerked the chain leash free from the soldier's 
hand and now aimed his hooded head like a battering ram toward the 
sound of Ligne's voice. She threw herself out of his path, banging her 
elbow on the cage bars and crying out in pain. Rosha's head plowed 
into the gut of the wide-eyed Prime Minister, knocking him backward, 
and both of them landed in a heap on the back of the squawking peacock, 
who suddenly had occasion to rue its own curiosity. 


There was a brief whisper of pulsing wings as a brown form shot 
skyward, then a shriek and a fluttering of colorful feathers. Ligne 
gasped and looked at her hand in disbe Tie Wizard tn Waiting lief the 
falcon was no longer bound to her. "Kherda!" she screamed. "Do 
something!" 


But Kherda was locked in a desperate struggle with an aroused peacock, 
who was intent on clawing his tired face to ribbons. He did not see 
the brilliant wave of birds flock first to one side of the cage and 
then to the other to avoid the darting and swooping of the falcon. He 
did not see the lightning-quick flash of that hunter as it caught and 
crushed a second exotic show bird, then a third, and a fourth. The 
falcon was only doing what it had been trained to do and doing it very 
well. 


Three floors below, Maythorm happened to be walking down a hallway when 
a cold, whistling wind hit him in the face. The Lord of Entertainments 
immediately broke into a cold sweat, and dashed back to his sumptuous 
apartment. It had been a very curious week, altogether. Maythorm 
resolved not to come out of his room again until it was over. 


After a brief taste of spring, a sudden sleet storm hit Pleclypsa, 
coating everything with a thin layer of sheet ice. The troupe huddled 
together for warmth in Gerrig's wagon, which still stood parked behind 
the theatre. Gerrig's temper seemed to rise with every drop in 
temperature. "When are you going to wipe that silly greasepaint off 
your face?" he growled at Pelmen. 


Pelmen turned his head slightly to study his reflection in Gerrig's 



large mirror. "When it's time," he said quietly. 


"I think it's time now!" Gerrig snapped. "You look like a fool!" 


Pelmen smiled. "That's the idea, isn't it?" 


"You put that stuff on to hide your identity from Ligne, didn't you? 
Well it's certain we won't make it to the court this year, so do us all 
a favor and clean it off." He seemed enormously aggravated. 


"Fm not as certain of that as you seem to be," Pelmen calmly replied. 
"We did win the Festival, after all in addition to a public apology 
from the Festival organizers." 


"So what?" Danyilyn snorted. "Maythorm didn't see us win it! As far 
as he's concerned, our play belongs to Eldroph-Pitzel and Berliath!" 


"They've not received any court invitation as yet .. ." 


"How do you know?" Gerrig muttered. "We've been shut up in here all 
day." 


"The sleet probably delayed the blue-flyer," said Danyilyn morosely and 
she leaned back on her couch and gazed at the ceiling. The paint was 
peeling. It seemed a fitting comment on their recent fortunes. 


"That's possible." Pelmen nodded. He glanced down to the far end of 
the wagon where the troupe's smallest member played earnestly on the 
floor. "Coralai," he called, "how's your mother?" 


"She's sick," the child answered. She didn't miss a beat in the game 
she played, and her solemn expression never changed. 


"Is she not feeling any better?" 


"Nope." 


"Perhaps I'll visit her," Pelmen announced as he stood up. 


"Don't slip," Danyilyn warned. "That ice is wicked." 


Pelmen was nodding at her as he opened the wagon door. He didn't see 
the shivering messenger beyond it until the door caught the man in the 
chest, skating him backward across the ice and down. Pelmen hustled 
out of the wagon and moved gingerly over to offer nun a hand. The 
messenger grabbed it too vigorously, and Pelrnen skidded down beside 
him. The white-faced player laughed aloud and suggested, "Maybe we'd 
better not help each other up." After a few moments of slipping and 
sliding, they both struggled through the door of the wagon to safety. 
The group crowded around expectantly, for the man wore the livery of 
Minlaf-Khen, the premier organizer of the Winter Festival. 


"Well?" Gerrig demanded after a moment. The messenger shivered so 


hard that he couldn't get a word past his teeth. "You have a message?" 
the big actor prodded. "What is it?" 
"Give him a chance, Gerrig," Yona Parmi scolded. "Can't you see he's 

freezing?" 
"Just nod yes or no. You've a message from Minlaf-Khen?" The 



messenger nodded. "It must be important .. ." The man nodded again. 
"Does it have to do with the court?" The messenger nodded once again, 
and Gerrig could no longer contain himself. He seized the fellow by 
the collar and hoisted him into the air. "What is it, man?" 


"Put him down," Pelmen ordered, and Gerrig set the man back on his 
feet. 


"Minlaf-Khen received a flyer from the Queen," the man chattered, 
determined to deliver his news before Gerrig assaulted him again. 
"You've been asked to appear at the Imperial Court." 


The messenger was quite unprepared for the ensuing commotion. Shrieks 
of surprised joy greeted his words, and he found himself the target of 
another of Gerrig's assaults; the bearded player engulfed him in a 
massive bear bug, then dropped him on the floor and raced on to embrace 
Danyilyn, Yona Parmi and the others in turn. Now ignored, the 
messenger crawled to a corner of the carriage and huddled there, 
awaiting a safe route to the door. He would spend no longer with this 
crazed assembly than he had to. 


Yona Parmi grinned widely, gasping for the breath Gerrig had squeezed 
from his lungs, as he glanced around at the celebration. His smile 
faded when he caught a glimpse of Pelmen's face. Despite its clownish 
paint, the expression there could not have been more solemn. Yona 
Parmi followed Pelmen's gaze to the dancing form of Coralai, who 
rejoiced with the rest. He slipped over to his friend's side. "You 
should be pleased," he muttered quietly. "You've done it." 


"No, Parmi," Pelmen responded. "I've only begun it." Then he turned 
to look Yona in the eye. "We'll need to leave Coralai and Sherina 
here. Sherina's too sick to travel .. ." He looked back at Coralai. 
".. . And the court's no place for a child." 


"I'd sooner fight a bear than be the bearer of that news." Yona Parmi 


smiled sardonically. Coralai could be a terror when aroused. "But 
come don't you feel at least some joy in this accomplishment? After 
all, you've launched your plan." 

"I've launched it, Yona. But what have I launched us toward?" 


"Evidently, to the court of the Queen." Yona Parmi shrugged. 


"The Imperial House." Pelmen nodded, his eyes and his thoughts focused 
somewhere far away. "Within the walls." 


"And what do we do once we're there?" 


Pelmen looked over at him, allowing him a hint of a smile. "You never 
give up, do you?" 


"I haven't yet." Yona Parmi smiled back. 


The springtime sun returned the next day, bringing with it a glorious 
thaw that set every heart in the troupe singing all, save the littlest 
one. By late afternoon the train of wooden wagons had departed for the 
north, leaving a disappointed little girl and her relieved mother 
behind. Sherina knew nothing of Pelmen's purpose and still less of his 
unusual powers, but she'd known him long enough to be sensitive to his 
moods. This trip to court was far more than it appeared to be on the 



surface. She felt perfectly happy to be left out of it. 


CHAPTER SIX 


A Pair of Rogues 


IT WAS EASY to pretend she was flying. Bronwynn's long golden-brown 
hair, newly washed in a chill stream fed by the melting snow, had dried 
in the flying wind. Now it fanned out behind her like the plumes of a 
peacock, as her mount careened through thickets and past naked trees, 
keeping pace with a pack of racing rogues. Admon Faye's cutthroats 
were extravagant riders, daring disaster just to make riding fun. They 
formed no orderly columns, picked no single best path, felt no 
compunction at breaking rank. For there was no rank. Admon Faye's 
band attacked the forest before it in an unending cavalry charge, each 
man abreast of every other. Ducking tree limbs, jumping hedges, they 
threatened a hundred collisions every day, yet miraculously their 
horses never seemed to falter or brush flanks. 


Bronwynn, no longer in bonds and perfectly free to fall behind and be 
lost if she so chose, had to ride her hardest to keep up. She found 
the experience exhilarating and would have thrown back her royal head 
and screamed in excitement were it not for the treacherous, onrushing 
trees that demanded her constant attention. 


They had hit the snow line days ago, and the wet, white blanket had 
deepened now to a layer a half a foot thick. It deadened the sound of 
five hundred pounding hooves, giving emphasis to the weird crackling of 
scores of cold-deadened twigs, as horses and riders shattered branches 
aside. 


Browynn had given up tracing their pattern of flight, for patterns were 
anathema to Admon Faye, and he followed none. They rode northeast one 
day and due west the next, stopping one day at noon, the next at dusk, 
and the next not until long after midnight. Wherever they stopped, 
however, she could be sure of three things: a campsite would appear out 
of nowhere; she would be ordered to build a fire; then for the rest of 
the night she would be the butt of a torrent of abusive jokes. Admon 
Faye roared with the rest of them at their nightly critiques of her 
slender anatomy, adding his own lewd comments to those of his band. But 
he let no one touch her. Only one man had tried, and he now wore his 
arm in a sling. The chief slaver did not rule this band by guile or 
smiles or charisma. He ruled it by force, powered by simple, raw 
cruelty. 


Bronwynn had come to realize that it was that cruelty which insured his 
protection of her. It wasn't that he didn't want her to be abused. It 
was rather that she was his private preserve no one could torment her 
but him. 


And torment her he did. A slap here a boot in the backside there an 
insidious pinch just as she was dropping off to sleep these were daily 
occurrences. And try as she might, she couldn't force herself to grow 
accustomed to such humiliation. Sometimes she screamed, sometimes she 
cursed, but always with the same result. Admon Faye laughed. 


"Get used to it, girl. You surely can't believe things will be any 
different when you're the Queen, and I'm your Prime Minister." Then 
his eyes would freeze, and his face would twist still further as he'd 
mutter, "I pulled you out of that hole, little girl. Your life belongs 



to me. Forget that, and you can forget your next breath as well, for 
I'll garrote you myself." His threats never failed to terrorize her. 
His frigid eyes and loathsome face plagued her dreams each night. 


But the wind and the flying snow and the cracking brush had washed out 
of her mind all thoughts not directly tied to the moment She couldn't 
tell how far they'd come since dawn, nor what direction they travelled. 
She only knew that she was riding expertly with a troop of experts, and 
was thrilled by that recognition. The smells of horse and of new 
leather filled her with a strange sense of power. A masculine feeling? 
she'd wondered briefly, then quickly discarded the idea. She was no 
less a woman because she rode with brigands through the snow and cold. 
Perhaps, indeed, she was more of one. And certainly Ligne herself had 
proved that a hunger for power was not a masculine preserve. Bronwynn 
admitted to herself a growing compulsion within. She was starting to 
want to be Queen. 


A cry went up from the left flank of the charging brigade, at once loud 
and indistinct. Then, with a powerful leap, her horse cleared a large 
bush, and she understood for herself. For the second time in her life, 
Bronwynn rode through the enchanting fields of Ngandib-Mar. 


Not that she recognized anything. Pelmen had brought her past this 
place only the spring before, but that had been another wild ride, and 
mostly under the cover of night. Besides, the numbing uniformity of 
the snowy counterpane at their feet erased all memory of spring 
landmarks. 


Freed now from all obstructing trees, the troop of riders took on the 
semblance at least of an organized band. The flanks dropped off and 
the center pushed forward to form a vanguard. Bronwynn whipped her 
horse gratuitously as it bounded along a few yards to the rear and left 
of Admon Faye. Before her were the many hills and valleys of the heart 
of Ngandib-Mat, but she saw the men were wheeling away from that 
heartland, turning eastward toward the line of high, stony cliffs that 
she knew formed this face of the Spinal Range. They were riding, then, 
to Westmouth the field where her father had died. 


On Westmouth before Dragonsgate, her father had led the grand Golden 
Army to an equally grand defeat. Somewhere under the melting snow lay 
Talith's unburied bones. That thought chased through the young woman's 
attention, but she gave it no warm, sad welcome. She dismissed it. Her 
relationship with her father had never been good, and his death had 
resulted directly from his own foolish arrogance and his greed. 
Bronwynn was much more concerned with where they were travelling now, 
and why. 


They stopped only once to rest their horses on the banks of a small 
stream that curled through the colorless countryside. Then they were 
off again, a wedge of racing riders several hundreds of yards wide, 
plowing up plumes of snow in their wake. The sun was setting back of 
her left shoulder, turning the hilly horizon a glorious magenta, before 
they dipped down at last into the wide flat plain that was West-mouth, 
and she saw where they were going. Some miles beyond stood a single 
castle, its gray walls painted a dull orange by the setting sun. 


She urged her exhausted mount forward, drawing abreast of Admon Faye 
once again, and shouted: "Whose is it?" 


"It's a merchant manor," the slaver called back. "It belongs to the 



family of Ognadzu. It once was the home of Tohn mod Neelis, but now 
it's ruled by his cousin." 


"Who's his cousin?" Bronwynn yelled, her eyes watering in the whipping 
wind. 


"Flayh," Admon Faye answered, and it seemed to Bronwynn that for the 
first time today she finally felt the cold. She had heard much about 
Flayh, and in her mind his name had long been linked with that of Admon 
Faye as a foremost agent of wickedness and villainy. As they galloped 
across that last stretch of flat space that separated them from the 
castle, Bronwynn felt very much the small girl, a long, long way from 
home. 


The castle was not an impressive edifice. Its tallest tower rose 
barely forty feet above the ground. It was from this spire that Pezi 
spied the large group of approaching riders. He had been taking his 
evening constitutional after a heavy dinner his one concession to the 
need for diminishing his blubbery bulk. His stringent exercise program 
called for his climbing the steps to this rooftop one time, resting 
several minutes to get his breath back, then returning slowly to the 
castle floor. On this particular occasion, however, he pushed himself 
into a trot on his way down, crying "Attackers from the south!" His 
cry stirred tremendous activity in a brief space of time, and Pezi felt 
rather proud of himself as he waddled hurriedly toward the gate. The 
excitement ceased as quickly as it began, however, when the sharp-eyed 
warrior who was officially on watch recognized that it was Admon Faye's 
band of outlaws, and shouted the information down. 


Pezi was a bit embarrassed and he didn't look at the faces of those 
castle dwellers who walked past him on their way back to their places. 
He heard several snickers behind him, and his visage clouded. He 
broadened his stance before the gate no easy task, given the stubbiness 
of his pudgy legs and shouted, "Open up!" to the two men who operated 
the winches that raised the portcullis. 


From their vantage point atop the wall, they could see the 
fast-approaching cloud of Admon Faye's crazed riders, who had targeted 
on the gate and now rode for it five abreast. They could also see the 
petulant figure of the unpopular Pezi, standing directly in the path of 
the incoming riders. They smiled at one another gleefully, and opened 
the gate .. . 


"What happened?" the fat little merchant asked plaintively when he 
awoke several minutes later. His comment drew raucous laughter from 
those gathered around. He opened his eyes and rolled his head to the 
side, to find he was lying on a table in the great hall. Scattered 
around the room were outlaws and slavers guzzling ale and leering at 
the serving girls. Suddenly a giant form blocked his view, and he 
followed it up to look into the repugnant face of Admon Faye. Pezi 
winced at the sight. 


"Well now. Awake, are you, Pezi? Very brave of you, lad, to attempt 
to hold off our charge that way. Bit foolhardy, however, to stand 
alone against a hundred and more riders. I trust you'll forgive my 
clubbing you aside, but I thought you might prefer a split noggin to 
the hooves of half a hundred horses on your belly." 


Those standing near enough to hear the slaver guffawed at that, and 
Admon Faye joined in lustily. Pezi lay back and closed his eyes, 



wishing he were somewhere else. He raised a tentative hand to his 
forehead and found it was well lumpy. 


"No, lad, you can't laze around on the tables like that!" Admon Faye 
grabbed the cloth of Pezi's blue and lime shirt and hoisted him into 
the air. "Stand up, Pezi, steady on you feet! You want to start a 
rumor that the merchants of Ognadzu are a pack of drunks?" The slaver 
set the chubby merchant on the floor, but Pezi found standing anything 
but steady. "Bit addled, still?" the slaver asked solicitiously. "A 
little ale might help," he offered and he scooped a tan fcard off the 
table. Pezi reached for it woozily, but Admon Faye wasn't handing it 
to him. Instead, he upended the tankard over Pezi's head, and the 
merchant's eyes shot open in cold shock. Boisterous cheers welcomed 
the sight, and Admon Faye collapsed snickering onto a bench. 


Pezi wiped some of the liquid out of his eyes, and glanced around to 
find the swiftest route of escape. He started down the aisle, but 
Admon Faye shot a booted foot out to block him between the benches. 
"Can't let you run off, Pezi. These good people tell me you're the man 
in charge." 


"Flayh rules in this castle, not me," Pezi grumbled and he turned to 
try to escape in the other direction. Admon Faye glanced at one of his 
cohorts, and the man nodded and straddled the aisle at the other end of 
the row. Pezi understood. He sat across from Admon Faye, leaned back 
on the table behind him, and propped his aching head in his hand. 


"That's the problem, my friend," the slaver continued. "Where is 
Flayh? I've ridden a long way to meet with him. Is this how he greets 
his guests?" 


"Uncle Flayh comes and goes as he chooses, and he expects his guests to 
do the same. Would it be too much to ask to let me do that, as 
well?" 


"In a moment, Pezi. In a moment. Surely Flayh is here in the castle 
somewhere?" 


"Surely he is," Pezi agreed, "but I couldn't tell you where. Uncle 
Flayh is ... different, lately." 


"Ah yes, I'd heard something about that. A power shaper now, is he?" 


Pezi raised his eyes knowingly and finally met Admon Faye's amused gaze 
head on. "Scoff if you choose, but he is" Pezi looked around to see 
who might be listening, then leaned across and spoke earnestly: "And 
he's a dangerous one." 


Admon Faye leaned forward too, thrusting his face down into Pezi's. 
"I'm pleased to hear it. I trust dangerous people. They don't fold up 
while defending your flanks." Pezi scooted back on his seat, 
discomfited. Admon Faye let a lazy smile spread across his features 
and he, too, sat back. But his eyes never left Pezi's, and the 
merchant felt that gaze would sizzle right through him. "What about 
you, Pezi? Are you a dangerous man?" 


Pezi shifted on his balloonlike bottom. "I I carry my weight " He 
hadn't intended that to be funny, but those who ringed him found it 
hilarious. "I can handle myself!" he shouted, and the tone of his 
voice silenced his mockers. Pezi wasn't lying. Perhaps he was a bit 



chunky and certainly he didn't move with the grace of a wild buck, but 
he fought like an angry boar when cornered and he was feeling very much 
cornered at the moment. Pezi felt for the pommel of his dagger and 
snarled, "I can be as cruel as the next man, should the need arise." 


"Can you now?" Admon Faye asked quietly. "Yes, I see a bit of fire in 
your pudding face at that. Then are you saying I can trust you, Pezi? 
Because I don't think much of that hand upon your dagger." 


Pezi thought a moment, then dropped his hand to his side. 


"Good," said Admon Faye. "I like that. A moment of hesitation to show 
spirit then a demonstration of reasoned caution. Very good, Pezi. 
Perhaps we can work together." Admon Faye waved a hand at the man who 
guarded the aisle, and the fellow went back to join his mates. Pezi 
stood up, hitched his pants, and started to leave. "Bring me the 
girl," Admon Faye shouted behind him. Pezi didn't look back, but 
stalked straight for the door. It opened before he reached it, and two 
beefy rogues pushed a woman into the hall. It wasn't until they 
collided that they recognized each other. 


"Pezi!" Bronwynn snarled. 


"Princess?" Pezi replied, and he quickly stepped back, for Bronwynn's 
face registered a long-harbored rage. 


"You scum!" she shrilled, and she buried her balled right fist three 
inches into his stomach. Bronwynn had been saving this up for a long 
time and so, without hesitation, she buried her left fist in the same 
spot. Pezi doubled over, the wind knocked out of him. He could hear 
that, once again, his antics had the whole hall hooting. "You're the 
one who got me into all this mess!" the girl screamed in his face, and 
she boxed first his right ear, then his left. 


"Come on, Pezi," Admon Faye cheered. "Show us your renowned fighting 
spirit." 


"You .. . mudgecurdle!" Bronwynn spat into his ringing ears. "You're 
nothing but a mudgecurdle!" 


The description was accurate enough. A mudgecurdle was a small animal 
who appeared to be the mirror image of a cute, cuddly bunny until a 
person tried to pick one up. Then it sprayed a double-barrelled dose 
of potent liquid odor so offensive it could render a person senseless 
in a matter of minutes. The term had entered common usage long ago as 
an epithet for a traitor. Certainly Pezi had proved himself such when, 
with Ligne's help, he'd kidnapped Bronwynn from her father's castle so 
many months before. Ever since that day, Bronwynn's life had been a 
series of escapes from one danger into another. Except for a few 
wonderful weeks she'd spent in Lamath as the initiate of Pelmen the 
Prophet and the companion of Rosha mod Dorlyth, Pezi's action had 
caused her nothing but grief. During those eventful months she'd 
learned something about self-defense, and Admon Faye's abuse had helped 
sharpen those skills and given her a powerful thirst for revenge. Now 
she put every trick she'd learned into action, kneeing Pezi in the ribs 
and cracking his balding pate with her knuckles. 


These harsh slave-traders loved nothing better than a fight after 
dinner, and a circle rapidly formed around the two combatants. Benches 
were overturned and tankards kicked aside, as spectators scrambled for 



a good view. The eVerpresent dogs who made the straw-covered floor of 
this hall their home all barked merrily, thoroughly enjoying the 
excitement though not understanding its cause. No one noticed, then, 
when a lean, graying hound bounded through the open door, past the 
crowd, and up onto one of the tables. 


"Is this the way you treat the manor of your host?" The voice seemed 
to come from everywhere at once, and the fighting stopped immediately. 
All eyes turned to the center of the room. There, atop a table, stood 
Flayh, formerly a merchant of Lamath, now a power shaper resplendent in 


a : white robe of fish-satin, and a red cloak of the same pre-vTCious 
material. He seemed to glow with an eerie iridescence a bluish aura 
outlined his body against the darkness > f the room. 
So devastating was his entrance that no one dared to speak for several 
seconds. Then there was the casual clapping of a single pair of hands, 
followed by a low chuckle. Admon Faye was amused. "Very good, Flayh. 
Most impressive." 


"You were asking for me previously, slaver better said, you demanded my 
presence. Am I one of your slaves, Admon Faye, to come running at your 
command?" Flayh scowled, and threw his red cloak wide. "I am Flayh 
the power shaper The words rang around the walls of the room, and 
echoed off the high ceiling. 


Admon Faye glanced around with studied calm. "Pity," he said after a 
moment. "I'd expected a thunderclap after such a declaration." 


Flayh's arms dropped slowly to his sides, and he smiled. "I'm working 
on that. And with the progress I'm making, I expect to have it 
soon." 


"Good, good," the slaver encouraged. "Since we've gotten that out of 
the way, can we get down to business? I do believe that it was you who 
summoned me here, and not the other way around. Or would you prefer to 
posture some more beforehand?" 


Those standing next to Admon Faye saw him jerk slightly, then watched 
as his jaw clenched and his fingers formed into fists. Flayh was 
smiling grimly, his eyes locked into those of the slaver. There was 
silence in the hall until Flayh's body went slack, and Admon Faye gave 
a great sigh. Flayh had been attempting to draw fear out of the ugly 


slaver. He'd failed but just barely. 
"So," the power shaper said quietly. 
Admon Faye wiped his sweating forehead. "So," he agreed. 
contest a mutual respect had formed between the two men. 
In that 
Ironically, 

no one else in the room really understood what had happened. 


"You have buried your fears deep, Admon Faye. I couldn't pull them to 
the surface. Quite." 


"And you, Lord Flayh, are much more than an aging merchant." Flayh 
noted with approval the slaver's respectful mode of address. Admon 
Faye had a host of negative qualities, Flayh thought to himself, but 
stupidity wasn't one of them. 


The thought brought Pezi to Flayh's mind. "Nephew, since you seem to 
be momentarily out of trouble, why don't you seize the opportunity and 



go change your suit?" Though asked as a question, Pezi recognized 
Flayh's statement was a command. Guarding his stomach from Bronwynn, 
he stepped around the girl and out of the room. Flayh shrugged at 
Admon Faye. "Pezi's making a single-handed attempt to give all 
merchants a reputation for slob-bishness. I hope he's at least amused 
you." 


"Oh, that he has," the slaver chuckled, and he stalked across the room 
to sit on a bench at Flayh's table. The power shaper climbed down to 
join him. Admon Faye noticed with surprise Flayh's small stature, but 
immediately put the thought from his mind. He had learned long ago 
that height is not the measure of a man particularly if he's a 
sorcerer. "I notice you aren't wearing the colors of your house .. 
." 


"Indeed, I've abandoned the blue and lime of Ognadzu except for state 
occasions. This feels more fitting to my individual tastes." Flayh 
raised his hand and a servant far across the room scrambled toward the 
kitchen. 


"And yet you continue to call yourself a merchant .. ." 


"Of course. You're a rogue and a brigand and a cutthroat, yet you 
remain a businessman throughout. There's nothing inconsistent there, 
nor is there any in my being both wizard and merchant. These 
vocations, these skills they're nothing more than the tools with which 
we impress ourselves on the world. So let's bargain together, you and 


I. I assume you've brought the girl?" 
Admon Faye beckoned toward Bronwynn, and the two nearest slavers seized 
her under her arms and hoisted her over the benches to stand at Ftayh's 
side. The power shaper turned to look her over thoroughly. 


"So this is the famous Bronwynn, daughter of Talith of Chaomonous. I 
had hoped to meet you long ago, child, but my fool of a nep kew bungled 
the job. You've cost me dearly and, were I less forgiving, you'd 
suffer for it. But I've decided to make you Queen instead." Flayh 
jerked his head. "Throw her in the pit " 


"Ahhh " Admon Faye grunted, raising his hand, and the two slavers who 
held Bronwynn froze. Flayh frowned, and Admon Faye smiled. "I've 
found that I enjoy the little girl's company. She stays with me or 
none of us stay." 


"You're giving orders? In my house?" 


"The girl is my captive .. ." 


"Whom I ordered seized." 


"Freed by my skill and knowledge," Admon Faye roared. Then his voice 
softened. "What's the matter, Flayh. Don't you trust me?" he asked 
sarcastically. 


Flayh stared at him. Then he, too, smiled. "Of course I do. It's the 
girl I don't trust." He waved an arm. "Take her away," he muttered, 
and Bronwynn was escorted out of the hall. Flayh's eyes jerked back to 
meet Admon Faye's. "And what if she runs?" 


Admon Faye chuckled. "She won't run away. Where would she go?" 



"To the castle of Dorlyth mod Karis, of course. The father of her boy 
lover." 


"Ah yes, you mean Rosha mod Dorlyth." Admon Faye was familiar with the 
family. "Actually, I'd rather welcome another encounter with young 
Rosha," he said. "His sword left several new scars on my face." 


"Why should you care?" Flayh sneered. "Who could possibly tell?" 


Admon Faye's eyes flashed. "My respect does not entitle you to comment 
on my appearance, Flayh. Mock me, and I'll kill you." The statement 
was so frank that Flayh was shocked. 


"No one threatens me like " 


"No one comments on my features!" Admon Faye snarled, rising to crouch 
over the table. 


Flayh looked him in the face, then shrugged. "Nor would I. The girl is 
your responsibility. But I warn you if she slips away I hold you 
accountable, and should anyone seek to rescue her from us, I depend 
upon your blade!" 


"So be it." The slaver nodded, eager to get on to other matters. "The 
plan is simple. I assassinate Ligne, and place Bronwynn on the throne. 
I'm doing that for myself Ligne has become as much a bother to me as 
she is to you. I understand you will profit from the move as well?" 


"I will profit greatly from it. Jagd and the merchant house of Uda 
have monopolized all business in Chaomon-ous that mudgecurdle. How 
could I have trusted him?" 


"You didn't," Admon Faye chuckled. "You thought you could control 
him." 


"So I did. I assume he's still living at the palace?" 


"Under the warm protection of Queen Ligne, yes, or he'd be in his grave 
already. He's been cutting into my markets as well as yours. I assume 
we'll plan to assassinate Jagd,too?" 


"Perhaps that won't be necessary." Flayh muttered. "I've summoned a 
meeting of the Council of Elders of the merchant houses. Unless he's 
willing to be stripped of his position, he's obliged to attend." 


"You think he'll come? Knowing your feelings?" 


"What has he to gain by staying sealed up inside the Imperial House? 
He'll have to move against me sometime, Admon Faye. The question is 
when. I think he'll come." 


"Which brings us to something that greatly interests me." Admon Faye 
smiled, lacing his fingers together and placing his hands on the table 
between them. "What do I get from you?" 


"Of course, you've guessed it already, or you wouldn't be here." Flayh 
also smiled. "As all of us know, the dragon is 


1 dead. That means the slave market has dropped off considerably, 



threatening your business." Admon Faye nodded. "It also means that 
anyone can pass Dragonsgate, which is certainly threatening ours. We 
merchant families have held a monopoly on all trade for so long, I'm 
afraid we've become rather used to it. I, for one, don't relish the 
idea of 


losing that to a new influx of independent traders. Of ; course, we 
could field an army to hold the pass against all ; others, but that 
would surely rouse the common people :.. against us, and eventually 
one of the three lands would send in a larger army to drive us out. Bad 
reputation and ? bad business. However " Flayh cleared his throat. 
"I understand that you and your little band control the pass at < this 
time." :;; "I do." 


j' "There's great advantage to us in that or will he, if we V can 
agree. Of course you could never resist an army, any $ more than we 
could, but your strike and run tactics are 


-;. such that any army that drove you from Dragonsgate & would have to 
remain there to keep you out. The state that jv r J 


^attempted such would draw immediate response from the Other two, 
resulting in international incidents, and war. No one would want 
that." 


"True," Admon Faye said quietly. 


"While you, being an outlaw known to all three lands, would actually be 
a kind of buffer for all three." 


"I take the dragon's place. Get to the point." 


"So what is it that you want, you who can take whatever you choose? 
Respect. Respect, and real power. A seat on the Council of Elders. 
Your own merchant house." 


Admon Faye smiled broadly. "You understand perfectly." 


"The Council has been summoned, and you will naturally be elected to 
it. You have what you want, we have what we want .. . and between the 
two of us, we eliminate Jagd from the competition. What more could you 
ask for?" 


"Only one thing," Admon Faye said. 


"And that is?" 


"Your seat, Flayh. As head of the Council." The slaver grinned as he 
said it. FJayh raised an eyebrow, then returned the grin. 


"That, my friend, is why it pays to be a power shaper 


CHAPTER SEVEN 


Opening at the Palace 


AN HOUR BEFORE DUSK, the chain of wagons rumbled over a cobblestoned 
bridge into the heart of Chaomonous and turned east down the main 
thoroughfare. The broad street climbed steadily to the base of a huge 
chunk of granite. On top of that rock stood the Imperial House 



itself. 


As the road wound up out of the city, one could see that the center of 
town was constructed on a little sliver of land, a peninsula bracketed 
by two giant rivers. On the far side of the castle the rivers joined, 
rolling as one to the sea many miles beyond. But the arriving players 
paid no heed to the rivers. All eyes were fixed on the massive 
fortress that rose before them. 


It was impossible to tell where the rock stopped and the structure 
began, so closely had the castle's walls been married to then: granite 
foundation. Though the setting sun did curious things to the color of 
the palace, it was clearly not of a single shade of gray. Rather, it 
seemed the battlements were of patchwork construction, a testimony to 
the long years the castle had been in the building. The tops of its 
spires disappeared into a cloak of fog that clung stubbornly to its 
ancient stonework. The Imperial House of Chaomonous towered over the 
capital, drawing all eyes to itself. 


From a distance it appeared to float above the world, unrelated to the 
city clustered at its feet. But from the perspective of the 
approaching wagons, the castle looked anything but ethereal. It 
squatted on its granite slab in heavy silence, brooding over the 
confluence of the two rivers like an ill-tempered titian. 


Pelmen rode atop the second carriage with Yona Parmi. Flocks of 
excited children raced beside them, and he smiled and waved to them, 
maintaining the clownish persona he had assumed in Pleclypsa. But 
there was no smile behind his white face. The closer they got to the 
malevolent presence of the castle that dominated the landscape, the 
more sure he grew that some nameless power lurked within its walls. But 
what power? And how did it come to be here? 


Gerrig's wagon led the parade, moving at a pompous snail's pace. Gerrig 
stood on the top of his carriage, waving both hands in the air and 
shouting at the startled shoppers who thronged the city's markets. 
Gerrig loved nothing so much as acting and at the present he was giving 
a lively performance in the role of the conquering hero. 


"He'd better sit down before we start up the incline," Parmi mumbled, 
"or he'll scatter pieces of his head all over the cobblestones." 


"Are you reading my mind again?" Pelmen asked solemnly through a 
fixed, forced smile. 


"It isn't hard, you know. Your thin mask doesn't hide worry well." 


"Is it that obvious 


"To one who's watched you for so many years, it's certainly obvious." 
Parmi cocked an eyebrow and gazed up at the castle's heights. "Are 
there powers here you fear?" 


"Perhaps." 


"Still not going to tell me why we've come?" 


"Why should I cause you to worry, too?" 


Yona chuckled nervously. "It's comments like that which make me 



worry." He was silent for a moment, then he went on: "Just promise me 
this. If you need some help, will you call on me?" 


"That I can promise." 


"Tine." Yona nodded and leaned out to wave at a meat merchant who 
peered at them from under a red and purple 


awning. "I must say," he muttered, noting the colors, "it looks as if 
the house of Uda has taken over this city entirely." 


"Does it matter?" Pelmen wondered. 


Parmi regarded him with a curious smile. "By that you mean?" 


"Only that despite their colors, one merchant is very like another." 


"You've not gone to war with the Council of Elders!" Yona blurted in 
astonishment. 


"Not exactly. But they may have gone to war with me." 


Yona Parmi swiveled back to stare glumly at the rear of Gerrig's 
ascending wagon. "Battling dragons seems ridiculous enough. But 
battling business?" He heaved a heavy sigh. 


"It's all right, my friend," Pelmen said. "Don't worry about it." 


"Come now, Pelmen, how can you expect me not to?" 


"I can't! That's why I haven't told you any more than I have. One 
thing I do hope, however .. ." 


"And that is?" 


"That you won't call me Pelmen within the walls." 


"Ah " Yona grunted, and he slapped his forehead. "Sorry. Henceforth 
you're Fallomar in my every thought." 


The road tilted up sharply, as it began its zigzag climb of the castle 
mount. Gerrig finally took his seat grudgingly, since many new 
spectators had just rushed into the streets to watch them. They were 
obviously headed for the Imperial House, and these city dwellers were 
fascinated by the sight of anyone privileged to pass beyond those 
forbidding walls. The climb to the outer gate took ten minutes, and 
the two players passed it in silence. Then they were inside. Their 
wagons were wheeled away to the massive royal carriage house. Their 
animals were led the other direction to a gigantic stable. Then they 
were permitted to climb the thirty-foot stairway to enter the main 
gate. 


They walked through hallways lined with masterpieces of paintings and 
sculpture, across carpets of inch-thick pile. The ceiling, twenty feet 
above their heads, was inlaid with ".; a continuous mosaic pattern 
interweaving blue, green and pink stones and plates of beaten gold. The 
halls glowed With a golden shimmer, as those polished plates reflected 
the light of long white candles, held in place by brackets of still 
more gold. The halls twisted and turned at sharp angles; at the head 
of each turn was a pair of slotted windows. These were arrow slits, 



and through these apertures the troupe could see the watchful eyes of 
the palace guards following their progress intently. This mixing of 
luxurious grandeur with raw force was designed to intimidate each 
entrant of the castle, and the design suceeded admirably. "This house 
could never be taken by force," Pehnen murmured to himself. 


He felt a strange sensation then as if the walls had heard his words 
and approved. He put the thought out of his mind when he noticed a 
curious condensation on the wall. The fitted stones glistened with 
reflected candlelight .. . 


The other veterans of court performance stalked along grandly, joking 
with one another over the awestruck expressions of their newer 
companions. "Don't get too excited," Danyilyn complained casually to 
one. "This is the front half of the palace for important people. We're 
nothing but players, so they'll stick us in the servants quarters in 
the back." 


For that, Pelmen was very grateful. The further out of Ligne's path, 
the less chance of her seeing through his thin disguise. As they 
turned another corner, he smiled clownishly and waggled his fingers at 
the guards beyond the wall. He thought he saw one pair of eyes smile 
back. 


Moments later they were standing on the tile floor outside of the 
Chamber of Peace. Here they waited for half an hour. A 
harried-looking court attendant finally stepped out to greet them, his 
hands fluttering as he apologized. "I'm so sorry the Queen isn't here 
yet, but she's been delayed by some very important business that can't 
be interrupt " 


"I'm warning you, Kherda, the next time you hold me up like that when 
I'm closing for the kill, I'm going to have someone cut off your hand!" 
Pelmen recognized the voice immediately as belonging to Ligne. It was 
coming from the spiral staircase at the far end of the hall, and 
growing louder as she descended. He edged his way back among other 
members of the troupe, positioning himself behind Gerrig's broad 
back. 


"I don't know why you're complaining," Kherdft protested defensively. 
"You won, anyway." 


"Much to my dismay," added a little man coming down the stairs behind 
Kherda and Ligne. His scarlet and purple cloak marked him immediately 
as a merchant of Uda. As the little group walked toward them, Pelmen 
noted the cloak's material and its costly cut and guessed him to be not 
only a merchant, but an Elder as well. "In fact," the man continued, 
"I think Kherda was really trying to help you, Ligne, not harm you. 
When he replaced his losses with his star instead of his disc, it was 
me he was arming to battle with, not you." 


Pehnen smiled to himself. The important business that had kept the 
Queen from meeting with them sooner had obviously been a game of full 
Drax. It was the language of this three-sided table game that they 
were speaking. 


"Say what you like, Jagd, he was deliberately undermining my strength. 
I had a chance for total conquest." Ligne spat at Kherda in disgust. 
"But you knocked it down to a marginal victory." 



"Which is, as they say, just as much a win." Jagd smiled beneficently. 
"Besides, Ligne, you appeared to me to be totally unaware of my cube, 
and I fear " 


"My Lady," the court attendant tremulously interrupted, "the travelling 
players have arrived, and " 


"I have eyes, don't I?" Ligne bellowed at the man, and he swiftly 
bowed his way out of their presence, backing into the Chamber of Peace. 
Ligne looked at the group before her with a hint of distaste playing 
around her lips, then abruptly smiled a warm smile. "Welcome! Gerrig, 
hello! Yes, I remember your face," she said to Yona Parmi, waving away 
his bow. She looked into Danyilyn's eyes for a moment, craning her 
neck as if to see into the darker corners of the actress' mind, and 
asked, "Weren't you here before, too?" 


Danyilyn scraped the floor with the hem of her skirt as she curtsied 
gracefully. She smiled a pleased, awed smile, perfectly conveyed her 
joy that the Queen should deign to remember her. Of course, she was a 
professional, but Pel-men still had to admire the skill with which 
Danyilyn communicated that feigned pleasure. 


Now Ligne brushed past Gerrig and stared into Pelmen's face, squinting 
to try to see through the greasepaint. "And you?" she began, almost 
with a tone of suspicion. 


Gerrig broke in hastily. "This is Follomar the fool, a new addition to 
our troupe, and this is Magrol, Jamnard .. ." He continued, moving 
through the group. Ligne didn't follow him. She reached out to try to 
touch Pelmen's face, and he ducked out of the way. 


"Why are you wearing makeup?" she demanded. 


"Why do you?" he quickly responded. 


"To improve my appearance, of course 


"There's my reason as well." 


"But you've covered your whole face." 


"An improvement, believe me. But if my Lady doubts my word, let me 
propose a contest. Let her remove her makeup and I'll remove mine, and 
we shall see who needs it the most." 


Ligne's sharp blue gaze threatened him only momentarily; then the woman 
blinked and her nose wrinkled into a grin. "A genuine fool! How 
amusing, Kherda." She turned and pointed a finger at her Prime 
Minister. "Listen, you sour old parchment pusher! Lose me another 
game like that, and I'll put this one in your office!" 


"You didn't lose," Kherda groused. He sighed with exasperation. 


"Everyone else in the group is new," Gerrig broke in nervously. "It's 
been a hard year for us, and some of our best drifted off to join other 
organizations. But we are ever so grateful to you, Queen Ligne, for 
allowing us to " 


"Spare me," the Queen said, and she turned around to stalk into the 
Chamber of Peace. Gerrig looked inquiringly at Kherda, who jerked his 



head toward the door and frowned. Gerrig followed Ligne into the 
opulently furnished chamber. "I hear you now perform a masterful play 
with me as the subject." Here Ligne turned, and her cold blue eyes ran 
Gerrig through. "Your last appearance inside these walls was not so 
masterful." 


"But, they, I ..." Gerrig stammered, flustered by her manner. 


"Don't stammer at me! I'm tired of bearing mumblings that make no 
sense." 


Gerrig shut his mouth, and resolved to keep it closed unless she asked 
a direct question. His tongue had long been his fortune, and he was 
anxious to keep it safely in place. 


"I recognize that at that time this wasn't my court, and that you were 
under the influence of that tedious Pelmen. I trust that during your 
present stay you'll refrain from commentary on my morals and my 
politics?" She looked at Gerrig expectantly, and he nodded with all 
the sincerity he could manage to muster. "Fine. I've a number of 
things on my mind these days I'm in no hurry to see you perform. 
Perhaps you won't mind sampling the pleasures of the court for a few 
weeks?" 


"Wh why, my Lady, we would be honored to spend " 


"To spend my gold on your extravagant appetites? Of course you would. 
Realize, however, that when I do wish entertainment, I require it at a 
moment's notice. You may find it wise to be prepared when I call on 
you. Craftsmen who disappoint me often find my displeasure painful." 
Ligne then glided grandly out of the Chamber of Peace, passed the 
troupe without a glance, and headed back for the staircase, calling 
over her shoulder, "Come on Jagd. Let's play another." 


Kherda followed her, his sandals flapping as ever. "My Lady, there is 
a drought in the southeastern provinces and " 


"You told me that at breakfast." 


"If you could give your approval for the relief goods to be accompanied 
by a contingent of the Golden Throng, I could dispatch " 


"Have you ever tried the sweep-flip opening, Jagd?" Ligne asked the 
merchant as they reached the stairs and started up. "Someone told me 
that in Lamath it's called the Hanni opening, because that house 
originated it." 


"Doubtless a Hanni merchant who told you so. It originated with Uda. I 
don't think very much of it myself, however, since it wastes too many 
valuable pieces early in the .. ." 


Pelmen strained to hear the rest of Jagd's explanation. He was a Drax 
player himself, though it had been months since he'd played. Even 
then, it had been only a game of Green Dummy Drax he'd played against 
Dorlyth. But the hall was ninety feet long, and Jagd's quiet voice 
didn't carry very far. The merchant and the Queen disappeared into the 
upper levels of the palace. 


Kherda stood at the foot of the stairs, shaking his head. 



Almost as an afterthought, he turned to call back to the actors; "Go 
see the Lord of Entertainments. I'm sure one of you will remember 
where his office is. He'll give you lodgings, and I'll give you a more 
thorough orientation in the morning." Kherda sighed; then, scooping up 
his skirts, he assumed a dignified expression, and flapped up the 
stairs. 


Gerrig spun around to look at Pelmen, his face the color of a freshly 
laundered sheet. "Do you think she recognized you?" 


"Recognized whom?" Fallomar answered him. The eyes of the clown 
peered back at Gerrig curiously, as if the huge actor's words were 
totally devoid of meaning. 


Gerrig understood. He nodded, then took Danyilyn by the hand. "Come, 
lady. Let's go find some rooms." They started for the stairway, for 
Maythorm's office was on the floor above. Pelmen was gone, swallowed 
whole by Folio-mar the fool. Gerrig was surprised at how much he 
already missed him. 


Maythorm had been advised of their arrival by the serving girl who'd 
been bringing his dinner to his room. She felt sorry for the poor man 
the slightest noise made him jump, and he seemed uncommonly suspicious 
of everyone and everything. Besides, he was so good-looking .. . 
perhaps someday he would notice her! She made a special effort to 
roust him out of his quarters to meet the players when they arrived at 
his office. As they surged into his room, he stood to meet them, his 
handsome, almost pretty face radiating a dazzling smile. "Welcome, 
welcome, Gerrig and Danyilyn, so pleased that you could accept our " 
There he stopped, dumfounded. The puzzled troupe waited for him to 
regather his wits and finish his sentence. "Why, you're not Garrig and 
Danyilyn!" he gasped, his forehead knitting in indignation. "You're 
.. ." he stopped again, and this time his face went blank. Then his 
eyes widened and he blurted out, "You're Gerrig and Danyilyn!" 


Gerrig arched an eyebrow. "I've always thought so ..." 


"But I was expecting Danyilyn and Gerrig!" he gasped. "I mean, I was 
expecting .. . who was I expecting .. ,** 


"Apparently, sir, you were expecting us," Gerrig grunted, and he 
produced from a pocket within his tunic a tiny cylinder of parchment, 
which he unrolled and read aloud. "Summoned to the court by invitation 
of the Queen Gerrig, Danyilyn, and the acting troupe thereof." "But 
there must be some mistake!" Maythorm pleaded. "The troupe I invited 
were to win the Winter Festival in Pleclypsa!" 


"We did win," Danyilyn snapped. 


"No, but they performed a play based on the Queen's rise to powerl" 


"That's our piece," Gerrig smiled, his teeth bright against his bushy 
red curls. "Masterful work it is, too." He winked at Pelmen. Fallomar 
the fool regarded him curiously, and once again Gerrig was reminded of 
the need to conceal Pelmen's identity. "But ... but ..." 


"The man's obviously distraught," Follomar explained to the others. 


"Do I know you?" Maythorm asked the painted clown suspiciously. 



Fallomar peered into Maythorm's face. "Why, I think so. Weren't you 


at the recent convention of All Fools?" "Are you calling me a fool?" 
"Not actually, no. Would you like to take this opportunity to prove 
yourself one?" 


"I know that voice!" Maythorm snarled. His pretty features quickly 
turned red. 
"Better, I hope, than you know Gerrig and Danyilyn w 
"Are you related to a peasant in the south?" 
"Are you related to a buzzard in the north?" 
"What? Who said anything about buzzards?" 
"Well, you brought up pheasants " 
"I said peasants!" 
"Absolutely unrelated." 
"What?" 
"Peasants to pheasants." 
"You are an idiot!" Maythorm roared. 
"I'm a fool, actually." 
"You certainly are!" 
"I thank you for that good review!" Pelmen smiled. 
"Get out of my office!" 


"But you invited us." 
"I ; .." Here Maythorm hesitated. The blood drained from his face as 
swiftly as it had flooded in. "I invited .. . you?" 


Gerrig stepped forward and passed him the parchment slip. "Posted by 
blue-flyer to Minlaf-Khen. You see right there the seal of the 
crown." 


"I ... authorized this?" Maythorm murmured as he circled his 


desk-table and slumped onto a stool. 
"We came to get our room assignments," Danyilyn an-Dounced impatiently. 
"Can we get on with it?" 


Maythorm raised his eyes slowly, a slack-jawed expression robbing his 
features of energy. Then, abruptly, he smirked. He pointed at Gerrig 
and laughed aloud, then said, "I get it. You're after my job, right? A 
cream-puff post, you think, frosted with power and weighted with 
wealth, am I right?" His finger swept the whole troupe. "You're all 
in on it, aren't you? Plotting in private to pry me out of ray 
office." 



The actors exchanged bewildered stares. The actors exchanged bewildered stares. 
Danyilyn said " 
"She's not Danyilyn!" Maythorm yelled. "I know who she is she's 

Danyilyn! I know all of you!" "What a relief," Fallomar sighed 
heavily. "And I know you, too!" Maythorm shouted, pointing now at the 
fool. "You're the peasant who ambushed me on the road, who summoned 
the thunder and changed to a falcon and threw balls of colored fire at 
me all morning!" The entire troupe stared open-mouthed at Maythorm 
all, that is, save Yona. He was regarding the painted fool with some 
alarm. 


Gerrig cleared his throat. "Ah, Maythorm .. . perhaps the Queen's been 
working you too hard " 


"Ah-ha! You see?" Maythorm crowed. "Insinuating that I, Maythorm, am 
a bumbling incompetent! And naturally, you could do better?" 


The bellowing of the Lord of Entertainments had attracted quite a crowd 
in the hallway outside. Now the serving girl bustled into the room, 
plowing her way through the troupe to Maythorm's side. As she led him 
out, she apologized, "He hasn't been himself since he got back from 
Pleclypsa." 


"Oh that's all right." The fool shrugged. "According to him, we 
haven't been ourselves either," 


"I'll get you, fool!" Maythorm shouted, pointing back at Fallomar. 
"I'll be watching you like a hawk!" Then Maythorm and the serving girl 
disappeared into the hallway, leaving the cluster of actors staring at 
Pelmen. 


"I love the palace," he sighed. "It never fails to restore my faith in 
government." 


A steward finally assigned them their lodgings. They all were given 
rooms in the craftsmen's quarters, on the third level of the Imperial 
House. While Yona Parmi, Danyilyn and Gerrig were given large rooms 
very near the grand stairway at the castle's center, Pelmen received a 
small cramped ceil well to the backside of the palace indicative of the 
fact that Maythorm, though perhaps a bit addled, was not without 
influence. This was really much to Pel-men's liking, for he was right 
around the corner from a servants' stairway, which descended directly 
into the slave's quarters and the kitchen. He intended to get well 
acquainted with the castle's slaves; as in every palace, it was they 
who knew best the business of the royal occupants. He felt sure that 
if Bronwynn was anywhere within the Imperial House, she was in the 
dungeon, but he wanted to be sure before attempting the dangerous 
entry. He hoped the slaves could either confirm or deny that Ligne had 
imprisoned her there. 


It was the only possibility that made any sense. One day, she and Joss 
had ridden together from the forest in a guerrilla attack on one of 
Ligne's weaker outposts. The next, she had disappeared .. . and Joss 
was suddenly once again the Lord of Security. Pelmen was positive she 
was here. 


Something else was here as well. Pelmen lay back on a dirty cot and 
gazed toward the ceiling, listening for something, anything, that might 
give him a clue as to its nature. As he tuned his spirit to listen, he 



felt a telltale uneasiness in his chest his breathing grew shallow. It 
wasn't fear .. . more a sense of anticipation. "Who are you?" he 
finally whispered. "You're surely not the Power .. ." 


What do you mean by that? replied the Imperial House brusquely. It 
had been watching this gaily painted character ever since he'd entered 
its walls, but it had taken a special interest in the fool after 
witnessing the exchange with Maythorm. 


Pelmen listened intently. He heard nothing. "I wonder," he mumbled. 


Speak up! How can you expect this House to respond if it cannot hear 
your comments? 


Pelmen just gazed at the ceiling, and argued with himself. "Just your 
imagination," he muttered. 


What about imagination? asked the House. Come, come, speak up! This 
Maythorm fellow seems to think you a power shaper Is that so? 


The player was silent. It had been a long day of travelling. He'd 
fallen asleep. 


Pelmen woke with a jerk. He was sweating. The air in his tiny room 
was stale and close, but he found himself gulping great mouthfuls of 
the stuff. He felt strangely terrified, as if someone or something had 
laid a hand on his shoulder as he slept. He peered into the black 
corners. There was nothing here. That terrified him even more. 


He jumped up from his mattress and shuffled cautiously for the door. 
Though these craftsmen's rooms had never housed captives, they were 
built sturdily enough to double as jail cells if the need ever arose. 
He put his weight to the unvarnished wood, and swung his heavy door 
outward. 


It was dark night. No sunlight filtered down the hall from the slits 
in the outer walls. Some very dim light flickered off the masonry 
beyond the corner, the evidence that one of the torches still burned. 
But no one moved in the hallway. The castle was as quiet as a 
forgotten tomb. 


Then it began. The irregular flicker of that torch around the corner 
suddenly grew patterned. The light began to flash evenly, regularly, 
as if beating time to some unheard orchestration, written for ears 
other than man's. Pel-men dismissed it as the result of a draft. But 
there was no draft in this ancient hall, and he knew it. 


His first impulse was to run. But Pelmen rarely followed his first 
impulse in anything. More often than not, he followed the dictates of 
his intuition, but he refused to be a slave to those illogical feelings 
that mediated his sensitivity. He waited. He leaned against the rock 
wall and listened. 


A chill tiptoed down his back as the stone under his 


12J 


hand turned a slimy cold. He jerked away then the hand returned, 
feeling of the suddenly moist rock. He shook his head in bewilderment. 
The torch suddenly went out 



Light disappeared. Everywhere was shadow. And still Pelmen listened, 
while the awareness grew in him that his whole body was trembling with 
tension. He took a deep breath of the cooler air of the hallway and 
shook himself to bring on relaxation. When he was quiet again, he 
listened to the emptiness. Nothing stirred. Pelmen heard only his 
heart. 


This was not the Power, of that he was sure. There was a cruel humor 
to this, and he had never experienced such in his communication with 
that Being who had made him a Prophet. But he was equally sure there 
was something here alive, something or someone who wished, it seemed, 
to talk with him. Not the Power, no. But certainly a power. 


Pelmen abruptly slipped back into his room and closed the door with a 
heavy thud. The sound was reassuring. He leaned his back on the wood, 
as if barricading himself against the force in the hallway. But the 
act was unconscious. He knew full well that the presence was in here 
as well 


Pelmen stretched his hand out before him, palm up. Though only inches 
from his face, it couldn't be seen for the utter lack of light Using 
his shaper power, he needed only to speak a phrase or think a thought, 
and above his invisible palm would grow a glowing ball, any color he 
chose, to light his way in the darkness. Pelmen would have thought 
nothing of doing so in the land of the Maris. Felt there, these 
strange sensations would simply prompt him to begin shaping. Yet here, 
he hesitated .. . 


This was but a power like all the others, probably and if he chose .. 
. 


There was a long dark moment of decision. . But he did not choose. 
Pelraen lowered his hand to his side. Instead of shaping, he spoke. "I 
know you're here. Whether you are a Man power, travelling far from 
home, or some other kind of power I know nothing about, still I feel 
you, and I know you're here. Perhaps you enjoy teasing me, but if you 
" 


He cut himself off. An idea broke into his chain of thought, and he 
stopped himself in the mid threat Perhaps he could shape this power 
but did he need to? And should he shape it, would this power be 
harmed? He remembered the terror he always experienced just prior to 
being seized by the Power and though the joy that always followed 
inevitably flooded away any scars, he knew that joy proceeded from the 
Power's nature it wasn't due to the nature of shaping. 


"Ill let you be," Pelmen said softly. "But I have an important day 
tomorrow. I have a friend who must be freed from a woman's enforced 
will, and a land to be freed from her tyranny. Plus a dozen other 
problems I'm sure you're no more interested in hearing than I am in 
listing. What I'd like to do is get some sleep, and forget them for a 
while. Now " Pelmen tried to say it nicely, but a hint of unintended 
annoyance crept into his tone, "would you let me get some rest?" 


He threw himself on his mattress, and crossed his arms on his chest in 
aggravation. 


Sleep came again quickly. This time, it was undisturbed except for one 
thing; his dreams were all oddly colored, as if a ball of blue flame 



burned all night, just beyond his eyelids .. . 


CHAPTER EIGHT 


A Sudden Duel 


STILL HOODED, Rosha was led down the long, glass-enclosed corridor that 
separated his quarters from the upper apartments of the Queen. Ligne 
had placed him in the room she herself had occupied as Talith's 
mistress, near the aviary on the castle's roof. There was apparently 
only one entrance, and that way led down a series of steps through 
Ligne's gigantic suite on the lower levels. There had at one time been 
many entrances, which Ligne herself had installed to accommodate the 
hosts of men who visited her in Talith's absence. These she'd ordered 
walled up before depositing Rosha there. The Queen wanted this lad all 
to herself. 


Rosha heard the guard grumbling as they descended the by-now familiar 
stairway into Ligne's suite. They passed on through the apartment, 
evidently greeting no one. Then door? opened before them, and Rosha 
heard the sounds of people moving about in the halls. He was led 
around corners and down corridors until he felt his hand being placed 
on the railing and knew he was descending the grand spiral in the very 
heart of the castle. This staircase was twenty feet in diameter. It 
had been designed to permit impressive royal entrances to the great 
hall, for it opened out onto the 


"Wizard in Waiting 


The Wixaf& in Waiting 


Queen's dais- Rosha and his guardian stepped down into the aroma of 
frying bacon, stewed beef and a clamor of other delicious smells. But 
Rosha wasn't hungry. For some reason he felt particularly hostile 
today. 


"Good morning, Rosha," he heard the Queen call, her voice dripping with 
honey. 


"Is it?" he snapped. "I wouldn't know." A chair was pushed up 
against the back of his legs, and he sat in it Then he stared 
sightlessly out over the noisy throng that crowded the hall and 
radiated his hatred at any who cared to look. 


"Good morning, Fallomar," Yona Parmi said cheerfully, looking up from a 
plate piled with sausages and bread. "How did you sleep?" 


"Not as well as I might have liked," Pelmen grumbled quietly, as he 
crawled over a long bench to sit across from his friend. "And your 


"I fared quite well, thank you," Parmi answered. 


"No dreams of powers?" 


Yona stopped eating and looked up from his plate again. "No ... 
why?" 


"As I said, it proved a somewhat sleepless experience for me." 


"I should guess so, on that sack of straw they gave you for a bed, in 



that rat warren of a room. That should teach you not to mock the Lord 
of Entertainments when he's making room assignments. I slept on a 
feather mattress myself." 


"I couldn't be more pleased with my location though it does concern me 
that Maythorm seems to have recognized me somehow. I intend to stay 
well out of his way, henceforth his and Queen Ligne's." 


"You should have little difficulty losing yourself in this gigantic 
barn. And of course, if you're caught you can always fly away though I 
wager that would leave the rest of us with some difficult explaining .. 
." Parmi noted an uncertain expression flick across his friend's 
features, and his brow creased in concern. "What is it?" be asked. 


"Nothing .. ." Fallomar murmured. 


"You'll not convince me that wayl" Parmi grunted, and 


the fool had to gesture to him to hold down his voice. "This mention 
of powers ... is the Power here?" "Yes and others." "Other powers?" 
"At least one." 


"Ah. And you're uneasy about your shaping." "Would you keep your 
voice down, Yona!" Pelmen whispered with intensity. "You'll soon have 
the Queen herself listening in on our conversation!" 


"I don't notice anyone paying us any mind." Yona shrugged as he 
consumed a sausage. "And as for the Queen, she's far too interested in 
that hooded captive seated next to her to pay any heed to us." 


At the mention of a captive, Pelmen's eyes shot up to the dais. A 
quick glance at the unfortunate creature next to- Ligne assured him 
that this was no petite female and, with passing pity for the poor 
wretch, he turned back to the plate of food before him. As he turned, 
Pelmen caught a glimpse of the young prisoner's arm twitching and 
suddenly the miserable captive had grabbed his total attention. He 
stared at the dais, his jaws clenched in shock and his eyes wide in 
horror. 


"Fool!" Parmi snarled, pulling Pelmen's gaze back across the table to 
him. "You want to attract her attention? You certainly will if you 
stare at her that way! You have no idea how thoroughly that white face 
underscores the brilliance of your eyes!" Pelmen stared at him for a 
moment, then began sneaking peeks at the royal table, to make sure he 
wasn't mistaken. He wasn't. 


"What's the matter with you." Yona Parmi demanded ferociously. 


The painted fool sighed, and took a bite of a sausage. "You remember 
the young man I told you of?" he said, chewing without tasting. "The 
stuttering warrior who : helped me slay the dragon?" "I do. Rosha 
something." "That's him under the hood." , Yona Parmi stared this 
time. "You're sure?" 


"He moves like Rosha. Has Rosha's build. No, I don't |>: know for 
sure, but his jaw is the mirror image of Rosha's father, Dorlyth. I'm 
afraid it's him." 


"But .. . what's he doing here?" 



Pelmen glanced up at the stage, then looked away in revulsion as he 
muttered, "At the moment, he's being spoon-fed." 


Indeed, Ligne was feeding Rosha herself. Joss would not permit him to 
handle eating utensils, since they could possibly used as weapons 
against the Queen, so Ligne had taken to feeding him. She'd come to 
enjoy this little symbol of her domination; she viewed this humiliation 
as just one more bit of leverage that would eventually, inevitably, 
force Rosha to yield to her demands and become domesticated. 


"Did you know about this?" Parmi whispered, and Pel-men shook his head 
from side to side. Yona waited for a moment, then asked, "What are you 
going to do now?" 


His appetite gone, Pelmen stared at his breakfast. "Parmi," he sighed, 
"I wish you hadn't asked me that 


A disheveled Kherda, late from his bed, joined Ligne on the platform 
and seated himself in the vacant chair between the Queen and Jagd. As 
always, he brought a sheaf of documents with him, which he hoped to 
dispose of during breakfast. It was the same stack he'd carried with 
him to every meal this week. As yet, he'd not been able to hold the 
Queen's attention long enough to take care of any of this business, and 
the frustration was beginning to gnaw on him. "Good morning, my Lady. 
I have here a number of matters that we could dispense with in just a 
moment if you .. ." He trailed off. The Queen had paid him absolutely 
no mind. "Well," he muttered bitterly, "I see she's still taken with 
her toy." 


Jagd, who might have assumed this was addressed to him, didn't respond. 
The merchant mulled over his own problems. Jagd was tired of this 
castle. Not that the food wasn't excellent or the company never 
boring. He just wanted to get back to work. But through his network 
of spies Jagd had learned of Flayh's planned assassination attempt, and 
above all else, Jagd wished to keep on living. Early that morning, in 
the utter stillness of predawn hours, he and Flayh and Flayh's obese 
nephew had carried on a tense conference by means of a trio of 
ingenious, pyramid-shaped crystals. Flayh had issued him a summons to 
attend a conclave of the Council of Elders, to be held in Ngandib-Mar. 
Although he was fully aware that this invitation was a trap designed to 
lure him from the castle to his death, still the temptation to attend 
was strong. He was tired of walking the floors of his guest apartment, 
wondering if or when Ligne watched him from secret chambers beyond the 
wall panels. He was weary of interminable bouts of Drax not to mention 
being short of gold, since Ligne always demanded that he wager, and it 
wasn't in his best interests to defeat the woman. As Jagd nervously 
gulped down a frosted spice cake, he squirmed in his seat, watching the 
doors for a messenger from the roof. He was expecting a missive from 
his protege in the Mar, Tahli-Damen. On the basis of that word, he 
would decide whether to go or to stay. 


"Have you ever heard the like?" Kherda seethed, bumping Jagd with his 
elbow to get the merchant's attention. "Why, she babbles over him like 


a merchant's daughter " Kherda stopped, and looked at Jagd. "Pardon. I 
... wasn't thinking. Just an expression, you understand." 
"Doesn't offend me." Jagd shrugged. "I have no daughter." The 

merchant went back to his breakfast. Kherda leaned toward the Queen to 
try to overhear her conversation with the boy. 



"You seem exceptionally stubborn this morning," Ligne was chiding. 
"Come on now. Eat." 


"D-don't you ever t-tire of this game?" Rosha snarled. "Why, whatever 
do you mean?" she mocked, her voice lilting. 


"This n-nonsense of trying to feed me!" he exploded. "Untie my hands 
and let me eat!" 


"Can't do that, my sweet. Joss is afraid you'll fork me to death. Come 
on now," she teased. "Aren't you hungry, darling?" 


"Yes! Hungry to move, hungry to see!" he spat savagely. "My 
m-muscles are turning to sponge!" 


"Kherda!" Ligne screamed. Kherda rose a couple of inches off his seat 
as he clapped his hands over his ears. "Oh, you're here already," she 
noted. She continued without apology: "See that Rosha gets some 
exercise today. He says his muscles are getting spongy, and we 
certainly can't have that." 


"Yes, my Lady, I will. Now as to the abundance of verminous insects in 
the northern edge of this region, I have a document here for the Queen 
to sign that abhors the presence of such insects and authorizes the use 
of national funds to eradicate the pests. Just sign here " Kherda had 
been looking at the document, not the Queen, and he now realized that 
he was talking to her back. Ligne was heatedly whispering something in 
Rosha's ear as the lad frowned grimly. Once again, all Kherda could 
see was her back that beautiful dark hair spilling down across her 
shoulders from a garnet-encrusted circlet. They were beautiful 
shoulders fetchingly white against her russet and tan dress gorgeous 
shoulders, as he'd known for many months. But Kherda felt a sense of 
despair, for this seemed to be all he saw of Ligne lately. Apparently 
today would be no different. And there was so much that was crying out 
to be done, real issues that needed to be dealt with! He couldn't even 
get her to sign a toothless royal decree! 


Kherda hurled the document onto the table in disgust clearly a mistake. 
The rolled sheet bounced crazily, striking the underside of a crystal 
goblet and freakishly capsizing it Kherda stared in horror as red wine 
splashed onto the table and streaked for the Queen! He grabbed for 
something to stop its tide, and came up with the document. Its 
parchment-like texture absorbed nothing, however, and he reached below 
the table for the tablecloth and began sopping up the liquid. He was 
just sighing with relief when he remembered there was never a 
tablecloth at breakfast, and he stared at his hands in horror. The 
wine soaked material was russet and tan he'd sopped up the spillage 
with Ligne's skirt! 


A gasp rose in chorus from all over the great hall. Kherda held the 
material, dumfounded, and raised his head to meet several hundred pairs 
of eyes that reflected back his shock, along with a good deal of amused 
curiosity at what he would do next. He turned his white face toward 
Ligne, and saw once again her back. For once he was glad. She 
continued chattering merrily at Rosha. She hadn't even noticed. 


A titter now began in the front of the hall and worked its way all the 
way to the back. Kherda stuffed the soiled dress back under the table, 
and rubbed his stomach. "I 



Ike Wizard in Waiting . feel a bit ... ill ... my Lady .. ." He rose 
unsteadily to his feet, and jerked toward the grand spiral, muttering, 
"I hope .. . you .. . will pardon me ..." 


Ligne didn't notice him go. 


Neither did Jagd. Unnoticed by most of the dining crowd, a lad clothed 
in red and purple had bolted into the hall and raced quickly to the 
dais. He passed Jagd a balled-up message and got a curt dismissal for 
his trouble. 


Jagd stood and moved away from the table, then un-crumpled the note and 
read it quickly: 


SUSPICIONS CONFIRMED. ARMED SLAVERS TO ATTACK YOU IN DRAGONS GATE 


ADVISE CAUTION. AWAITING INSTRUCTIONS. TAHLI-DA MEN 


Jagd didn't hesitate for a moment. He shot for the stairs as swiftly 
as his old legs would carry him and scrambled upward past several 
floors to the lowest level of the gardens. Ignoring the stairs, he 
raced around the ascending ramp that rose from this lowest level to the 
upper gardens and the aviary on the rooftop. Puffing with exertion, he 
passed through the aviary's double doors, circled the mews, and ducked 
into the hutch of the Lord of Signals. This enclosure was constructed 
on the same floor plan as the falconer's mews, except for a wide hold 
in its ceiling that opened onto a cloudy sky, and the fact that its 
perches were thick with hundreds of brilliant blue-flyers. Jagd 
stuffed the wadded message into a pouch of his cloak, and grabbed a 
fresh sheet and a stylus off the spattered table. Quickly he 
scribbled: 


EXPECTED THIS. WILL REMAIN HERE. DEMAND THE PYRAMIDS BE REVEALED TO 


THE FULL COUNCIL AS PLANNED. JAGD. 


Jagd scooped a bird off the perch and ignored its fluttering protest as 
he bound the message in a tight cylinder to its left leg. Then he 
cupped the blue-flyer in both hands, held them to his head, and 
imagined: he was rising out of the castle turning north crossing the 
great South Fir toward Ngandib-Mar passing over the castle of Tohn, 
where Flayh now ruled three miles beyond, to the palace of Uda in 
Ngandib-Mar. Jagd pictured in his mind the turrets of that castle, and 
most especially the face of Tahli-Damen. Then he pulled his hands away 
from his face, opened them, and looked at the small blue bird. 


Its black eyes peered back intelligently. Good. He had gotten its 
attention, and it understood its route, Jagd gave the bird a toss, and 
it was sky-borne, beating its way through the hole in the roof and up 
into the clouds. 


Pelmen did not witness Kherda's hasty exit either. He was busy making 
one of his own. Maythorm had spotted him across the great hall and had 
jumped up to pursue him. Pelmen spent the morning slipping quietly 
from one endless corridor to another, reminding himself of the floor 
plan of the castle while eluding his pursuer. 


It was easy to lose oneself in this monstrous construction. There were 
thousands of places to hide that anyone could find, and Pelmen felt 
certain that there were still other hidden passageways secreted in the 



walls. Certainly he could have avoided the wrathful talent agent 
easily enough on his own. But a few brief conversations with passing 
slaves had provided him with a new resource he felt sure could prove 
valuable in accomplishing his true purpose. Maythorm's handsome 
features had all the female servants swooning, and the man had cut a 
wide romantic swath through the wives and girl friends of the entire 
male population of the castle. As a result, Pelmen needed only to 
mention that Maythorm was chasing him to a male slave and he'd receive 
immediate assistance. Maythorm's pursuit did not greatly concern him, 
but it was proving a helpful tool, introducing him to potential allies 
and revealing some of the choicest hiding places. The elaborate game 
of hide and seek could have been fun were it not for his dismay over 
Rosha's captivity. As he leaned against the door of a broom closet, 
his mind raced ahead, seeking some plan to get the young man free. 
Getting Bronwynn out of the dungeon had appeared difficult enough. This 
new complication threatened to make the task impossible. Yet he 
cbuldn't leave the treasure of Dorlyth enthralled to this amoral 
queen. 


"You can come out now," whispered a caustic voice 


T&e Wizard in Waiting from beyond the door. "The pretty boy's past, 
trailing a pack of slobbering wenches behind him." 


"Do you mind if I rest here a moment?" 


"Matters nothing to me. You'll not bother my brooms. But if you'd 
really like to duck this greasy wife-thief, why not just wash your 
face? I could bring you a bowl of water .. ." 


"Thank you, my friend but what's a fool without his face? I'd be the 
greater fool to reveal what's beneath it." Pelmen weighted his words 
with meaning, and the helpful slave proved to be quick as well: 


"Your secret is safe." 


Pelmen listened carefully as the whisper of the broom receded down the 
hall, leaving him alone in the closet. 


"I suppose you're here," he muttered. He wasn't addressing the power 
which inhabited this palace. Rather, he spoke to the Power who had met 
him upon a mountain, anointed him a Prophet, and aided him in battle 
with the two-headed monster. There was resignation in his tone of 
voice as if he'd known all along this taxing task could never be 
accomplished in his own strength alone. There was also a hint of what 
would be viewed in human circles as simple, genuine warmth. Pelmen 
spoke as he would to a Parmi or a Dorlyth he spoke to One he knew as a 
friend. "I needn't explain it to you. You know. The trouble is, I 
don't. Is Bronwynn in the dungeon? How do I get Rosha free? And what 
about this other presence? Do I dare shape it in the process?" 


The Imperial House of Chaomonous heard every word of the player's 
muttered monologue but this morning, it didn't respond. It couldn't. 
It was in desperate pain. 


The delicately crafted pyramid through which Jagd the merchant talked 
to his rival was not simply a clever gadget, as Jagd thought it to be. 
It had been shaped many years before by gifted artisans and energized 
with power by the foremost shaper of that age. The pyramids shaped 
power .. . and as a result, Jagd's pyramid pulled its dynamism from the 



stuff that gave the Imperial House its being. Like excess acid in a 
human gut, any shaping within the walls burned the castle with savage 
intensity. The Imperial 


House gasped, so to speak, in misery yet the pain went unrelieved. Like 
a bubble of gas, an incandescent blue glow continued to suffuse the 
room of the merchant of Uda, searing the insides of the palace. It 
would have cursed every bell would have rung out its agony had the pain 
not so thoroughly robbed it of the strength to cry out. Instead it 
waited helplessly for succor and none came. The humiliation of a 
shower of bird droppings had been completely forgotten. The Imperial 
House faced its first major crisis since awakening. 


It listened intently to the clown's odd mutterings. Hadn't the painted 
fool admitted, just last night, that he was a shaper? And if a shaper, 
then surely he understood castle speech .. . though he seemed to be 
feigning ignorance. If the castle could but communicate the measure of 
its pain .. . 


Strange conversation indeed, the Imperial House gasped when Pelmen 
finished. Was it the other power the jester referred to? The castle 
winced at the notion of this fool shaping it 


Isn't there pain enough already? Obviously, the man is not addressing 
the Imperial House! But if not, then who? Despite its agony, the 
House mustered all of its senses and listened closely for any reply the 
fool might make. 


There was none. And yet, when he finished speaking, the one named 
Fallomar bolted out of the closet, seemingly refreshed and emboldened. 
Though the Imperial House had plainly heard him tell his friend at 
breakfast that he wished to avoid the arrogant Queen at all costs, the 
castle now watched him stride purposefully toward her very throne 
room. 


Strange business, this, the Imperial House muttered to itself. Then it 
winced. It longed for a mouth of some kind if only it could burp .. 
. 


The inside of Kherda's mouth had the consistency of cotton, and beneath 
his voluminous cassock his bony knees knocked together. Ligne's rage 
was terrible to behold especially when directed at him. 


"Look at this!" she shrilled, holding her stained skirt out for 
inspection. "Ruined!" Her cheeks were as scarlet as the blotch left 
behind by the spilled wine. Ligne's eyes nar rowed to cruel slits. "Do 
you know something about this, Kberda?" 


A commotion at the door drowned his strained response, and snagged the 
Queen's attention. "What's going on?" she snapped. Then her pretty 
eyes widened as the colorfully clothed fool stumbled into the throne 
room. He stood up and straightened his garments, then glanced casually 
around as if he owned the place. 


"Do you know," he began without preamble, "one of those guards actually 
tried to make me believe I couldn't come into this room? Why, he 
almost dared me to prove him wrong. So I did." The fool bowed deeply, 
then raised his head and winked. 


The Queen was aghast. "Nobody comes in here unannounced!" 



"That must be me, for I came in without announcement, and I'm certainly 
a nobody." 


"You'll be a sorry nobody before you dare such impudence again!" Ligne 
thundered. 


"Oh, but I quite agree! Why, I'm already the sorriest individual 
imaginable. Is someone eating this?" he asked, as he scooped a grape 
off a nearby plate and popped it into his mouth. "For who could be 
sorrier than a fool? Especially, a fool without an audience to amuse 
" 


"I'll give you an audience! An audience of warders, who'll cackle at 
your cries and smirk at your every scream!" 


The painted jester winked at her once again. "Ah, but, my Lady. Why 
let them have all the fun?" The confident twinkle in his eye proved 
infectious. Ligne's smile started with a tiny curling at the corners 
of her lips, then broadened until her teeth gleamed brightly and her 
eyes sparkled. She fought to control it. 


"You are a presumptuous lout 


"Obviously." The fool nodded. "And I presume by the softening of your 
tone that you'll not dispose of me immediately?" 


"Not immediately. But why take such a chance? Why not let yourself be 
introduced in the proper manner?" 


"My manners have never been proper, my Lady. And as to being 
introduced it seems this Maythorm fellow has taken a dislike to me." He 
leaned forward, cupping his hand to his mouth and whispering loudly, 
"Confidentially, I think he's jealous of my face." That drew a laugh 
from those close enough to hear, for everyone in court knew the 
handsome Lord of Entertainments, and certainly this pasty-faced 
character offered him no challenge. "Besides, that takes such a long 
time and I couldn't stand to wait another moment for another glimpse of 
your radiant beauty." 


Ligne cocked a carefully sculpted eyebrow. "I see for all your 
foolery, you're not afraid of flattery." 


"Indeed, my Lady, a fool who cannot flatter flatters himself to think 
he'll long remain a fool. To be honest, my mistress ah, my Lady when I 
beheld you at breakfast, I felt I had found one I could flatter in good 
faith." 


The lilting of his tongue had hypnotizing power but his mention of 
breakfast jarred Ligne's memory, and she looked down again at her 
soiled dress. "Ah, yes. Kherda and I were just speaking of breakfast. 
Weren't we, Kherda?" Her sharp manner had returned. 


The Prime Minister choked. For a moment he had been permitted to hope 
that this insolent player's interruption might distract the Queen 
indefinitely. It wasn't to be. "Ah .. . my Lady .. ." he began. 


"What would you do, fool, to a careless, clumsy dolt who cannot even 
keep his glass upright!" Though she'd addressed the jester, her 
scorching stare did not leave Kher-da's face. 



"Why, Fd give him a medal and a promotion," the fool answered. 


Ligne whipped around to face him. "What? Why?" 


"For choosing such a delicately colored wine to spill! My Lady, the 
color of that stain truly enhances the tint of your cheeks. You really 
ought to thank him." 


The Queen put her hands on her hips and stared at Fallomar for a 
moment, a small frown on her lips. "How long has it been since the 
court had a jester?" she snapped suddenly. Her question could only 
have been directed at Kherda, but it caught the Prime Minister off 
guard. "Well?" she demanded. 


Kherda seized the opportunity to deflect attention from himself. "Of 
course, there's not been a court fool since you took the throne, my 
Lady, but I believe there were three during the reign of your 
predecessor " 


"And where are they now?" Ligne's eyes didn't leave Fallomar's, nor 
did her frown fade. 


"Ah ... ah ... I believe .. . why, I hadn't thought of any of them for 
years, but ... ah ... unless they've died ... all three are still in 
the dungeon." 


Ligne's nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed. "Now, fool. Are you 
certain you wish to continue this game?" 


"I'll play, my Lady, so long as I remain ahead and not beheaded." 


"Then beware your clever tongue, my friend. Let it grow too sharp, and 
it'll cut your saucy head off." 


"Ah, but if it grow too dull, what then? Will you make me wear a hood 
like that stumble tongue in the corner?" 


Rosha had been leaning against the wall, taking advantage of this 
interlude from Ligne's prodding to daydream of freedom. This comment 
brought him to life with a roar. He lunged toward the center of the 
room, jerking his unsuspecting guard off his feet and dragging the poor 
man across the rug. The fool danced nimbly aside and casually watched 
the warrior charge past. He turned back to watch Ligne's smirk grow 
wider. It revealed the Queen's thorough enjoyment of this diversion. 


"My stumble tongue as you call him, is more prone to take offense than 
I," she gloated. 


"Perhaps because he's more offensive?" the clown asked, and Rosha 
again charged the sound of his voice. Rosha's guard, prepared this 
time and reinforced by soldiers from the doorway, pulled the raging 
captive up short. Rosha jerked at his chains, but they held. He 
vented his wrath in a shout: "You may d-d-duel with your t-tongue, 
fool, but give us both d-d-daggers, and we'll soon s-see who 
st-st-stands!" His muscles knotted, straining at his bonds. The fool 
gazed at him lackadaisically. 


"How did you know the lad's tongue betrays him?" Ligne asked. 



"I heard him tripping over his sausages at breakfast." 
"Queen!" came Rosha's strangled cry of frustration. "Give me leave to 
k-k-kill him!" The days of inactivity and frustration welled up inside 


him, begging for some release. It seemed possible the Queen might let 
him take out his rage on a meaningless upstart of a jester. 
HO 
"An amusing idea." Ligne nodded. "What do you think of it, fooir 
Fallomar chuckled nervously. "You'd let a hotheaded youth rob you of 


months of amusements?" 


"You're assuming you'll lose!" the Queen crowed. "Does your dagger 
wit not match your dagger work?" 
"In truth, my Lady, I'd rather not see blood especially not mine!" 


"Ah, but you've made me curious. Is a fool's blood white, like his 
face? Bring two swords!" 
"My Lady, you can't be serious!" Kherda protested. 

"Oh I can't?" Ligne snarled, shooting him a dangerous scowl. "Perhaps 
you'd rather Rosha spill your blood for exercise?" 


"Ah .. . no, my Lady " 


"Then get out of my way!" the woman bellowed, and Kherda did just 
that, backing into the corner Rosha had vacated. "Loose his hands!" 
Ligne ordered Carlad, Rosha's guard, plunging the man into a dilemma. 
Carlad took his orders from General Joss, and the Lord of Security had 
instructed him never to free Rosha from his bonds in the presence of 
the Queen. But Joss was far to the north, investigating some matter of 
national security. 


"My Lady," Carlad pleaded, "if ... if I loose him and un hood him, he 
may kill you " 


"I said nothing about unheeding him! Just tie his hands in front of 
him, so he can hold a weapon." 


Carlad obeyed her, managing with some help to get Rosha's hand bound 
before him just as another guard sprinted back through the double doors 
with a pair of swords one a short Chaon stabbing sword, the other the 
named great sword Rosha had brought with him. Thalraphis. Pelmen had 
a good idea which weapon he'd be handed. This he hadn't planned on. 


Rosha stretched his arms above his head, then made a quick grab for the 
buckles that held his hood in place. Car-lad and his fellows jerked 
the warrior's hands down and filled them with the haft of Thalraphis. 
Then they ducked away, as Rosha whirled the five-foot long weapon above 
his head with an audible whisper. 


"Now, fool," Rosha said icily, "let's see who stumbles first." The 
confidence that came from the sword in his hands seemed to run straight 
up his arms to his tongue. Rosha never stuttered in battle. 


Fallomar had watched all of this with growing consternation while a 



gleeful Queen watched him watching. "Well, fool?" she cackled. "Take 
your sword." A worried guard handed the clown the shorter weapon, 
keeping well out of range of Rosha's wheeling scythe. Fallomar took 
the weapon soundlessly and backed out of the way. He happened to move 
toward Kherda trapping the old man in his corner. 


"I must protest this, Ligne!" the Prime Minister squealed. "You're 
going to get us all killed!" 


"No real loss in your case," the Queen snorted. Her face flushed with 
a sensual excitement. At the sound of her voice, Rosha leaned in her 
direction. 


Pelmen saw the move and acted quickly to keep the raging warrior from 
hewing the woman down here in her own throne room. "I'm over here!" 
Rosha squared around to face his voice and started toward him slowly, 
still whooshing that long, flashing blade. Pelmen slipped quietly to 
his right, leaving the Prime Minister directly in the path of the 
on-coming savage. 


"He's moved!" Kherda shouted. "He's moved to your left!" Rosha 
stopped advancing and turned his head tentatively to his left, 


"Come, clown. Where are you?" he muttered. 


"I'm here," Fallomar called warily. "But where how is your tangled 
tongue!" 


"This is my tongue!" Rosha shouted, brandishing the great sword before 
him. 


"I'd rather duel the one in your mouth!" the clown said. 


"So would I!" the Queen agreed. 


Once again Rosha turned in the direction of Ligne. Pel-men skipped 
quickly behind him. "Back here!" the clown shouted and he slashed his 
sword toward Rosha's broad back. Before it could arrive, Rosha had 
reversed, and he caught the blow on his own sword with a chilling clash 
as -Pelmen had known he would. The fool skittered backward then, 
dodging the three swift swipes he knew would follow. That was a family 
technique that Dorlyth had ingrained in his son through constant 
practice. Pelmen had learned it directly from the source. 


Rosha stopped then, puzzled. He's expected to cleave the clown into 
quarters .. . 


"Come, come, my friend," Fallomar teased. "If you're the expert " 


Rosha charged again, and once more Pelmen ducked and scampered to his 
left. 


"You speak like a butterfly!" the fool shouted. "Can't sit down on a 
word and make it stickl" He said it mockingly, but he hoped Rosha would 
mark his words and not their tone. It was the echo of something 
Dorlyth had said to the lad the last time the three of them had been 
together. 


The hooded swordsman never paused. He whipped around and attacked in 
earnest, and the painted clown was hard pressed to keep from being 



diced. 


Pelmen was not a poor swordsman. In years past, he'd battled Dorlyth 
and survived no mean feat in itself and with a single, well-placed 
stroke had slain the legendary Vicia-Heinox. He could have killed or 
maimed Rosha a dozen times, given the handicap of the young man's 
blindness. But Fallomar the fool was not a swordsman and could not be 
allowed to appear one. Pelmen ignored one opportunity after another 
and suddenly found himself pinned into a corner. Rosha kept pressing, 
and their swords rang together three more times before a crashing blow 
knocked Pelmen's sword flying from his hands. The hooded warrior 
smiled as he heard it clatter away, then he shoved his pommel into the 
fool's gut, cracked it down on Pelmen's head, dropping him to the 
floor, and planted both his knees on the player's chest. He found the 
fool's neck by feel, then quickly swung the tip of his weapon into 
place. 


Pelmen stared up the length of a blade poised to slit his throat. 


CHAPTER NINE 


At Blade Point 


"WELL?" said Ligne. "Do it!" 


Rosha leaned back. "Kill him? I think not." 


"Why! He insulted you! Cut his throat!" Rosha stood up, allowing the 
fool to breathe. "Go ahead and kill him!" Ligne screamed. 


"No." 


The Queen stared at him. "Why not?" she demanded. 


"It j-j-just came to m-me. If this ma-ma-man be so honey-tongued, 
p-p-perhaps he could train me to sp-sp-speak." Rosha had greatly 
exaggerated his stutter and Pelmen sighed with relief. Sometime during 
the fight, Rosha had recognized his voice. Pelmen thanked the Power 
for the young man's quickness and good sense. "B-besides," Rosha 
continued, "he s-s-seemed to b-b-be amusing you." 


Ligne gazed at the grinning fool, a bit puzzled by this turn of events. 
But she was nothing if not capricious. She decided to be pleased. 
"Yes. Yes, he rather does amuse me." The Queen caught Carlad's eye 
and pointed to the sword Rosha still held loosely before him. The 
guard nodded and crept up behind to snatch it away. Surprisingly, 
Rosha offered no resistance. Once again, Ligne was puz The WizarJ tn 
zled. "You seem ... so docile, suddenly," she said. "Are you injured? 
111?" She seemed genuinely concerned. 


"I'm n-neither." 


"Perhaps the lad is ... winded," offered the fool from the floor. 


"Winded? B-b-by the likes of you?" Rosha snorted. "B-better thank 
your g-good fortune I d-d-didn't cut your wind altogether, funnyman. 
D-don't forget that I st-still could." 


"I won't! I won't!" Fallomar answered earnestly. 



Rosha turned sightlessly toward Ligne's voice. "My Lady, s-since you 
have this fool to entertain you, c-c-can I be allowed to lie down?" 


"Certainly, poor dear!" Ligne gushed, nodding permission to Carlad to 
take him away. "I'm afraid you might be sick!" 


"Only sick of you," he muttered. 


"What was that?" she asked. She really hadn't heard him. 


"N-nothing. P-perhaps you're right. Fool!" be bellowed. "Right 
here," said Fallomar, who had gotten to his knees. 


"I'll be expecting those lessons if the Queen permits?" "Of course I 
permit," Ligne assured him, "I think it's an excellent idea. But I 
want you to rest yourself today. I'm afraid this fighting has tired 
you .. ." Her hands fluttered in the manner of a mother who feels 
helpless to help. As Rosha and Carlad disappeared through the door, 
she turned and made her way back to sit on her throne. Pel-men watched 
as she leaned on an armrest and propped her chin on her hand. The 
young man's sudden change of mood perplexed her. 


"My lady, I appreciate the reprieve " "Don't thank me," she muttered. 
"Thank him." "I shall. And ... I will give him lessons in speech " 
"Leave him alone for now," Ligne growled. "Something's the matter with 
him." 


"Nothing, I trust, that couldn't be cured by a little light .. ." 


"What are you talking about?" 


"The ah leather helmet." 


Oh," Ligne said glumly, leaning back to gaze at the tnuraled ceiling. 
"I leave that on him because he wants to kill me." 


"Perhaps, if he could see you, he'd be less inclined to slay you." As 
he spoke, the fool frowned at Kherda and motioned him out of the throne 
room. The Prime Minister stared at him, affronted, until he realized 
the fool was trying to help him escape before Ligne remembered her fit 
of pique. Kherda scooped up his skirts and scooted out the door, 
nodding gratefully to the fool as he passed. Pelmen winked, then went 
on: "After all he could have killed you just now and he didn't" 


Ligne studied the mural high above her head with great attention. "You 
really think so?" 


"My Lady," the fool said, "I had an excellent vantage point." 


The woman's eyes drifted down from the ceiling to settle on the fool. 
"So you did." She thought for a moment then, chewing absently on a 
fingernail. "Say something funny," she suddenly ordered. 


"Something funny." 


"That's right." 


"I just did." 


"What?" 



"I said, "Something funny." And to some, it would have been." 
"What?" 
"Funny. But evidently not to you." 
"I said, say something to amuse me, not to confuse me," Ligne 


snarled. 
"Ah, yes. But, I ask myself what amuses the Queen. The pain of 


others, it would seem, just by observation. Perhaps I should fall on 
my face?" 
"Now that would be funny." Ligne smiled. 
"I thought as much." Fallomar smiled back. "People laugh at different 

things. So I will need to stay on my toes at all times remembering 
always that what would most amuse my Queen is watching those toes be 
pulled off." 


Ligne chuckled, then suddenly grew serious. "You know, I knew you were 
coming," she said with a dreamy, faraway look in her eyes. 


If her words stunned Pelmen and they did he didn't 


I4 The Wizard in Waiting show it. "How? You have a fortune teller 
stashed under your throne there?" 


"Close." She smirked mysteriously. 


For the second time that day, Pelmen felt a little dizzy from the 
shock. 


Though the winds were high, the blue-flyer that Jagd had dispatched 
wasted no time. Like every other bird of its species, it would not 
rest until it had accomplished the task that a human had assigned. 
Jagd's special attention to his protege's face meant that the bird 
would surrender its message to no one but Tahli-Damen a security 
precaution that Jagd intended to remind the young merchant of the next 
time they spoke. 


The journey took the bird all that day and into the morning of the 
next, but it did not rest until it saw below the five-turret 
arrangement that matched the picture Jagd had placed in its mind. 


The bird alighted on a broad cross painted in blue on the roof of one 
of the turrets. A handler stooped immediately to pick it up, but it 
eluded several attempts, and the handler soon realized this bird was 
intended for someone special. As Tahli-Damen was the highest ranking 
member of the family present, the bird handler started down the 
ulterior stairs to find him, and the bird hopped along behind from 
stair to stair. It was quite oblivious to the comic image it presented 
as the handler escorted it into Tahli-Damen's presence with a grin. The 
blue-flyer nonchalantly hopped onto Tahli-Damen's desk and extended its 
foot. As the promising young merchant untied the message bound to its 
leg, the blue-flyer dismissed the trip from its mind. It had 
accomplished its task. It had earned a good meal and a rest. 


"From Jagd?" asked a young woman standing by a window on the far side 



of the room. 


"That's right," Tahli-Damen replied, studying the page intently. Then 
he looked up. "He's not coming." 


"As we expected." She nodded and smiled furtively. "I can't say I'm 
disappointed. This will make you the ranking member of Uda's 
delegation!" 


"I appreciate your confidence in me, Wayleeth." He smiled grimly. "But 
I'm afraid I don't share it. I am too young to exercise any influence 
with the other houses, and I fear I won't have much more say with our 
own. He hides it well, but your father is still angry that I was 
promoted over him." 


"You deserved to be!" said Wayleeth. "I love my father dearly, as 
everyone knows. But everyone also knows that he's been a do-nothing 
supervisor, who's been outmaneuvered by Tohn mod Neelis ever since we 
were moved to Ngandib-Mar!" 


"Don't be unfair," Tahli-Damen scolded. "He was a good leader in 
Lamath. He couldn't help it if Jagd matched him against a man more 
Mari than merchant!" Tahli-Damen had cared little for Tohn mod Neelis. 
The man had very nearly cost him his life by not allowing him sanctuary 
in the midst of a battle. "Naturally Tohn did a better job of meeting 
Mari needs he knew the Mari mind as well as the Mari market. But he's 
gone now, and Flayh's as La-math ian as your father. We'll reestablish 
Uda's dominance here, and we may do it this month. In fact, I'm sure 
of it." 


Wayleeth's eyes glowed. "I'm sure of it too with you in charge." 


Tahli-Damen blushed and deflected the compliment with a brusque, "We 
need to be on our way. The conclave doesn't begin until tomorrow, but 
there will be informal preliminary negotiations in the halls and 
corridors tonight, and I don't intend for Uda to be ignored." He 
grabbed his scarlet cloak, slung it around his shoulders, and would 
have swept past her and out the door had she not caught him by the 
waist and pulled him around to face her. 


"Go well," she husked, "but return swiftly! You know there's nothing 
to do in this castle when you're gone!" She kissed him, and 
Tahli-Damen then charged out of the room, calling for his seconds and 
for his horse. 


About the time Jagd's messenger bird delivered its tiny epistle, Pelmen 
slipped away to the roof of the Imperial House to send one of his own. 
He'd spent the rest of the previous night amusing the Queen with 
perhaps too much success. She'd insisted on him spending this entire 
morning with her as well. Pelmen was learning that the best way to 
entertain Ligne was not to dazzle her with his own wit, but to appear 
dazzled by hers. It was his lot to laugh apprecia lively as she 
drilled barb after barb into the members of her court. Thus far, she'd 
seemed thoroughly pleased with his presence. If she had any idea of 
who he really was, she hadn't revealed it. Perhaps she hadn't seen the 
troupe perform enough in the past to be able to know him by sight 
Pelmen hoped that was the case. But there were many other courtiers 
who would recognize him so his face would keep its white coating. 


Pelmen waited in vain for Ligne to explain why she'd expected him. He 



didn't press the issue, and she seemed to forget about it. But her 
chance remark had created a powerful curiosity within him. He longed 
to be about his business, to get on to the dungeon and investigate it 
but she wouldn't let him loose. Only by pleading for time to take care 
of private matters had he won this small respite. 


He did not enter the hut where the platoons of blue-flyers gathered. He 
stopped a few feet behind it instead and gave a silent, mental 
summons. 


Here now! What are you doing? asked the Imperial House, for this 
soundless call, if not an actual act of shaping, was certainly prelude 
to one. 


In answer, several blue-feathered birds fluttered out the open roof of 
their crowded coop and landed on his shoulders and outstretched arms. 
Pelmen looked at each one of them in turn, then with a thought 
dismissed all but one. The chosen flyer hopped onto his palm, and its 
black eyes studied the clown intelligently. 


What cheek! Talking to birds, but ignoring the Imperial House. 


Pelmen could have sent a rolled note, as Jagd had done, but he had much 
to say, and security was essential. la-stead, he planted his message 
in the little bird's mind: 


"To Erri, the Prophet of Lamath. Hello, my friend. I am within the 
castle, as we'd planned hut events have conspired to obstruct me. I've 
not been able yet to check the dungeon there's a curious power here, 
quite unknown to me, that's inhibited my abilities somewhat. Bronwynn 
may yet be beneath me but, if so, her presence is a closely guarded 
secret. Worse news Rosha is here, and is a captive of the Queen." 


Here Pelmen paused, and briefly held a picture of the hooded Rosha in 
his mind. The blue-flyer looked at him curiously. Then Pelmen began 
forming mental sentences again: 


"As we guessed, this land is suffering from a lack of leadership. The 
Queen spends her time seeking diversion from her responsibilites, while 
the common people starve. In the wake of last year's crippling of the 
Golden Throng, there's a sense of defenselessness among the peasants. 
There is a void here that needs to be filled. And I need help. Send 
someone to me someone you trust. Don't dispatch a flyer I'd rather not 
arouse the suspicions of the Lord of Security any more than necessary. 
Send the one of your choice to 'a fool' in the Imperial House. One 
thing more where is Serphimera? Pelmen." 


Pelmen held the bird away from him and looked at it inquiringly. The 
flyer patiently awaited its directions. Once again, Pelmen held the 
bird close to his head and imagined a route of flight that would take 
the magical little creature due north across the peaks of the Spinal 
Range, over the desert in southern Lamath, past the lower river to the 
capital city itself. Then he imagined the layout of the city, the 
location of the old dungeon of the King, and a certain window of that 
dungeon. Erri had taken the place over and made it his new monastery. 
Pelmen imagined the tiny cell beyond that window Erri's office. 
Finally, he held in his mind an image of Erri's face and tossed the 
bird into the sky. In seconds, it had disappeared toward the north. 


He glanced around to see if he'd been noticed. No one was in sight, 



and he sighed with relief. 


Down here! Look down here! growled the Imperial House from its roof 
tiles. 


Pelmen happend to look at his feet. He was startled to see that the 
roof had suddenly become slick. "Has it rained?" he mumbled, glancing 
skyward. 


No, it has not rained! Would you pay attention? 


But Pelmen's thoughts had already travelled back downstairs, as he 
prepared himself for his next performance in the throne room. 


You will gain nothing by ignoring this House! the castle theatened, 
but it gave up when Pelmen turned to walk briskly into the aviary. One 
thing was clear this painted fool could shape, for dispatching a 
thought message by flyer demanded a confidence in one's mental 
abilities common only to power shapers But the castle grew more 
suspicious of this character with each day. Why such secretiveness? 
Why not openly display his abilities, and help the House? Was he in 
league with the hideous thief who had robbed the castle's dungeons? 


Why will you not reply!? 


Pelmen was trotting down the garden ramp when he chanced upon a sight 
he had to stop and look at. On a stone bench beside a beautiful 
fountain sat Gerrig, in ardent pursuit of a giggling lady of the court. 
He wore a costume so flagrantly colored and so incredibly tight that he 
most resembled a fat flamingo. Carnelian sequins glistened in the 
light, calling most unflattering attention to the actor's chubby 
backside. Pelmen chuckled. 


Gerrig wheeled angrily around to see who laughed. His face flushed 
when he saw Pelmen and, with words as immodestly passionate as the 
color of his pants, he begged his lady friend to excuse him 
momentarily. 


A peacock joined Pelmen on the walkway as Gerrig started toward him, 
and the fool leaned over and asked the bird, "Do you think those are 
sewn on, or painted on?" 


"Where have you been?" Gerrig demanded in a fierce whisper. "We had a 
rehearsal last night, and another this morning or do you think you're 
too good for rehearsals?" 


"Calm down, my friend. I've been entertaining the Queen." 


"Doesn't it matter to you that Ligne said you've been what?" 


"Entertaining the Queen." 


"Are you crazy?" Gerrig spat quietly. "What if she recognizes you?" 


"I've always wanted to be buried by a stream " 


"Be serious!" 


Pelmen grinned. "You're wearing that, and expect me to be serious?" 



"I thought you were avoiding the Queen!" 


"I'd intended to. But she seems to have taken a liking to me, so my 
services are in demand." 


"Doesn't she know you?" 


"Evidently not. Though I wouldn't be surprised to have Ligne play with 
me, as a cat plays with a mouse .. ." 


"I hope not for my sakel Listen, this Maythorm fellow is combing the 
castle for you. You've offended him, somehow " 


"Take care you don't steal his ladies." Pelmen winked, nodding toward 
the pouting woman on the bench. "Or he'll be after you instead." 


Gerrig glowered. "I try to help you, and all you do is joke!" 


"I'm a fool, remember?" 


"Yes, well, don't fool yourself into thinking you can perform without 
rehearsing even if you did write the play 


"I*m surprised you've had time to rehearse. How long did it take to 
stitch those onto you? Did a tailor do it, or a magician?" 


"Get out of here!" Gerrig bellowed, and his lady friend twisted around 
to stare at him. "Not you, my dear," he soothed, as he minced his way 
back toward the fountain. 


Pelmen looked down at the peacock, who watched the actor's retreat 
"Nothing to be alarmed about," the fool said. "He's broad in the tail, 
true, but nothing to compete with yours." As if in answer, the peacock 
fanned his feathers and stalked proudly away. 


Bronwynn paced along the battlements, gazing westward toward the 
sunset. Somehwere out there was Rosha. But where? Why hadn't he 
shown himself? Had he already forgotten her in all his feasting and 
honors, as Admon Faye sneered at least once every day? 


A cool breeze swept along the parapet, and she tugged her wrap tightly 
around her shoulders and hung her head. She could hear a dull roar 
issuing from the open door of the castle's central hall. Merchants had 
been arriving all day long from every direction, and the carnival 
atmosphere had driven her out into the twilight. The din the slavers 
normally set up at mealtimes had now multiplied into a head-splitting 
cacaphony. She'd run from the room in desperate need of some peace and 
quiet. 


It wasn't just the noise. The tension had been growing all afternoon 
as well. As every new contingent arrived at the gate, the rope of 
relationships tautened another notch. SmQes there were in abundance, 
and the jokes flowed around the tables as freely as the ale. But there 
was a chilling lack of humor to all this, and true good will seemed 
totally nonexistent. These men, whom Bronwynn had always supposed to 
be the best of friends because of the closeness of merchant cliques, 
were far from friendly. This assembly could be the most powerful force 
in the world, having far more impact on history than the grandest of 
her forefather's armies. It depressed her to discover that not one of 
these merchants seemed to have a friend only momentary allies. 



A lean dog had joined her on the walls, and it stood panting by her 
side, obviously begging her attention. She scratched its head absently 
and thought of the houses she had already seen represented here. 


The conclave certainly didn't lack for color. Besides the ever-present 
blue and lime of Flayh's own house of Og-nadzu, a sizable group wore 
purple and red, the symbolic garb of Uda. Harm was here, in their 
solid burnt-orange tunics, and so was Blez, the house of pink circles 
on a field of gray. The Elders of Wina had arrived the night before, 
and Bronwynn had quickly grown used to seeing their dark brown diamonds 
superimposed on a rainbow assortment of backgrounds. Wina was a young 
house, only a couple of centuries old. It had forged a reputation as 
being a house that cared for the common peasant, and its patriarch had 
been leery of establishing too sharp a distinction in dress between 
Wina's merchants and the people they served. 


And yet, for all the cheery colors and all the cheerful talk, there was 
not a single breath of honest cheer anywhere in the castle. Bronwynn 
could feel the oppressive weight of the tension even out here. A dark 
mood clung to her she couldn't shake it. As she stared up at the 
purpling sky a tear glistened on her cheek. "Poor old thing," she said 
to the dog. "I guess all those people in your hall drove you out, 
too." 


"Actually I came looking for you," said Flayh. 


Bronwynn jerked away, grabbing her chest to still her pounding heart. 
The bald power shaper gowned in red and white, stood where the dog had 
been. 


Bronwynn glared at him, then turned her back and clutched both arms 
across her chest. "I take it you weren't expecting me?" Flayh 
gloated. Bronwynn said nothing, and Flayh frowned. "You don't seem 
very impressed." 


"Terhaps because I've seen the trick before," Bronwynn snarled, "done 
much better, and not as a childish prank. Excuse me," she said, and 
she started past him for the stab's. 


Flayh was a small man, but his fingers had steel in them. He grabbed 
her arm, and she yelped and stood still. "I said I came looking for 
you." 


Owl" Bronwynn cried aloud. "Say your peace then, I'm listening, but 
let gol" 


Flayh released her arm, but gripped her eyes in his own. He challenged 
her will, drawing up the fear inside her as he'd attempted to summon 
Admon Faye's. Bronwynn gasped, robbed of breath. She was seized by a 
sudden terror that the sorcerer found quite appropriate. "Good. You 
will continue to fear me, Bronwynn. I like for people to fear me." 


His eyes were swallowing her! Bronwynn choked, and her legs trembled 
helplessly. 


"I've come to tell you why you're here, Bronwynn. Perhaps Admon Faye 
has already made it clear, but hear it again from my lips. I intend to 
make you a Queen my own Queen, to be precise. Do you understand?" 



Bronwynn nodded fearfully as she backed away from this creature who so 
terrified her. 


"Stand where you are!" Flayh ordered, and Bronwynn's sandals became 
one with the stone. "You've been chosen for this task only because it 
is expedient not because I feel you in any way suitable. I want 
nothing from you but obedience the obedience that proceeds from 
fear." 


"Yes .. . my Lord," Bronwynn muttered, amazed that she would say such 
words, yet too frightened to resist. 


"I assume you referred to Pelmen, when you belittled my power. I don't 
know what spells he possesses, or what beast is his alter-shape, but I 
can assure you: when we meet in open battle, it is I who shall walk 
away, and not he. Mention of Pelmen provokes me! Do you 
understand!" 


"Yes! Yes, I do!" the young woman choked out in a barely audible 
whisper. 


, "Very well then. You will accompany me to the hall. I want you 
present at each session, so that you'll know my policies when I place 
you on the throne." Flayh stepped closer and thrust his nose into 
Bronwynn's face. "I desire 


If4 


to control all the three lands, and this time neither Pelmen nor any 
other meddler will obstruct me. Come." Flayh spun around and 
descended the stairs, and Bronwynn found herself following him quite 
docily. It shocked her to realize how easily she'd broken under his 
eyes but he was, after all, a power shaper As they entered the 
brightly illuminated hall, she thought of something she'd heard Pelmen 
say months before: "Why is it that one who owns so much should want to 
control even more? It seems to me it would get boring .. ." 


"All I asked for was a single day off a single day! Just to celebrate 
my daughters birthday with her and perhaps go visit my brother down the 
river. What does he say? What he always says. "No chance, Carlad. 
Get back to your post." Now what do you think of that!" 


Rosha didn't respond. He just rolled his hooded head away and leaned 
against the wall behind him. 


"That's what I thought, too!" Carlad snarled. "Wouldn't even take it 
up with the General! Never gave it a chance. So, here I am, chained 
up inside this tower " 


"Wait a minute," Rosha interrupted. "For your information, I'm the 
prisoner here, Carlad, not you." 


"Oh yeah? Well, has it ever occurred to you that I'm just as much 
chained to you as you are to me? Hunh? Has it?" 


"How could I help it, Carlad, since you remind me of that every single 
day? Usually when you're complaining about youLsergeant." 


"You'd complain, too, if he was your sergeant!" 



"I think I've got plenty to complain about," Rosha grumbled. 
"Yeah, yeah, just because you're a prisoner here, you think you've got 


it rough. You get the best off the table, don't have to work, you got 
that gorgeous Queen pawing you all day .. . real hard duty!" 
"I don't see you wearing a leather hood, Carlad,** Rosha said 


quietly. 
"You don't see me wearing .. ." That suddenly struck the guard as 


funny, and he cackled. "No, I guess you don't see me wearing one, do 
you!" He laughed again, and Rosha joined in. 
"Nor do I see this gorgeous Queen you keep raving about." The warrior 


smiled ruefully. 


Carlad looked at his prisoner a moment, mulling over something. "Why 
is it you only stutter when you're around her?" 
Rosha's smile turned grim. "Why is it you never seem to hear your 


sergeant unless he's in the room with you?" 


Carlad chuckled and leaned back against the wall beside Rosha. "That's 
what I thought." 
"Carlad?" Rosha asked. "Take it off?" 
The guard licked his lips and looked over at the repulsive headgear. 


His fingers twitched. "No," he grunted suddenly. "Orders not to." 
"Carlad," Rosha pleaded. "Come on." 
"What if my sergeant comes in?" 
"You can tell him I overpowered you." Rosha grinned. 
There was a knock at the door. "You see?" Carlad argued. "I bet 


that's him now!" 


"No, it's probably the Queen, wanting me to come strut through the 
throne room." 
It was neither. The white-faced fool popped his head inside. "Can I 


come in?" 
"Certainly," Rosha called. "C-c-come on in, c-clown." 
Carlad looked at his smiling charge, and hid his own snicker. 
"I've come to give you a lesson." 
MW-w-wonderful. I'm ready t-t-to d-d-do m-m-m-my b-best." 
Carlad groaned, and the fool looked over at him. "What's wrong?" 


Fallomar asked. The guard shook his head, and waved off the 


question. 
"C-c-can you r-r-really m-make m-me t-t-talk like a m-member of the 
c-c-c-c " 



Carlad groaned again, more loudly, and once again Fallomar looked over 
at him. "Are you ill?" 


"Yes, C-a-car lad are you s-s-s-s " 
"Am I really going to have to sit and listen to this?" the guard 
demanded of Rosha. 


"Why, whatever d-d-do you m-m-m " 


"Come on!" Carlad pleaded, and he leaned against the wall and shrugged 
at the fool. "He's trying to drive me crazy!" 
"Who c-c-could t-t-tell?" 
"You see?" the guard asked Fallomar. 
"You know, you c-c-could always eh-chain me to this c-c-c-c " 
"Chain you to the clown, yeah, yeah," Carlad sighed. "Then in walks my 


sergeant, and what does he say?" 
"P-probably couldn't tell the difference' Rosha cackled. 
"All right. All right. I've had enough of this," Carlad announced, 


fighting a laugh of his own. 


"Why don't you chain me to him?" asked the fool. "You could lock the 
door from the outside and take a break " 
"I can't believe you!" Carlad shouted, staring at Fallomar in 


surprise. "Yesterday this man was trying to kill you, and you want to 


be chained to him?" 
The fool gazed at him a moment, then raised his eyebrows. "Good point. 
But ah he could have, and didn't." 


"That doesn't mean he won't! Listen, I've been around this fellow long 


enough to know, and believe me " 
"C-come on, C-car lad Leave m-m-me with him!" Rosha smiled a tight, 
treacherous smile, clearly visible to the guard under the edge of his 
hood. "Just for a few moments .. ." 


Carlad looked at Rosha, then at the fool, then turned his face away to 
smirk at the wall. That was it! Rosha had changed his mind, and 
wanted a couple of minutes with this white-faced idiot in private. 
"That's why the speech lessons," he murmured in Rosha's ear. 


"That's right .. ." Rosha whispered back. 


"What? What's that you're talking about?" asked Fallomar, feigning 
ignorance. 
"Well, I don't imagine it would hurt to leave for just a little while." 


Carlad smiled. "Wouldn't hurt me, anyway .. ." 
"Fine Carlad, then get I'm-m-mean, g-g-g-go ahead .. ." 
The guard stifled his chuckle as he unlocked his own waist shackle and 



fastened it around the fool's hips. "Have fun," he said as he skipped 


out the door and locked it behind him. 
They were silent for a moment, leaning together against the wall. 
Pelmen broke it. 


"Great performance. Want to join an acting troupe?" 


"Any chance we could get out right now?" 


"Not much. Not since we're chained together and locked inside as 


well." 


"Keep your voice low," Rosha advised. "Carlad says there are secret 
passageways all through this place." 
"He's right, but at the moment Joss is still somewhere north of the 


city, and I left Ligne at the Drax table." 
"Ligne!" Rosha spat. 
"A devious woman." Pelmen nodded. 
"Would you get this thing off my head?" Rosha pleaded, and in minutes 


the leather hood was unbuckled and tossed onto the floor. Rosha 


squinted at the glare, even though the room was lighted only by a 


single torch. 


"Feel better?" Pelmen asked after a moment. 


"Much. So when do we get out of here?" 


That depends." 


"On what?" 


"On where Bronwynn is, for one thing." 


"Bronwynn! Where is she?" 


"If I knew that, I might be able to plan better! I don't." 


"She's not dead .. ." Rosha asked uncertainly. 


"We'll hope not. No, I fear she's in the dungeon below us." 


Rosha stared at him. "Ligne's said nothing to " 


"But she wouldn't be likely to, either. Would she?" 


"I'd expect her to kill Bronwynn, not imprison her." 


"That's a possibility." Pelmen sighed. "But, we don't know. I'd like 


to search the dungeon." 


She's not there, announced the Imperial House. Nobody listened. Nobody 
ever listened. It went back to cursing a green-jay. 
"How do you intend to do that, since you Ve become such a close friend 


of the Queen?" 



"I'm going to depend on you to distract her." 
"Me?" Rosha asked. "How am I going to distract the old witch?" 
"By pretending you like her." 
There was a brief pause before the explosion. "What!" the young 


warrior screamed. Carlad, outside the door, chuckled to himself, 


imagining it to be the fool's death cry. 
"Somehow, I expected that would be your reaction .. ." Pelmen 
sighed. 


The WiaarJ in Waiting 
"Ask something else, anything, but don't ask me to do that!" 
"Not even to provide rescue for your Lady?" 
"We don't even know she's in the dungeon!" 
"And if she is?" 
Rosha's pained expression reflected the battle going on inside him. 


"Come, Pelmen, don't " 


"Fallomar," the fool broke in quickly. "I am always Fallomar. Remember 
it." 
"Got it." Rosha sighed, then he leaned back against the wall and shook 


his head. "I don't know if I can," he mumbled. 


"Stiffen up, mod Dorlyth," Pelmen said quietly. "Being a hero demands 
many kinds of courage." 
"Oh, but you don't know that woman!" Rosha groaned. 
"I'm coming to know her better and better," Pelmen whispered harshly. 


"And learning to loathe her more. Time, Rosha. I need time to go 
below." 


Rosha sighed. "I'll .. . try." 
"And keep up that stutter in her presence perhaps it will discourage 
her." 


"That's simple enough. When she gets too close, it comes back on its 
own." 


Carlad pounded on the door. "Rosha! You finished with him yet?" 
"Ah hold on!" Rosha called. "What about the hood?" he asked 
Pelmen. 


"You want it back on?" 
"Are you joking?" 
"Then I'll take it with me. Wear it into Ligne's presence and tell her 



I stole it from you to get her attention. With you warming up to her, 
she'll not put it back on you." 


"I don't know how I can .. ." 


"Duck your head, and call the guard back." 


"Carlad!" Rosha called, and the guard came back into the room, 
grinning. He stopped when he saw the fool's face still intact. 


"Come on, man, set me free!" Fallomar ordered as he jumped to his feet 
and stretched the chain to its full length. 


"I expected " 


"I know what you expected, but I talked him out of it! Now, get me 
loose before be changes his mind!" 


"Just as well," Carlad mumbled as he rushed to unlock the shackle. He 
didn't want his sergeant walking in while the exchange was taking 
place. "Would have been difficult to explain." 


Fallomar stayed to help Carlad chain himself back in. Then he skipped 
toward the door, pausing only to scoop the hood up off the floor before 
dashing out 


"Hunh?" Carlad shouted. He twisted around to look Rosha full in the 
face for the first time. 


"So that's what you look like," the young warrior smiled at the 
astonished guard. 


He's got your hood!" Carlad shouted, and he bolted toward the door. 


This time it was Rosha's turn to pull the chain up short 


CHAPTER TEN 


Into the Bowels 


THE NEXT DAY began strangely. Ligne did not appear at breakfast. When 
Rosha didn't either, Pelmen became alarmed. Brushing aside Yona 
Panni's questions, he left the table and began questioning various 
friendly servants he found seated near him. A few quick conversations 
relived him. General Joss had returned late the night before, Pelmen 
was told, and Joss and the Queen were said to be locked in critical 
conversations behind closed doors. Since she hadn't summoned Rosha, 
the warrior had chosen to take breakfast in his room. Pelmen felt sure 
he knew why Rosha would delay as long as possible revealing his hood 
less condition. 


A few minutes after breakfast, the fool appeared outside the throne 
room door. "The Queen won't see you!" a guard announced, blocking the 
entrance with his pikestaff. Pel-men recognized the man as one who'd 
been on duty two days before, when he'd made his unannounced entry into 
the Queen's presence. Obviously, the fellow was determined not to 
allow it to happen again. 


"Something wrong?" 



"That's no concern of mine or yours. Move along!" 


Pelmen wasted no time in obeying those instructions. He made his way 
swiftly to the kitchen. For the last two mornings he'd arisen early to 
cultivate a friendship with the cook. He hoped to make that friendship 
pay off the path to the dungeon led right through the kitchen. 


"Ho, fool!" the cook cried cheerily when he saw the painted clown come 
down the steps. "You're back quick today!" 


"The Queen's grown tired of my company. I hope you've not?" 


"No, indeed!" The man smiled, showing his toothless gums the result, 
he'd explained to Fallomar, of sampling too many pies in his youth. 
"This is a time I can enjoy you. Breakfast's over, and it'll be a 
while before we begin dinner in earnest though I do have a few treats 
in the oven." The cook slapped the stonework lip of the cistern that 
held the castle's water supply. "Sit down. Talk to me." 


Tve little to say this morning. I fear this fool has had his fill of 
fooling for a time." 


The cook nodded. "I get tired of my own cooking some-tunes. You've no 
need to entertain me." 


"Ah but I hope you'll not stop feeding me?" 


The cook snickered, and slapped Fallomar on the back. "Don't you 
worry. In fact, I may have something for you to nibble on now. Let me 
check my ovens." The man walked to the far side of the giant kitchen 
where stood the rows of rounded ovens. 


"There you are!" Pelmen heard someone shout behind him, and he whipped 
around to see Maythorm plunging toward him. 


"Oh, no." He sighed. 


"Playing up to the Queen, aren't you' Maythorm shouted, shaking his 
finger. "Trying to make me appear incompetent!" 


"Maythorm, you really don't need my help for that " 


"What are you doing here?" the cook roared, and Pel-men turned in time 
to see him set a steaming dessert on the cutting block and seize a meat 
cleaver imbedded in the wood beside it. The cook started forward. 


Maythorm stopped his own charge and regarded the on-coming cook with 
some alarm. The man was twice his size and frowning nastily. "I ... I 
have no quarrel with you." 


"But I have one with you! There's the little matter of my 


Th in Waiting niece!" The cook was picking up speed. With his head 
lowered and his ample belly flopping, the cook strongly resembled a 
charging tugolith, Pelmen thought. 


Maythorm proved himself quite nimble. He vaulted a table, putting it 
between himself and his attacker, and cried in a high-pitched shriek, 
"Who is your niece?" 



It was the wrong thing to say. The cook stopped and stared, his eyes 
bulging with rage. "You mean you don't even know?" the cook bellowed. 
He started over the top of the table. Maythorm raced for an exit any 
exit. "You come into my kitchen again, and I'll drop you down the 
cistern!" 


Maythorm was gone. 


The cook grinned toothlessly at his painted friend. "Moves quick, 
doesn't he?" 


Pelmen's eyes twinkled. "I'd heard he was fast with the ladies. Seems 
he's rather swift of foot as well. Ligne ought to send him to the 
Merchants' Games next year." 


"If the Queen would send me and my cleaver as well, we'd be sure to 
win," the cook cackled. 


Fallomar smiled, then looked down into the dank darkness behind him. A 
cold draft blew up from the cistern's depths. "Would you really drop 
him in?" he asked. 


"Not likely," the cook muttered, brandishing his famous cleaver and 
slashing it through a chunk of red meat. "Not unless I wanted to 
follow him down it. The Queen would probably drop me in after him, and 
you'd hear nothing of either of us again." 


"It's just a well, isn't it?" 


"Not exactly. It's a reservoir, carved out of the rock. It's fed by 
the river, when the water's high. Spills through an iron grating on 
the south wall." The cook slammed his cleaver into the cutting board, 
and it quivered there as he went on: "It's poor water, believe me. All 
the filth of upper Chaomonous spills through that grillwork. We have 
to boil every bucket we raisel" 


"It's safe though," Pelmen muttered to himself; then, when the cook 
gave him a puzzled look, he explained, "I mean secure for the Imperial 
House. I assume no one could get through the grate?" 


"Who'd want to?" the cook snorted. "No. Not big enough. So there'd 
be water enough to last out any siege. 


Though whoever would be fool enough to lay siege to this fortress would 
be a fool indeed. Oh, no offense intended," the heavy man added, in 
deference to Fallomar's profession. 


"And none " Fallomar cut himself short when he saw Ligne bolt rather 
furtively from the door the steward had just exited. She hurried 
through the kitchen and down another corridor. She held her cloak 
around her as if that might hide her identity from the very people 
whose jobs demanded they watch her every move. "There's the Queen," he 
announced to the cook. "I think I'll go amuse her." He got up. 


"I wouldn't," the cook warned, raising his heavy brow. 


"That's why you're the cook and I'm the fool!" 


"What if she's not amused?" 



"Then come visit me occasionally. And bring a pie." 


"Be careful!" the cook called as Fallomar danced down the hall. 


Ligne had already turned in through the dungeon door. That was good. 
He hoped to bluff his way past the guards, but it would only succeed if 
she were out of earshot, on her way into the lower depths. He paused 
briefly outside the door, then plunged in. 


As with every dungeon he'd ever visited, the initial impact was more 
olfactory than anything else. A rank stench hit him with suffocating 
force, stopping him in the doorway. He forced himself forward. 


"Ho, fool, what goes?" a warder called out of the fetid shadows. "I've 
been expecting you, to be sure, for hardly a fool comes into this court 
who doesn't finally join us here. But I expected you to come in chains 
and under guard not by yourself!" 


Fallomar chuckled. "I came early to inspect the rooms. I wanted to 
reserve a good one before they're all taken! Did the Queen pass 
through here?" He started to circle the guard, but there was the ching 
of metal striking stone, and he found his way blocked by a pikestaff. 


"Stop!" the guard snapped. His voice softened immediately as he 
continued with concern, "Where do you think you're going?" 


"Why, to prison, of course," Fallomar offered. 


"And that quickly, unless you give me a reason for this!" 


Tbt "Wizard i Waiting 


The guard leaned toward him. "Hear me. Quit your fooling and take 
yourself somewhere else. This is no place for you, especially not 
now." 


"Why should now be different?" the jester inquired, shrugging 
elaborately. "It always seemed to me that dungeons were ever awful. 
Are some hours more bitter than others?" 


"The Queen is within," the guard whispered, and Fallo-mar reacted with 
shock. 


"You mean, she's sent herself to jail?" 


The guard laughed at that, and Pelmen took advantage of his laughter to 
try again to get past him. He stopped when the business end of the 
pike was leveled at his nose. "You halt!" the guard roared, and 
Fallomar did just that 


"I ... just thought .. ." he began lamely, and the guard slipped the 
pike under his left arm and slung him toward the door. He crashed 
against the masonry and down to the floor. The guard became 
solicitous. 


"Did I hurt you?" he asked with sincerity. 


"Only my backside," Pelmen answered honestly, "and it quickly heals .. 
." 



"Then take it out of here!" the guard ordered. 


"But I only wanted to amuse the Queen! I know many humorous tales 
about dungeons and I thought this the perfect venue " 


"Shut up!" the guard ordered. Pelmen responded to the authority in 
the man's voice. He shut up. "How many times must I tell you, clown, 


that this is not the time?" He said this quietly, but with great 
force. 
"Then another time " 
"Hush! No. No other time. No one enters this dungeon without 

authorization either from Queen Ligne or the Lord Joss. Anyone who 
succeeds in entering it otherwise will never get out do you understand 
me?" 


"But I only .. ." 


"Quiet! By my orders you should be in a cell already, for attempting 
unlawful entry. Get out of here before she returns and makes me keep 
you!" 


"If you could tell me why " 


The guard sighed in exasperation and lowered his voice into nothing 
more than a whisper. "Security is incredibly tight. Ever since the 
Princess " The guard slammed his mouth shut, then cursed. The deadly 
look in his eyes, though only dimly perceived in this foul gloom, 
convinced Pelmen it was time to retreat. He bolted up off his knees 
and out the door into the corridor. He didn't stop running until he'd 
reached the safety of the kitchen. 


Once again into its safe, well-lighted expanse, Pelmen leaned against 
the wall to catch his breath and ponder his options. The guard had let 
slip "the Princess " ... so Bronwynn was an occupant of the dungeon. In 
the choking silence of the catacombs, somewhere below his feet, Rosha's 
lady lay in chains. What other explanation fit the facts he'd 
uncovered? Pelmen imagined the treatment she surely must be receiving 
from the jealous Queen's hand perhaps this moment and his jaw clenched. 
Was there no way to get to her? 


"I thought you'd be back in short order," the cook said. "The Queen is 
very particular about who visits her dungeons and who don't." 


Pelmen turned around to watch as the cook dropped sliced olives and 
cashew nuts atop a curious looking culinary concoction. "Who feeds 
them?" 


"What?" 


"The prisoners. How are they fed?" 


The cook shook his head. "I've got no idea. All I know is, we never 
have any leftovers. The Lord Joss has all leftovers collected off the 
trenchers before they even come out of the great hall of washing. 
That's all the more I know about it" The cook sauntered toward the bank 
of ovens on the far wall and shoved his creation into one of them. "If 
you'll pardon me, Fallomar, your interest in the doings below us seems 
quite unhealthy to me. Are you planning an act that might land you 



there? It's not that infrequent for fools, you know .. ." 


"So the guard informed me." 


"But it used to be, with Talith on the throne, that the old man's 
temper would subside after a time, and folks would be let out Since 
this Queen's come to power, I've seen a lot , of souls go below but not 
a one's come up again." 


Pelmen spun the possibilities in his mind, hoping that the random swirl 
of ideas might produce some new, unconsidered option. "You say the 
dungeon stretches below us here?" 


The cook frowned at Pelmen and held that frown on his features as he 
took a steaming pie from another of the ovens. The kitchen filled 
instantly with its delicious aroma. "Do like me, Fallomar. I forget 
it's there." The culinary expert turned away then and walked slowly 
toward the pantry in the back end of the kitchen. It was nearly time 
for his servants to begin arriving, to start preparing the midday meal. 
The cook felt sure that Ligne had at least one spy, maybe two, 
scattered through his host of helpers. He hoped to discourage the 
clown from any further inquiries into the matter. 


Pelmen's eyes cast around the kitchen in desperation. They fell on the 
low stonework wall that formed the lip of the cistern. It wasn't 
twenty feet from where he was standing. If the dungeon stretched 
directly below them .. . 


When the cook came out of the pantry, Fallomar was gone. "Good," the 
cook muttered to himself. "He's decided to keep himself out of 
trouble." 


Jagd usually had a dozen cloaks in his closet, all of them either solid 
purple or solid red. At the moment, however, his closet was empty. His 
guest rooom in the royal quarter of the castle resembled wash day at 
the laundry, for he had hung all his cloaks on the walls, on a dozen 
strategically placed pegs. He hoisted the last one into place and 
stepped back to look. It appeared that all textured surfaces were 
covered. Since spy holes normally were hidden in the textured panels 
to prevent discovery, and the only wall space now visible to him was 
smoothly plastered, he felt relatively safe. He did not know if secret 
passages circled his room, but he always assumed their presence in a 
castle of this age. Ligne could attempt to spy if she liked all she 
would see would be darkness. 


He doused the oil lamp that sat on the ornate table beside his bed, 
then set it on the floor. Then he pulled a heavy chest out from under 
the bed. He found its buckles by feel rather than sight. The latches 
sprang open in his hands like living things, and he opened up the 
chest. 


The precious object inside glowed dimly. He pulled it out and set in 
on the table before him. As he peered into its glassy face, the 
strange blue light within it fanned into a new, brighter life. This 
was one of three very precious crystal pyramids possessed by members of 
the Council of Elders. Used together, they permitted instant 
communication between three members of the Council, wherever in the 
world they might be. While Jagd valued it as a complex machine of very 
fine craftsmanship, he had yet to recognize it for the awesome magic 
tool it really was. 



"I see you've finally deigned to join us." That voice, mediated by the 
pyramid, made Jagd wince in irritation. It belonged to Flayh, who 
possessed the second of the three objects. 


"I must be careful Jagd replied sarcastically, peering into the 
crystal's depths. "Remember I'm no longer free to live in my own 
house, since certain persons seem disposed to try to assassinate me." 


"So you've said," Flayh answered. As the parties each concentrated on 
the objects before them, the link between the three grew more stable. 
Jagd could now see Flayh's sneering face on the inner left-hand facet 
of his pyramid. On the right-hand facet he saw the sluggish, dull 
features of Flayh's obese nephew, Pezi. "I called a meeting of the 
Council, Jagd, in part to deal with your problem. I fear your absence 
will mean that problem gets very little attention." 


"I do appreciate your consideration," Jagd replied snidery, "but 
perhaps that's the best I could hope for. Had I attended, I'm sure the 
problem would already have been resolved much to your satisfaction." 


"Whatever do you mean by that, Jagd?" Flayh asked with pretended 
civility. 


"It would have been finished in Dragonsgate, with me OB the sharp end 
of a slaver's sword. Thank you, Flayh, but I'll find my own 
solution." 


You hurt me deeply," Flayh mocked. "Such accusations .. ." 


Can we drop the pretense and get on to business? I notice your fat 
puppet is there beside you still " - "What do you mean puppet!" Pezi 
barked. "I'm no " "Shut up, Pezi," Flayh growled, and Pezi obeyed 
without question. "Of course Pezi is here. He is the owner of the 
Jtfaird pyramid." 


"The pyramids belong to the leaders of the Council, as 3U well know!" 
Jagd exploded. "When we first put them to use it was resolved that 
each should be held in trust by the most influential merchant in a 
land! You've broken the framework of their usage twice now, first by 
stealing the Lamathian pyramid and carrying it into Ngandib-Mar, and 
now by entrusting the pyramid of Tohn mod Neelis into the pudgy hands 
of this pasty-faced glutton! Do you dare contend that this overweight 
marionette is the most influential merchant among the Maris?" 


"I'm no marion !" 


"I said shut up, Pezi!" Flayh said again, and Pezt bit his lip and 
sulked into the pyramid. "Are you quite finished?" Flayh asked Jagd. 
"For if you are, let me inform you that the pyramid has merely been 
entrusted to Pezi for safekeeping until the conclave begins tomorrow 
morning. The issue was to be high on the agenda." 


"Was to be?" Jagd snorted. 


"Of course, with your absence, you certainly wouldn't care to have it 
brought up in Council. Certainly your forces would find themselves 
outvoted " 


Jagd's sharp, derisive laughter cut Flayh off. "You larcenous liar!" 



he shouted. "You would never bring these devices up on the floor, for 
fear of losing your own! But I can guarantee, Flayh, the pyramid issue 
will be brought up!" 


Flayh's gaze grew cold. "Then I can only assume you have broken the 
terms of your possession as well, by revealing it to someone outside 
the circle!" 


"Yes, I have," Jagd cackled, "and we shall see how the Council as a 
whole reacts to your usurping of extraordinary powers!" 


"I'll show you extraordinary powers!" Flayh shrilled, and his eyes 
bored into Jagd's. The merchant of Uda felt as if hot stakes were 
being driven into his skull. He tossed up his hands to block that 
penetrating gaze and suddenly realized he was screaming. He was 
marginally aware of Pezi shouting, "Uncle! Uncle, stop!" as well as 
of that mysterious clanging of bells that periodically disturbed the 
quiet of the Imperial House. 


Jagd screeched; "I'll force the issue to the floor despite you!" Then 
he rolled backwards on his bed and away from the pyramid, effectively 
breaking the link and freeing his mind from the blood-chilling cruelty 
of Flayh's eyes. 


The "Wizard fa Waiting 


The object dimmed to its original soft shimmer. No longer were the 
faces of the other two merchants visible in its facets. Jagd knew from 
experience that he, too, would be glowing with that quiet blue radiance 
for a while, and that to rush out into the hall was to court unwanted 
stares and difficult questions. Someone pounded on his door and 
called, "Are you all right in there? Did you ring for service?" 


"Go away!" he managed to shout, and the pounding stopped. He could 
hear the ringing continue throughout the castle and shook his head at 
the imponderable mystery of it But the noise was only one of a host of 
mysteries that plagued Jagd and was of minimal importance compared to 
the shock and terror he felt now. His worst fears had been 
confirmed. 


"Tahli-Damen," he muttered, "your budding talent is about to meet its 
stiffest test. I hope you're equal to it, lad. For somehow, old Flayh 
has made himself a power shaper 


What pain! What utter, agonizing pain! groaned the Imperial House, 
and it swore mightily through its bells. It gasped, and its foundation 
stones ground together. Candles guttered, torches flared, and wind 
whistled in the corridors. 


A bit ostentatious, perhaps, for an attack of gastritus. But pain is 
pain, and this castle had never subscribed to a stoic philosophy. It 
reacted violently to the events taking place in the room of the little 
red-clad merchant 


Pest! the Imperial House shouted at Jagd. Vermin! it shouted again. 
But, like all its other stupid occupants, this one didn't understand. 
He just lay on his bed and sparkled like a luminous fish! And every 
shimmer radiated more of that searing energy, the substance from which 
magic was drawn the substance that burned the castle's insides! 



And there's no mouth to belch! screamed the House. It was no stranger 
to magic. Indeed, the House held more remembered spells locked in the 
patterns of its stonework than any being existent, it felt sure. But 
so much magic concentrated in one room, with no path of escape! 
Excruciating! 


At least open the door! the House pleaded. Just to dissipate it a bit 
will help! But like a gasping sturgeon, the merchant lay on his back 
and glistened. 


Not even eyes to weep! moaned the anguished castle, and it turned its 
attention away from this insensitive knave to the one it had been 
watching for days. Though arrayed as a fool, this man showed a wisdom 
and sensitivity the House hadn't seen in a millennium. Perhaps this 
one could dissipate the magic, and bring some relief! 


// he survives his fall, that is. 


Pelmen's survival was very much in question. It hadn't occurred to him 
to wonder if there might be something in the subterranean cistern until 
he was plunging through the darkness into it. He had only time for the 
thought Then his heel struck the water, and he was under. Immediately 
he churned for the surface, totally blind in the pitch black cavern. He 
gasped for breath as his head popped out, his heart pounding loudly. He 
thanked the Power he was still alive. 


It struck him a moment later that his thanksgiving was a bit premature. 
He felt something grip his leg, and he was under water once again. He 
kicked at the thing with his free foot, but with little result. The 
water dragged on his leg as he swung it, robbing his kick of any force. 
He squeezed his lips and eyes tight, holding onto his air as he sought 
once again to kick the terrifying thing that had gripped him. Success! 
He fought to the surface, a maelstrom of Bailing legs and arms. He 
jerked the air into his lungs but again the force grabbed him and dove 
for the bottom! What was it? And what was it doing in the cistern? 


Actually, it was nothing more than a dumb fish. But it was a big dumb 
fish. The grating was far too small to permit the access of a monster 
like this. But when it had entered the cavern beneath the castle, it 
hadn't been a monster just a man-wise denizen of the river, who found 
the cavern's cool, quiet pool preferable to the currents of the busy 
waterway. Other fish had found the grate as well, and these it had 
eaten, along with the ever-present garbage that floated on the surface. 
And after a time, it had grown too big to pass out the grate and into 
the main stream. Much too big. It was now much, much bigger. 


Pelmen kicked again a fruitless move, since he'd tried it twice 
already, and the fish now expected it. The scaly beast gulped as 
Pelmen kicked at it, and Pelmen's other foot wound up inside its 
mouth. 


Panic seized him. He clenched his fists, bent at the waist, and tried 
pounding on the dull beast's spiky skull. The fish gulped again, and 
Pelmen realized he would soon be swallowed. In a rage born of terror, 
Pelmen extended his arm and bubbled some words toward the surface. For 
the briefest of instants, a ball of fire burned underwater! But it 
doused immediately. What was a power shaper to do? 


"I am a power shaper Pelmen encouraged himself, but little 
encouragement came. "And about to be a drowned one!" As his lungs 



clenched in a mute scream for air, Pel-men invoked the Power. And the 
Power aided him. 


Heir said the Imperial House with a jolt. Everyone in the castle felt 
its shock as a slight tremor. A number of wild-eyed servants wandered 
far from their tasks the afternoon had taken on an apocalyptic 
character. 


A power shaper again! the castle crowed gleefully. A door slammed in 
the Hall of War, and Lord Joss put the soldiery on alert 


It's boiled carp for dinner than, chuckled the Imperial House, and 
though it burned it put its knowledge to work. 


Pelmen had fought the temptation far too long. He prepared to yield to 
the pressure of the deep. Suddenly, however, they were hurtling for 
the surface, and in much faster time than Pelmen had managed earlier! 
Fish and fool broke the surface together and continued into the air a 
giant leap into a cavern filled with steam. Pelmen's legs came free in 
midair, and he plunged toward the water, rejoicing. His joy turned to 
screams, however, when he struck with a scalding splash. The water 
around him frothed and bubbled. Apparently, he was not only going to 
be eaten he was to be cooked first! 


Pelmen's reaction came purely by intuition. His hands shot into the 
ahv and a rush of wind blew in through the grating and tore him bodily 
from the water. He rode a raging whirlwind through the blackness of 
the grotto, until good sense convinced him that a light was needed, and 
a ball of fire burst into existence above his outstretched palm. 


His eyes scanned the walls in panic, looking desperately for a cleft or 
prominence, something he could cling to when the wind died, as he knew 
it must in a moment. Already it was dropping him toward the boiling 
water again, and he could only sustain it 


There! A hole in the wall. He sailed through it and skidded along the 
uneven floor, scraping his already raw body. He gasped, exhausted. He 
had expended tremendous resources in those brief, bleak moments of 
terror. Now he slept. 


Behind him, in the pool, the giant fish continued to leap and struggle 
in the boiling froth, until at last it was forced to yield up its long 
life and die. 


Someone in the kitchen, passing by the cistern, sniffed twice, then 
called across the large room to the cook: "I thought we were roasting a 
pig today! Why is it I keep smelling fish?" 


CHAPTER ELEVEN 


A Chaotic Council 


BRONWYNN FOLLOWED AD MON FAVE into the central hall of Tohn's castle 
and took a seat beside him. They sat on the dais, as befitted honored 
guests of the meeting, but not at the head^ table itself. It was 
reserved for members of the ruling Council alone the foremost merchant 
of each house, plus the leader of the dominant house in each land. For 
many years that had meant that the house of Ognadzu had seated two 
representatives at the head table. Flayh had represented the blue and 
lime both as chief Elder and as the most influential merchant in 



Lamath. Tohn mod Neelis had also been seated, for his expertise in Man 
culture had thrust his house far above all competing houses in 
Ngandib-Mar. But Tohn was dead now, and though his noninvolvement in 
the recent Mari-Chaon war had won many new friends for Ognadzu in the 
Mar, its supremacy was far from unchallenged. There was much 
consternation, then, when Flayh took his central seat at the ruling 
table and Pezi, smiling sheepishly, took the seat on Flayh's right hand 
that had been Tohn's. The muttering that swept through the lower level 
of the hall forecast a stormy meeting, but no one had ever expected it 
to be peaceful. A major power shift was shaping up, and the fever of 
politics had infected the host of younger merchants who now attended a 
conclave for the first time. 


Another storm of whispers issued when an obviously youthful merchant in 
purple and red strode purposefully to the dais and took the seat on 
Flayh's left as if he owned it. Flayh had been waiting for a hush to 
settle on the crowd before starting the session. That hush fell 
quickly when he turned to address Tahli-Damen sharply: 


"What do you think you're doing? Go to your place!" He pointed a 
long, bony finger at the rows of tables on the floor, where the lesser 
members of the families sat by houses, ranked according to their 
influence. 


"This is my place," Tahli-Damen replied evenly, and those nearest to 
the dais the older members -gasped at his brazenness. "I am 
representing the house of Uda in Chaomonous I think it's no secret 
which house is dominant in the Golden Land." 


"Nor is it any secret who is the leader of that house!" Flayh snarled. 
"That he refused to come is his own business! He's forfeited his voice 
thereby, and he knows it!" 


"He refused to come because you ordered his assassination!" Tahli-Damen 
shot back, and all the merchants present roared in shock not because it 
wasn't true they all knew that but because the young man had the gall 
to say it aloud! 


"Order!" Flayh shouted. "I command order!" He banged on the oaken 
table with an empty tankard, and order was quickly restored, as 
merchants of every age and color leaned forward to hear his response. 
He disappointed all of them, for he turned his back on Tahli-Damen, 
choosing to pretend he wasn't there, rather than confront the lad 
before the assembly. He could do that much more effectively in 
private. "Brother merchants!" he began, his voice carrying with 
surprising strength for so small a man. "I ^have summoned you to this 
meeting to consider grave matters that threaten our livelihood! The 
dragon is dead!" 


The response pleased Flayh. The gathering seemed to forget the 
upstart's embarrassing intrusion, and turned its attention to the real 
problem. 


"This has already cost us," Flayh warned. Pezi was surprised at how 
dignified his uncle sounded. "We are faced with a problem unlike any 
our fathers faced before us. For a millennium our families have been 
the feeders of the dragon, and in return we've built a style of life 
unmatched by the noblest of nobles, unmatched even in the courts of the 
three regents. My friends, our position has been gravely jeopardized 
by Vicia-Heinox' death! Lest any of you miss its significance let me 



hasten to explain. With no dragon in Dragonsgate, trade between the 
three lands will become utterly, disastrously free. Any ignorant lout 
who thinks himself a salesman can now take it into his head to 
transport goods between the three lands. Of course, he could never 
hope to compete with our volume and experience. But he will soak off 
some of our profits, and if enough free traders begin to move, our 
monopoly will unquestionably be broken." 


A hiss swept the hall, and Flayh stretched out his palms to hush the 
whisperers. "There is more at stake than just our businesses, however. 
Our very lives are threatened as well." Shock greeted this statement. 
What Flayh had said so far was generally acknowledged as the truth. 
This was a new thought. All eyes riveted on the bald speaker. "We 
have never attempted to ingratiate ourselves with the populace of any 
land. We are, therefore, unpopular. But peasants in all three lands 
have been forced to tolerate us, for we were the only source of the 
goods and services they needed. The crowns have called us arrogant, 
but never to our faces. They've been aware of our power, and of the 
fact that our united front could topple them from theirs. But the 
dragon is dead! What happens now?" 


The question raised immediate response. Brab mod Crober of the house 
of Blez leaped to his feet in great agitation. "They'll kill us and 
take our lands! They've always wanted to what's to prevent them?" 


"Not so!" shouted Klapb, a Hanni merchant in charge of his family's 
operation in Lamath. "As all of you know, our land has just endured 
tremendous social and religious upheaval yet we remain free to trade, 
and the Prophet of Lamath has offered no interference " 


"Yet!" Flayh thundered, his eyebrows knitting fiercely. "You 
remember, Klaph, that I am originally of Lamath. Yet I and my house 
were hounded from that land by these religiously motivated rebels. You 
know yourself that J-a-mathians are fanatics, feeding themselves to the 
dragon to obtain religious satisfaction " 


"That was before! The dragon is " 


"Dead, yes!" Flayh continued aggressively, leaning down the table 
toward Klaph and emphasizing his points with a shaking finger. "But 
what happens if this worship-crazed Prophet should choose tomorrow to 
throw you out? Do you think you would survive the night? I doubt it!" 
Flayh turned to the assembly and thundered in a voice strangled by 
rage, "Be reminded, you merchants from Lamath, that this new Prophet is 
but a pawn of the dangerous Pelmen, who brought this entire problem on 
all of us!" 


The hall rang with agreement, and Klaph sank back into his seat under 
the weight of the crowd's abuse. 


"I repeat!" Flayh trumpeted. "What are we going to do? Before anyone 
else speaks," he went on quickly, "I'd like to offer a suggestion that 
I feel will meet with your unanimous approval." 


"That's yet to be seen," Tahli-Damen put in quickly, and Flayh made a 
great show of ignoring him. 


"What is needed," Flayh said, "is, quite simply, a replacement for 
Vicia-Heinox." Stunned silence greeted him. 



After a moment, a lesser merchant of Ognadzu meekly began: "You mean we 
need to seek out another dragon " 


Flayh cut the man off with a sharp look. Then he surveyed his audience 
and explained: "I have taken the liberty of inviting an old friend to 
attend this gathering. Though you may not know his name, you all will 
surely recognize him as ** 


"By my face, Flayh?" Admon Faye asked sharply from his seat to Flayh's 
far right. Bronwynn suddenly felt trapped in the wash of eyes, as 
everyone turned to look at the slaver seated next to her. 


"I meant nothing by that, my friend. I refer only to the fact that you 
are as widely travelled as a merchant as any other merchant," Flayb 
amended carefully. He turned back to the delegates. "My brother 
merchants, I give you the dragon's successor in Dragonsgate: Admon 
Faye." Flayh pointed at the slaver, and once again Bronwynn shifted in 
her seat, wanting to hide from the eyes that turned toward her. She 
could see them associating her with the hideously vis aged slaver his 
girl friend perhaps, some of them were thinking. Bronwynn didn't feel 
at all flattered. 


Admon Faye rose in his place and bowed courteously. Then he sneered, 
and the assembled merchants, for the most part, quickly found something 
else to look at. 


"What .. . exactly .. ." Brab mod Crober began, and Flayh nodded to 
him politely and went on: 


"Admon Faye is an expert slaver. Of all those who ply his unpopular 
but essential trade, he is the best. Or was. The death of 
Vicia-Heinox has caused the demand for slaves to drop drastically. He 
is in need of a new line of work. 


"We are all familiar with the continuous sword-rattling that passes for 
diplomacy between our several nations. With Dragonsgate clear, no 
nation can feel safe. I predict that we will soon see a build up of 
troops in every mouth of the Gate a build-up that will continue 
unabated, sapping the economic strength of each land, until the 
inevitable war results. We cannot have that not least because those 
border lands closest to the pass have always belonged to us! We don't 
want soldiers building barricades across our farm lands!" 


"No!" roared the assembly in one mighty voice. 


"However. If someone occupies the pass someone non-threatening to 
national security, but powerful enough to resist all but the severest 
of raids my guess is that rulers of security in all three lands will be 
able to relax, and life will soon return to normal. I propose that 
Admon Faye and his horde of henchmen be installed in Dragonsgate to 
form such a buffer and to discourage passage to anyone save merchant 
houses recognized by this Council!" 


A round of cheers broke out then, lasting for several minutes. Flayh 
actually smiled an honest smile of pleasure, something Pezi couldn't 
remember ever seeing on Flayh before. The cheering was interrupted by 
Klaph of Harm, who jumped to his feet waving his burnt-orange 
sleeves. 


"A moment! A moment please!" he cried, and the merchants quieted to 



hear him. "Just what does Admon Faye want in return?" he asked. He 
didn't hide his suspicion. 


"Very simple," Flayh replied. "A tribute from each caravan something 
each of us should feel quite comfortable 


17S 


with, since that was our arrangement with the dragon as well and a 
secret seat on this Council." Flayh gauged the reactions of his 
audience and decided that he was home free. Protests were few. He 
continued: "It must be a secret seat, for if it became, known that 
Admon Faye formally belonged to the Council, public sentiment might 
force one regent or another to move upon him and chase him from the 
pass. As long as the general populace remains convinced that he's 
acting only in his own interests, each regent can publicly deplore his 
presence, while privately offering him every incentive to continue." 
Flayh turned toward Admon Faye and smiled. "You surely don't mind 
being deplored, do you?" he called. 


"Mind it!" Admon Faye hooted. "I've made a career of it!" The 
comment brought a hearty laugh, and Flayh confidently moved for an 
immediate vote. The response was unanimous approval. Even Tahli-Damen 
endorsed it heartily, admitting to himself that Flayh's genius had 
produced the perfect solution. Besides, his argument was not with 
this. 


Tahli-Damen braced himself for the next item on the agenda to be 
announced. Flayh cleared his throat. "Now to the matter of other 
seats on the platform." Flayh spun around to face Tahli-Damen and 
drilled his eyes into those of the young merchant "I demand that you 
vacate that positionl" 


Tahli-Damen came out of his chair ready for a scrap. The adrenaline 
pumped through him with such force that he felt no fear at all. In 
fact, he felt strangely elated. 


"And I refuse!" He turned to the crowd and announced, **I have been 
deputized to this chair by Jagd of Uda, who refused to attend on threat 
of assassination!" 


"Your patron's paranoia is none of our concern!" Flayh screeched, but 
the young merchant kept on talking. 


"My Lord Jagd has refused to attend in person, but has authorized me to 
challenge Flayh to produce the two pyramids he holds in his 
possession!" 


"What are you talking about?" Flayh shrilled, and he grabbed 
Tahli-Damen's shoulder and tried to wrench him around. 


The Udan merchant winced, but continued talking to a sea of rapt faces. 
"Flayh knows very well what pyramids I 


refer to, though he's conspired to keep them secret from all but a 
chosen few of the merchant Elders " 


"I must protest!" shouted Brab mod Crober, pounding his hand on the 
head table. "This knowledge is privileged, reserved only for those 
seated on this daisl" 



"No!" shouted some younger merchants in the back of the hall, and 
Tahli-Damen was forced to scream to make himself heard over the 
heckling. 


"No longer will these magic objects be hidden! If you would hear Jagd 
himself endorse an open and free discussion of these precious crystals, 
then help me to force this man to produce the two pyramids he holds in 
his possession! Then Jagd of Uda will himself speak to you, from his 
sanctuary in the Imperial House of Chaomonous!" Tahli-Damen pointed at 
Flayh, but did not look at him. He did well in that, for the merchant 
power shaper was livid in his wrath and glared at his young accuser 
with every intention of crushing the young upstart under the weight of 
his own terror. But he needed to grip the lad's eyes! 


Flayh was oblivious to the bedlam the young man's words had unleashed. 
Fist fights had broken out in three sections of the room, scuflSers 
clothed in blue and lime against those in scarlet and purple, Admon 
Faye shook his head in disbelief, a grin traced on his hideous lips, 
while Bron-wynn tucked herself behind his body, fearing the benches 
would soon start flying. Gradually everyone became aware of a heavy 
pounding on the table, and order was restored. Surprisingly, the 
pounder was none other than Pezi, who had been so seized by the 
excitement of the moment that he'd acted with an uncharacteristic 
authority. He even earned his uncle's attention. But when he noticed 
Flayh's peering eyes, his courage faltered, and he shoved Flayh's 
ale-cup back into his uncle's shrivelled hand and sank into his seat. 


Flayh was nonplussed. Skeptical expressions had replaced the cheers of 
a moment ago, and his normal sourness returned with a rush. He frowned 
at the gathering, then opened his mouth: 


"I cannot comprehend the " 


"Don't lie to us!" someone shouted. 


"We won't be silenced!" 


"We want the truth!" 


"Show us the pyramids!" 


"Produce them!" 


"We demand to see the objects!" 


The cries rang out from every corner of the hall, each one clearly 
audible. 


"I .. he began again, and someone else shouted: 


"Don't deny it! Brab mod Crober has already admitted they exist." 


That was true, and Brab blushed and hung his head. His face turned the 
burnt-orange color of a Hanni tunic. 


"Very well!" Flayh snapped. "I will fetch the objects before our next 
session! But first I " 


"No!" Tahli-Damen roared, jumping to his feet once again. "You've 



hidden them from us long enough! Produce them now, or forfeit your 
credibility entirely!" 


"Do you threaten me?" Flayh shouted, spittle flying from his 
contorting lips. Now it was Tahli-Damen's turn to ignore Flayh, and 
the young man did so with a flair. The chorus of support he received 
immediately from the tables on the floor made it apparent that Flayh 
would have to yield. "~ 


Flayh realized his cause was hopeless. "Go fetch them," he spat, and 
Pezi waddled for the door at top speed which was, of course, 
necessarily slow. 


Flayh sank back into his seat to wait, steaming with frustration. As 
half a hundred excited conversations began, he cursed quietly. "I'll 
have you peeled," he growled through his teeth at the young adversary 
seated beside him. 


Tahli-Damen faced stolidly forward. "No doubt you would if you were 
able." 


"Oh, I'm able, boy. And you'll suffer as I prove it to you." 


"Threaten all you like, Lord Flayh. I only seek an equitable solution 
to the problem of our warring houses. I was taught in our own 
merchant's conservatory that inter house wars were the deadliest of 
sins, because nothing is so harmful to business." 


"You lecture me, as well as threaten? My child, your education is only 
beginning! You obviously view yourself as a political corner, but I 
assure you, you've come to nothing but a dead end here!" 


"We shall need to let the Council decide that." 


"Oh no. It's already been decided. By me." 


"Perhaps you think too highly of yourself, Lord Flayh.** Tahli-Damen 
angled his eyes even further away from Flayh's as he said it. 


"And perhaps, my boy just perhaps you don't regard me highly enough." 


Their verbal sparring ceased then, but the taut silence between them 
was as charged with meaning as any conversation. At last Pezi rushed 
back into the chamber, carrying two oddly shaped velvet bags with 
drawstrings of gilded rope. As he passed Admon Faye, the slaver had to 
fight the urge to trip him and barely resisted the temptation. Admon 
Faye was determined to appear respectable though after what he'd 
already witnessed, he wondered why he bothered. 


Flayh glowered at his nephew as Pezi deposited the first of the 
pyramids before his uncle. The chubby trader un-sacked his own device 
and plopped himself onto his chair. Then he leaned forward and would 
have begun the process of clearing his mind to form the link, had Flayh 
not grabbed him by the ear and viciously twisted his head away from the 
surface of the object. 


"Not yet, idiot! Wait until I instruct you to begin!" Flayh released 
his nephew and straightened to look into the upturned faces below him, 
suddenly grown silent once again. 



"I do this under protest No!" he broke off, pointing at a younger 
merchant who had started to jeer. His angry scowl dismayed the lad, 
and the young man quailed and turned pale. Flayh paused for a moment 
and scanned the room for other sneers. They all disappeared, and he 
continued. "These objects have been a secret trust, and I am horrified 
that a member of the ruling Council would so frivolously reveal their 
existence " 


"Not frivolously," Tahli-Damen murmured, and Flayh turned to stare at 
the man. Tahli-Damen maintained his composure, fixing his eyes on the 
table top. 


"May I be granted the courtesy of finishing my statement?" Flayh 
demanded. Tahli-Damen didn't reply, and Flayh turned back to the crowd 
and shouted: "These objects are precious implements which permit as has 
been pointed out conversation at great distances. They are re served 
for the three foremost merchants, the head of the dominant house in 
each land " 


"Then why has Pezi got one?" someone shouted, and Flayh was forced to 
wait again for the confusion to subside before he could go on. 


"Pezi uses the pyramid entrusted to Tohn mod Neelis, the late lord of 
this castle!" His savage mood was very threatening, yet interruption 
came in spite of it. 


"Is this a permanent arrangement?" someone questioned, and Klaph spoke 
up through a clamor of boos: 


"Then we might expect some reassignment will take place?" 


"Certainly," Flayh snapped, "should any reassignment prove 
necessary!" 


"I think it very likely that it should!" Klaph bristled. "Since 
you've left Lamath, my family has done a thorough job of reorganizing 
the regional markets! I feet that I am entitled to hold the Lamathian 
pyramid!" 


"You haven't even seen the device work yet!" Flayh snarled. "Are you 
entitled also to the dangers of its operation?" 


The suggestion that the pyramids might be dangerous as well as useful 
caused Klaph difficulty in swallowing. Klaph was a conservative man, 
like most merchants. Caution drove him back into his seat 


Flayh surveyed his audience and found them a little less restive. 
"Yes." He smiled, "I thought that might bring a bit of hesitancy to 
some of you. Are you entirely certain you want this demonstration?" 


"Don't be put off by him!" Tahli-Damen challenged. "This is another 
ruse to keep us from exercising our rightful powers!" 


"I'm getting tired of you," Flayh breathed, for TafaH-Damen's statement 
had once more swung the Council against him. 


"And I've been tired of you since before I arrived," the young merchant 
shot back. His obvious success with the Council had emboldened him to 
the point of cockiness. Flayh noted this, and marked it well. 



At last Flayh nodded to Pezi and leaned toward his own pyramid, 
complaining, "I'm not sure if this will even work .. ." 


"It'll work," Tahli-Damen said confidently. 


As Flayh peered into the cloudy blue crystal before him, and the 
gathered host gasped at the sudden blue flame that sprang to life 
within both it and its twin, Flayh cursed himself for having allowed 
Jagd and this young merchant so totally to outmaneuver him. By the 
time the pyramids cleared, he'd already plotted his vengeance. 


Once again, the bells rang throughout the castle. "I'm going to have 
that Kherda fried!" Ligne barked then she smiled at Rosha, and patted 
him on the hand. "I'm sorry, darling, I know I shouldn't go on like 
that. But this incessant ringing is driving me insane!" 


Rosha thought of the obvious insult, but resisted saying it Ligne had 
returned from her visit to the dungeon only a few moments before and 
found him without his hood. Instead of being angry, she seemed 
positively thrilled. He would say nothing to earn it back on. 


He glanced up at the wall of the game room, where the servants' bell 
hung, and watched as it noisily rocked up and down. Its pull rope 
swayed from side to side, untouched by any human hand. He had heard 
this clamorous ringing many times in the past, but this was his first 
view of the phenomenon. It chilled him. There were powers at work 
here strange and angry powers. 


"Try to ignore it, dear," Ligne ordered, an irritated smile gracing her 
elegant features. "It's your move." 


Rosha tried to turn his attention again to the game a difficult task, 
since he felt as if some invisible presence stared over his shoulder. 
They played a game of Green Dummy Drax, the weak, two-handed version of 
the three-sided table game so favored by the Queen. Rosha, while not 
an expert, felt himself a competent player, for he and his father had 
often shared the winter nights playing Green Dummy next to the fire. 
But he pretended now to learn the game anew, and Ligne had eagerly 
assumed the role of instructor, 


"No, no, not like that!" she scolded lightly, as he purposely made an 
impossible move. "Your column can't take my disc while it's still on 
the base triangles! Look, I'm on the inversions here! Remember, base 
triangles are white, Inversions are yellow. It's simple!" 


"Oh," Rosha replied. "I g-get it n-now." He replaced his column, made 
a proper move, and pegged the expended move on the reference plank. 


"Very goodl" Ligne cried, clapping her hands in delight Her eyes 
sparkled as she made her answering move. 


His suggestion that she teach him to play was proving a shrewd ploy. 
Thus far, the game had kept her mind off his body. She seemed to be 
receiving this sudden thaw in his feelings for her as the natural 
result of her invincible charm. She could think what she liked he 
didn't care. He was determined to make this sacrifice for Bronwynn's 
sake. Moments before, he'd made a convincing fuss over the Queen in 
the presence of Jagd. Perhaps too convincing, for the merchant had 
popped into the throne room only for a moment and had popped out again 
a moment later with the speed of a nervous rodent. Before he could get 



away, Ligne had wrung from the merchant a promise that he would soon 
return. Rosha hoped he would hurry, for while he'd sworn his 
determination to convince the Queen of his affection for her, he didn't 
know how he could endure it if she started pawing him again. He had 
always solved his problems violently, and though his hands were still 
bound before him, it would take little effort to break the woman's 
pretty neck. Pelmen's words convinced him there was little to be 
gained from such a rash act, and much to lose. He had to resist the 
temptation. 


"It's your move," Ligne chirped, and without thinking Rosha skillfully 
attacked her cube and removed it from the board. Ligne gasped. "That 
was .. . very good." She frowned. While she wanted him to learn this 
game, Ligne did not like losing. Suddenly he threatened to defeat 
her. 


"It was?" Rosha covered. "J-j-just lucky, I g-guess." 


"Yes," she replied evenly. "Very lucky." With a sweep of her hand she 
cleared the board of all pieces, then she turned to look at the door. 
"This game really isn't worth finishing. It *s only Dummy Drax, after 
all. Where is Jagd? I expected him to come join us in a full-sided 
game!" 


Rosha shrugged. He hoped the man returned quickly. He couldn't hide 
his disgust from her forever, 


The Imperial House bellowed. It was happening again! The miserable 
runt in the violet knickers had resumed his torture! Oh, the House had 
been prepared for it, of course, for the verminous merchant had never 
taken his laundry off the walls. Only once had he left his room, and 
that only for a moment, to give the Queen some lame excuse for his 
absence. Then he'd raced back to that sparkling shape on the table 
that commanded his constant attention. 


All morning long, the House had watched Jagd watching the pyramid. The 
feeling of dread grew during the afternoon, until the House decided 
that the pain would be preferable to the suspense. But when the object 
finally flickered to life, the Imperial House immediately changed its 
mind. A new round of cursing had set off less confusion in the castle 
than before, for the servants had grown accustomed to these outbursts. 
This unfeeling, blase attitude on the part of the help incensed the 
castle still further. Who did they think they were working for, after 
all? The Queen? 


That's exactly what they think, the Imperial House said bitterly. In 
the ancient past, the House had frequently despised its occupants, but 
this supposed monarch seemed exceptionally stupid. The House sighed 
for a return to the good old days .. . 


Then it jerked, causing doors on every floor to slam mysteriously. The 
conversation between Jagd and the blackguards who held the other 
pyramids grew heated, and the magical energy released was building up 
an excruciating bubble of gas in the castle's bowels. 


A lot of good that did! the castle moaned, for the servants were used 
to its wincing now, too, and they casually reopened the slammed doors 
without another thought. 


You! Powershaper! Can't you tell you're desperately needed? Wake 



up! 


The castle was not entirely pleased with its clownish power shaper 
performance. AH the lazy lout had done so far was snore. It had cost 
the House enormous effort to save the fool, and what had he done in 
return? He'd made use of magic, that's what, searing yet another 
painful hole in the House's inner lining and then had promptly gone to 
sleep! 


Oh! The House cried out. Wake up! it yelled at Fallo-mar the fool. 
It really wasn't sure why it had moved to save the rascal in the first 
place. The possibility was there. 


The Wizard tn Wailing of course, that this Fallomar fellow might wake 
from his deafness and offer the House some fellowship. But even if the 
fool did learn to speak, there was no assurance of his help. The House 
had dealt with many power shapers through the ages, and the majority 
had been only selfish thieves, greedy for new ways to swell their 
powers. Some had even tormented the House for spite, so great was their 
cruelty. The House chuckled through its pain the last sorcerer to try 
such got a chandelier implanted in his fore-head! 


Any chandeliers? the House wondered, running a quick check of Jagd's 
room. 


No such luck, it groused. The lighting fixtures had all been replaced 
in the last twenty years besides, Jagd was twelve feet away from the 
nearest one. 


A lot of bells rang in the castle. 


Wake up! the House shouted, but the power shaper slept on. This one 
might be different, the House said, hoping desperately for some relief. 
If only he could be roused! The castle remembered how the man had 
responded to its teasing with a polite but confident warning. That he 
was truly a power shaper he'd proved in his wrestling match with the 
old fish. 


True, your magic proved painful, the House pleaded with the sleeping 
magician, but at least it dissipated out the grating. Not like this 
agony! 


For Jagd's heated conversation continued still, and his room was shut 
up tight! 


Arise! The Imperial House screamed, agonized. The Imperial House 
wants you! 


Tohn's hall hummed with power, as the two pyramids on the front table 
crackled with brilliant blue intensity. Many merchant mouths hung open 
in disbelief, as the recognizable voice of Jagd, Elder of Uda, echoed 
off the giant beams overhead. Jagd and Flayh had abused each other for 
a quarter of an hour already, and neither seemed ready to stop. Poor 
Pezi rubbed his broad forehead feverishly the stress had given him a 
splitting headache. 


"Naturally you hold me responsible!" Jagd screamed. "You always hold 
me responsible for all your misfortunes!" 


"This is not a misfortune!" Flayh screamed back. "It's en impossible 



situation deliberately created by your complicity with this strumpet of 
a Queen!" 


"The entire ruling Council agreed to our plan to place Ligne on the 
throne! Can I help it if you and some of the other houses so 
overplayed your power that she's come to favor Uda alone?" 


"Yes, you can help it! You were the representative of the whole 
Council in the court, not just of your own organization! You've 
demonstrated your disloyalty to your brethren here by siding against 
us. Your very absence from this meeting indicates your true 
loyalties!" 


"That's a lie, Flayh, and you know it! You think I take pleasure in 
sitting around this castle doing nothing? It's your assassins who have 
imprisoned me here, dooming me to interminable games of Drax with a 
vain Queen and her stuttering young warrior! You think I " 


"What!" roared a female voice from one side of the dais. The 
assembled merchants tore their eyes from the mesmerizing crystals to 
see Admon Faye holding a kicking, screaming Bronwynn in the air. He'd 
been holding onto her since early in the conversation, for in the 
exchange between Jagd and Flayh she'd learned more about her own 
kidnapping than in all the months since it happened. She'd known, of 
course, that she'd been ripped from the Imperial House with Ligne's 
aid. But the cold-blooded ness of it had enraged her anew. 


Now that rage exploded into new dimensions. "What did he say?" she 
shrilled. "I want to know what he said!" 


"What's going on there?" Jagd asked, holding his head. 


"Don't distract us!" Flayh ordered. "You'll make us break the 
link!" 


"Oh, my head .. ." 


"Shut up, Pezi!" 


Bronwynn broke loose and rushed over to crowd between Pezi and his 
uncle. "I want to know what he said!" 


"Said about what?" Jagd asked, as a disembodied woman's voice lanced 
painfully through his head. 


Admon Faye suddenly understood, and a grin spread from one ugly ear to 
the other. He stalked up behind Bronwynn and spoke to Flayh, "Ask what 
he means by a stuttering warrior." 


The object's lock on Flayh's mind made these other voices intolerable. 
It seemed a thousand people clamored for his attention at once. Pezi, 
feeling the pressure too, moaned aloud. Flayh relayed Admon Faye's 
question to Jagd, hoping to end this bitter interruption. 


"Some young bruiser from the north is all I know!" Jagd shot back. 
"Name is Rosha, and he stutters. He's the Queen's latest paramour! Can 
we get back to business? My head wants to explode!" 


"Yours isn't the only one," Pezi added mournfully. 



Admon Faye, still grinning, led Bronwynn back to her chair. There she 
sat, stunned and shaken, throughout the chaotic events that followed. 
Perhaps it had been only an interruption to the others in the room, but 
this news crashed in on Bronwynn with the suddenness of a death 
message. It took much the same toll on her heart 


They talk about pain! the Imperial House roared. This is painl A 
strong wind whistled through the subterranean passageways, the only 
audible evidence of the castle's screaming in these caverns. 


Powershaper! Wake up! the Imperial House pleaded. 


Pelmen jerked to awareness. The dream was gone, but not the blue 
light. He identified it instantly, for he'd heard these three way 
conversations before. "Of course," he Whispered aloud. "Jagd has his 
pyramid with him he rel He wondered momentarily why he'd not heard Jagd 
using it before then he recalled for the first time the bright blue 
dreams that had plagued his sleep and understood. Pelmen thrust all 
thoughts from his mind except those he heard issuing from the bright 
azure ball behind his eyelids. 


"Wait!" Jagd yelped. "Someone is listening!" 


"Of course someone is listening!" Flayh bellowed. "There's a room 
full of people here!" 


"This is someone else!" Jagd said anxiously. He felt a pair of eyes 
fixed on his back, and longed to turn around to see if one of his 
cloaks had fallen from its peg. 


"I feel it too!" Pezi wailed. "Someone powerful is listening! Ohhb 
..." he moaned, his head spinning. "I can't take any more of this .. 
." Pezi reeled, rocked forward, banged his forehead noisily on the 
table, and passed out beneath it 


The link broke immediately, with a flare of light and a loud snap. 


Flayh cried out in anguish, then ordered Pezi: "Get up from there, you 
dolt!" The fat merchant didn't budge. "You swine! Can't you manage 
to do anything right?" 


"Of course he can't," Tahli-Damen said as he leaped from his chair and 
swiftly circled behind Flayh to seat himself over Pezi. "He isn't 
qualified! Jagd! Jagd!" Tahli-Damen peered into the pyramid as he'd 
seen the others do. "What are you doing?" Flayh shouted hoarsely. 
With a vicious shove, he pushed Tahli-Damen off the seat and onto the 
floor. Or rather, onto Pezi, who didn't seem to notice. 


"I'm claiming what's rightfully mine!" Tahli-Damen yelled back, 
jumping nimbly to his feet "You've been so busy manipulating people 
that you haven't been keeping up your business! Uda has just this 
month edged Ognadzu in total Mari sales, so this pyramid is mine!" 


Klaph started to suggest that since his house was now dominant in 
Lamath, he should get one, too. He never got the sentence out. 


Suddenly a savage dog leaped out of nowhere for Tahli-Damen's throat 
The young man threw up his arm in shock. With a snarl, the dog ripped 
his sleeve to tatters, taking with it a strip of flesh. The dais 
emptied immediately, save for Pezi, who smilingly slept on, and 



Bronwynn, who continued to stare dully into space. Tahli-Damen clubbed 
the ferocious beast with his free hand and tried to scramble over the 
table, but the dog caught his leg in its jaws. Tahli-Damen's purple 
pants turned the color of his crimson tunic; but despite his wounds, he 
kicked the beast off and rolled on across the head table, dropping onto 
the dais floor. He kept on rolling until he dropped off the dais, into 
the waiting arms of family members who'd rushed past the scattering 
merchants to his aid. 


As quickly as it had appeared, the dog was gone. Flayh stood on the 
table in its place but this was a different Flayh from the bald Elder 
these merchants had traded with through the years. The figure who 
stood astride the two pyramids was awesome. Gone were his blue and 
lime garments. Gowned in gleaming white, with a red cape flowing from 
his shoulders, Flayh the power shaper tossed multicolored balls of 
energy at his enemies as they all plunged wildly for the doors. 


"By the dragon!" Klaph swore, using an outdated La-math ian oath. 
"He's become a power shaper Then a ball struck Klaph in the chest, and 
he raced down the line of emptying tables and grabbed a pitcher of ale 
to douse the sudden flames. 


Tahli-Damen's cousins bore him rapidly from the hall, ducking the 
burning missies and shoving other merchants aside. As they passed 
through the door, Tahli-Damen turned his head to gaze back at Flayh, He 
watched the power shaper lips move, and saw how a pointed finger could 
snuff out fires created by a thought mere seconds before. Tahli-Damen 
was bleeding, but it wasn't his wounds that concerned him. His heart 
wanted to pound its way out from between his ribs. Tahii-Damen was 
terrified. 


CHAPTER TWELVE 


Below the Dungeon 


PEL MEN GROANED and grabbed his head. "I wish they wouldn't do that .. 
." he muttered to himself. 


You think you do! the Imperial House replied. 


Pelmen didn't hear it. He only felt a chilly breeze. From where he 
stood, he could see a bit of sunlight sneaking in through the grating 
on the far side of the pool. That meant he was on the dungeon side of 
the cistern, and he sighed with relief. He felt as if he'd been 
sleeping for years he wondered if it was still the same day that he'd 
dropped into this netherworld. He turned away from the water to peer 
into the passage he could feel wind blowing through it. He hoped that 
meant it led somewhere, or else he'd fallen a long way for nothing. He 
stared into it, wishing he had a torch. Then he remembered: "I'm a 
power shaper 


So you've been saying, said the House. Instead of talking about it, 
why don't you do something but not that! 


Pelmen was extending his hand, and a violet ball of flame appeared over 
his palm. A puff of wind blew it out. 


Try that again and the next one will be snuffed out as well! 


Pelmen did. And it was. 



"Come on," he said with some frustration. "I need to see!" 


Pelmen said it to himself, really, but the House sniffed a response 
anyway: 


Very well. That's reasonable, if irritating. The sphere of green 
flame Pelmen summoned up next was smaller than the others, and notably 
cooler. 


Thank you, the House replied, throueh a creaking of the door jambs on 
the third floor. Naturally, Pelmen didn't hear that. 


"Where am I?" Pelmen wondered aloud as he started down the craggy 
corridor. 


You're under the doorway into the offices of trade, the Imperial House 
answered, where that verminous pest with the pyramid supposedly does 
his work when he works which isn't often, since he prefers to pester 
this House .. . 


The castle gazed scornfully at Jagd from all the walls that the 
creature hadn't covered with a smelly coat. Jagd lay on his bed, 
trembling with a chill. Purely for spite, the Imperial House lowered 
the temperature of Jagd's room perceptibly, and the merchant shivered 
harder. 


Pelmen noticed that that curious condensation formed on the walls of 
these sub castle caverns as well. He walked thirty-five feet and came 
to a juncture. The corridor branched off in two directions. 


Now you're under the great hall under the stairway from the platform to 
the floor. Of course, it's forty feet above you .. . 


Pelmen hesitated, obviously pondering which way to turn. 


If you want out, go left. There's a stairway up into the infirmary 
that no one seems to know about .. . 


But Pelmen didn't want out, he wanted in, into the dungeon. And it 
seemed that from the location of the grate and the cistern, the right 
hand tunnel would take him closer to it. 


On the other hand, some people can't accept advice from anyone, the 
House said crossly, and it resolved to offer no further suggestions. 


Pelmen went on another twenty-five feet, and stopped. This seemed to 
be a man-made section of the passageways, 


The WizarJ in Waiting for the rock walls bore chisel marks, and the 
floor was smoother. 


He now had three options. He could continue straight ahead, but carved 
galleries extended to his left and right as well. "Now which way," he 
mumbled. 


That all depends on where you're going, the Imperial House huffed. That 
is, if you know. 


"The dungeon," Pelmen said, biting his lip. The sound of his own voice 



in the moody silence reassured him. "Which way to the dungeon?" 


The castle could scarcely contain it's excitement at finally being 
consulted. It had only expanded its consciousness into these caverns 
in the last week and now felt quite knowledgeable. 


To your right, of course. Then listen closely, for it gets very 
complicated from where you .. . 


But before the House could finish, Pelmen plunged, straight ahead. The 
castle was incensed. 


All right! Go ahead and get lost! 


Pelmen took little time in doing just that. 


He went a hundred and forty feet, pausing only briefly at other 
branchings off to the left, deciding to keep to his right. The 
corridor seemed to make a long bend in that direction, and he felt 
hopeful that it might take him straight to the dungeon. But it ended 
in another gallery that crossed from left to right. He was confused. 


Of course you're stuck. You're under the platform in the Chamber of 
War! But will you ask for advice? No. You wouldn't listen, anyway! 


Pelmen decided to go left. That branch ended in a wall of blank rock 
fifty feet beyond. He retraced his steps and went the other direction. 
The passage curled back and forth, ending in another fork. Pelmen went 
left again, and found another dead end. Pelmen was lost 


The Imperial House laughed. 


The Drax table had been knocked aside, and the pieces lay scattered on 
the floor, forgotten. Jagd had not returned, and Ligne had tired of 
waiting. She was presently in hot pursuit of Rosha, and the young 
swordsman sweated freely as he fought to restrain his fists from 
permanently altering the woman's lustful expression. 


Actually, the pursuit had run its course. She'd cornered him against 
the far wall and was struggling to insinuate her lithe, perfumed body 
inside his bound arms. Rosha flattened his hips and back against the 
wall, but it wouldn't yield. Nor would Ligne, as she succeeded in 
slithering into his unwilling embrace. She stretched her neck up to 
steal a kiss, and Rosha banged the back of his head trying to jerk 
away. 


"What's the matter, my darling?" she cooed. "You certainly weren't so 
shy earlier in the afternoon .. ." 


"I I I " Rosha could think of no meaningful way to end the sentence. 
Ligne ended it for him by plastering her lips over his. He fought to 
hold his arms away from her writhing form, thinking how easy it would 
be to slip his arms up around her scented throat and choke off her 
kisses entirely. Instead, he forced a wide, toothy grin onto his face 
a hideous grin, more snarl than smile, that caused her to lean away. 


"You're mad at me," she pouted. "Because I didn't let you win the 
game, is that it?" 


"N-n-no, no it's n-n-n " 



"Are you still upset about that silly old hood?" 
"I c-c-c-c " 
"You can't talk, I know that," she sneered. Rosha jerked her tightly 


against him in reflexive rage, and she smiled broadly and sighed. 
"Ahhhh. Now that's more like it." Once again he fought the urge to 
strangle her, and managed to spread his arms away from her hips. She 
studied him with a sultry, self-confident smile. "So. Never been with 
a woman before, is that it?" 


"I-I-I " Once again his voice faltered, and Ligne sighed with 
exasperation. 
"Come on, talk to me!" she demanded. 
"M-m-m-maybe a-a-another sp-sp-sp-speech lesson " 
"What for?" she snarled. "What good's the first one done?" 


"It t-t-t-takes t-t-time " 
"Who told you that? The clown? I don't doubt the fool did." She 
ducked out of his arms, and Rosha drew in a welcome breath of unscented 
air. "To cover his own incompetence. Where is that fool? I've not 
seen him all day!" 


Rosha sucked in another clean draught and shrugged his shoulders. When 
he saw the way the woman eyed him, he had a sudden insight into how a 
hunted beast must feel when finally run to ground. 


"You are so good looking," the woman purred, her voice husky. 


Rosha swallowed hard, and smiled. "I'm s-so p-pleased that I p-please 
you " 
"Do you want to please me, Rosha?" she asked pointedly, her blue eyes 


glowing. 
"P-p-perhaps I'm not p-properly p-p-prepared " 
"You look thoroughly equipped to me." 
"I mean," he hurried on, "that I f-f-feel so inadequate " 
"Let's find out!" 
" to be a proper escort!" 
Ligne paused in her pursuit. "By that you mean what 
"That that I'mn-not worthy of you! Look at m-me!" 
"I am," Ligne growled. 
"I c-c-c-cannot speak, I can't c-c-carry on a p-proper c-conversation, 


I'm ungracious, unlettered, backward " 
"As well as broad chested, bull-necked, curly-haired .. ." The woman 



hummed, reaching out to stroke each feature as she listed it. Rosha 
jerked aside and walked away. When he stopped to look back at her, she 
was frowning. "Why did you walk away from me?" she demanded. 


"I I n-need more t-time. By all the powers in the Mar, woman, I was 
ready to kill you two days ago! P-p-perhaps a day or two, a week .. . 
more speech lessons .. ." 


"You're putting me off." 


"No!" Rosha lied. "I'm not! I I like you." He turned his face to 
the wall and forced himself to say "I ... I even begin to to love you," 
Suddenly he whipped around to face her. "I've heard you and Kherda 
talk about the acting troupe here in the ca-c-c-castle. Let m-m-me 
j-j-join with them!" 


"Acting troupe!" Ligne exploded. "What for!" 


"I know they're d-d-doing a p-play in p-praise of you. I c-could be in 
it! Grow more c-confident!" 


She stared at him a moment, a hand on her hip, then strolled over to 
the spilled Drax pieces and picked one up from the floor. She studied 
it a moment, tossed it in the air and caught it, and then looked at 
him. "Maybe I'm expecting too much of you. Maybe Gerrig could teach 
you a thing or two about women, at the very least." She thought for 
another moment, then dropped the piece on the floor again. "Come 
along. Well find your actors. And maybe I can reclaim my lost clown 
as well. This palace has been dull all afternoon." She marched 
smartly out of the game room, snapping her fingers at Carlad, who 
leaned on the wall outside the door. 


It took several inquiries for them to find the rehearsal hall in this 
labyrinthine palace. Ligne had never bothered herself to seek it out 
before. Her arrival took the troupe very much by surprise. She 
slammed open the door and stalked in, leaving Gerrig dangling in mid 
speech 


"Why why, my Lady, what a pleasant surprise," Gerrig stammered, 
panicked by the thought of having to perform immediately. He hadn't 
seen Pelmen since then- encounter in the garden the day before and had 
no idea where he was now. "Ah what can we do for you?" 


Ligne waved her hand, and Rosha walked into the room, followed by a 
bored Carlad. "This is my consort," she announced. "Give him a 
part." 


"Why, ah " Gerrig swallowed. "We don't normally do that kind of 
thing." but certainly, of course, we'll surely find a part for him to 
play in our little entertainment, won't we, friends?" He raised his 
eyebrows at the others and nodded vigorously. They all chorused their 
approval of the idea. 


"And, Gerrig,** she added, leaning toward him, "while you're teaching 
him to use his tongue, show him a few things about using his body as 
well, hmmm?" She winked at him. 


Gerrig smiled anxiously, hoping it looked as if he understood what she 
was talking about "Certainly! We'll do it." 



"Another thing. This room's too cramped, and too far away from my 
apartments. From now on, you rehearse in my throne room." 


The big actor gagged, then recovered quickly to protest "My Lady! This 
play was to be a surprise. How can we " 


"I'll not be there when you're rehearsing, idiot!" Ligne snapped. Then 
she looked around. "Where*s my fool?" 


Ah! Yes! Your fool. Ah, Parmi, where is that fool Gerrig asked 
nervously. 


"He's not with you, my Lady?" Parmi asked. "If he were with me," 
Ligne said with a mocking patience that dripped sarcasm, "do you think 
I'd be looking for .. him? Where is he?" 


He is ... perhaps .. . indisposed .. .** 


"By what." 


"Ah .. . natural causes?" 


"You mean he's sick?" 


"Perhaps .. ." 


"When you see him, send him to me. If you're going to 


have my Rosha, I need some entertainment, don't I?" .: "Most certainly 
you do, my Lady." Gerrig grinned. : "And I'll see to it that you get 
that entertainment just as soon as the clown reports to rehearsal. And, 
of course, we'll work your fine young man into the script!" V Ligne 
didn't hear the last of his speech. She'd already disappeared out the 
door. Gerrig smiled and nodded at Carlad, then sidled up to Yona and 


whispered, "What do we do now?" 
"Apparently we move to the throne room." Yona shrugged. 
he added, "And perhaps a little 
To himself, 
closer to the truth." 
The House was still laughing at Pelmen hours later, .;,. when the 

exhausted shaper finally slumped against one of ; its walls. As near 
as he could tell, Pelmen had crossed his own path three times. He 
couldn't even find his way back to the cistern. In frustration, he 
raised his head and appealed to the Power. "I don't suppose you know 
the way out of here, do you?" 


Of course, cackled the Imperial House. But if you won't lis 


The House was interrupted by a shocking event. A powerful wind 
whistled through its caverns a wind it neither initiated nor 
permitted. 


:. Where did that come from? it bellowed in amazement. |: , Pelmen 
shook his head and muttered, "You make it |X . seem so easy." Then he 
hopped up and let the wind rush -i.-v around him. He turned his back 
on it and let its pressure .." guide him down the tunnel. 


Magic? the Imperial House wondered. If so, this 



I9f The Wizard in Watthtg magic felt like nothing it had ever 
experienced. It was painless and cleansing. 


Pelmen was impelled by the wind past branching corridors that were free 
of even the slightest breeze. He had no light to walk by, but he made 
no effort to kindle any. He knew that now he wouldn't be able to. 


This wind knows these caverns! Amazing! the castle gasped. For the 
wind was guiding Pelmen to the very tunnel through which Admon Faye had 
penetrated the lower dungeons. 


Pelmen walked on boldly, passing yet another intersection of passages. 
Then the wind died as suddenly as it had come. At the end of the 
corridor he could make out a dim light. He walked swiftly toward it, 
and found it was shining through a small hole, just large enough to 
crawl through. He got down on his hands and knees and listened. 


Pelmen had spent more time in dungeons than he cared to remember. 
During Talith's reign, he'd even been a guest in this one. He knew 
that prisons sounded different when there were guards present than they 
did when the warders were gone. He listened for the telltale sounds of 
soldiers. Sure, at last, that the way was clear, he shoved his 
shoulders into the small opening and wiggled through. 


He saw immediately why the hole had never been plugged. It was hidden 
under a low outcropping of rock in a dark corner of this cell. As he 
pulled his feet through, he noticed three skeletons dangling from the 
walls, each still held in place by an ancient collar and chain. Pelmen 
wondered briefly if these were his predecessors in the office of court 
jester, but they'd been here too long for that. This cell had long 
gone unused. The door was ajar. Torchlight flickered in the hall 
beyond. He listened, then slipped out to investigate the corridor. It 
was cemetery silent. Most of these cells were clearly vacant. These 
were the lower dungeons there was another floor of cells above him. It 
made sense that a lazy warden would pack those above to capacity before 
filling these lower rooms, thus saving himself extra trips up and down 
the stairs. Besides, it seemed Ligne preferred killing her enemies to 
holding them captive. Would Bronwynn be on the upper level? Or could 
she already be dead? 


He decided to search this floor thoroughly first He 


];. crept down the hall, listening at each door and peering ! through 
its food slot. He paused at each only long enough 


' -. to assure himself there was no one inside, then moved on to the 
next. 


? He stopped he heard a chanting. He glanced toward the spiral 
stairway that led to the upper floor, but that 


' wasn't the source of the noise. He traced the sound past the f; 
stairs to a cell door beyond them. He slipped cautiously toward it, 
then knelt to listen. It was a woman's voice. 


"Bronwynn," he whispered, wishing immediately that he ,; hadn't. The 
chanting within stopped, and there was a long period of quiet shuffling 
within the cell. Pelmen tried to listen to that and watch the stairs 
as well. 



A woman's voice suddenly came through the oaken barrier. "I'm sorry to 
disappoint you, Prophet, but I'm not your initiate. I have been 
expecting you, though." f ; Pelmen forgot all caution, as her name 
tore from his 


: 'lips. "Serphimera!" 


; Many miles to the north, in another dungeon cell, sat the y. Prophet 
of Lamath. 


^ ~ He wasn't a prisoner. Erri the Prophet, formerly Erri the % 
sailor, had simply taken over the prison of the King of La-; math as 
the headquarters for the new faith that Pelmen ;f" had established. He 
never called himself the Prophet that :, * honor he reserved for 
Pelmen. But Peimen called him that, > and so did everyone else. Like 
it or not, Erri answered to the name. 


But he never really felt worthy of the title. He missed 


Pelmen and longed to see him again. The longing to be near his absent 
friend had caused him to choose this cell tfor his private residence. 
Here they had spent their most 'fruitful hours together when he, Rosha, 
and Bronwynn had been imprisoned with Pelmen by the command of the 
Priestess, Serphimera. As they'd awaited Pelmen's certain execution, 
the real Prophet had taught him to read the weird runes in which the 
ancient book had been written. it. The ancient book! It sat on a 
simple table near the small, j?v barred window. The sun streamed in 
upon it, throwing the: table's shadow on the straw-covered floor. The 
day was cloudy and, as the clouds passed overhead, the light around the 
table seemed to dim, then brighten, then dim again. 


"My faith is like that," Erri murmured honestly. For though he was now 
the most respected religious leader in Lamath, there were times when 
the Power seemed very remote. He had learned to tolerate silence from 
the Power. He hadn't learned to tolerate faithlessness from himself. 


He roused himself out of his ruminations and looked at the cluttered 
desk before him. This and the table of the book were the only 
additions he had made to the cell and they were its only furnishings. 
The desk was a necessary addition, for it seemed these days his life 
was filled with paperwork sending and receiving messages from the 
vizier of the King, answering requests for sky faith initiates to come 
educate new masses of the population, appointing supervisors of new 
work, authorizing the destruction of dragon statues all coming or going 
on paper. Sometimes his old sailor's tongue grew exceptionally salty 
as he reviled the absent Pelmen for sticking him with this 
responsibility. But he usually meant it all in good-natured 
aggravation, for Pelmen had been right about Erri's gifts. Erri had 
spent his life on the sea, but in his heart he had ever been a man of 
letters. It irked him, though, that he had to spend so much time 
writing, and so little reading! From where he sat, his sharp eyes 
could see the dust settling on the book's ornate cover! 


He was also a man of action. He'd been first mate too long to shirk a 
duty when he saw one. He'd quickly learned that the King was as 
dependable as any of the host of captains he'd served under that is, 
not very. He had met the King only once, when he returned from 
Dragonsgate with the news of Vicia-Heinox' death, and he remembered 
that the man had trembled throughout the interview. The vizier had 



explained later that Erri was the first person the King had seen in 
over three years. It seemed the man was scared to death of people. 
Asher, the Chieftain of Defense, had run the country in the King's 
place. But Asher had been killed by the dragon. Erri had seen the 
need and accepted the responsibility. All of Lamath had been turned 
upside down in the turmoil. Erri set about righting it again. 


One of the first orders of business had been the smashing of the dragon 
statues. He'd marched from one end of Lamath to the other, leading a 
troop of idol-smashers who destroyed every symbol of the old 
Dragonfaith that they 


could find. His light blue robe, the color of the sky, had caused 
Lamathians to term this reformation movement the sky faith Erri agreed 
to the term, so long as it was made dear that he and the others clad in 
sky blue did not worship the sky, as those of the earlier religion had 
worshiped the dragon. 


This destruction was not accomplished without incident. There were 
occasional clashes between skyfaithers and those of the old order 
followers of Serphimera, who signaled their allegiance with dark blue 
gowns. Erri was hard pressed to prevent bloodshed at one point he'd 
only stopped it by clubbing his own people over the head with the book. 
His gracious treatment of those who held other views seemed to 
contradict his image as a statue-smasher, but soon it began to dominate 
Lamath's conversation about him. 


Erri sighed and looked over at the door. Though his love and tolerance 
had carried the day at last, he hadn't prevented the disappearance of 
Serphimera. That woman had traveled through the land as quickly as he 
had, rallying the surviving unionists with a new theology. He'd heard 
it everywhere. "The dragon is us! We are the dragon!" What it meant, 
exactly, he couldn't fathom. He hoped Pelmen would pop back around 
sometime soon to fill him in. 


But mostly he hoped Serpbimera would be found. Though he'd tried, Erri 
couldn't be everywhere at once. Though he'd beaten his sky-clad 
followers off one day, he'd been somewhere else the next, and 
religionists of both light and dark hues had clashed and wrestled and 
bled. The tales of intolerance made. him weep. The stories of 
persecutions made him rage. In the name of the Power, people had 
killed people, and Erri learned during long, bitter nights of mourning 
that he couldn't reform a nation in a moment. By the time the dust had 
settled, Serphimera had disappeared. Murdered, he wondered? Imprisoned 
in the basement of some so-called believer? Erri sighed. 


He heard a flutter of wings at the window, and glanced up in time to 
see a blue blur dart into his cell and settle onto the cover of the 
book. "Here now! You can't do that!" he shouted, pointed toward the 
bird, and it obligingly left the book and shot over to perch on his 
extended finger, Well. I guess that means you're for me." Erri raised 
his finger and peered under the creature, looking for a message on the 
flyer's legs. "Where's your letter? Did you lose it?" The bird just 
looked at him, and Erri shook his head. "Probably wasn't properly tied 
on. Go on with you," he ordered, and he tossed the bird toward the 
window. The blue-flyer circled the cell, and came back to land on 
Erri's shoulder. "I said, go on" the former sailor growled, and he 
pulled the little bird off its perch and marched to the window. He 
tossed it out the bars, and returned to his stack of work. A moment 
later it was back again, settling comfortably onto his head. "What's 



your problem, bird?" Erri roared, and he started to grab the flyer 
again. Then it registered. "Oh!" he nodded. "You're from Pelmen!" 
He let the creature maintain its perch in his graying locks and 
concentrated, trying to read the thoughts Pelmen had placed in its 
little mind. He cleared all other concerns away, and waited .. . 


It took only a moment for the flyer to rid itself of its mental burden. 
Its mind erased, it swooped out the window, seeking some seeds and some 
sleep. It left a perplexed Prophet in its wake. 


Erri thought for only a moment, then he sprinted for his door, hurled 
it open, and shouted, "Send me Naquinl" Then he walked back to the 
book, and fingered its ornate covering. He said nothing he was trying 
to cull the salt out of his speech but his thoughts were dark and 
angry. The picture of Rosha, bound and hooded, infuriated him, and the 
mention of Serphimera deepened his fears. He tilted his head back to 
glance at the beams of light that illuminated the dancing dust. "I 
hope you know what you're doing," he muttered. The book felt 
reassuring under his palm. 


"Prophet?" someone called from the door. 


"Come in, my friend." A gaunt skyfaither entered the room, and stood 
humbly before him. "Don't do that," Erri said, waving his arms toward 
the piles of straw. "Drop on the straw, sit on the floor, but don't 
stand there looking at me so formally." As be watched the initiate 
find a seat, Erri chuckled and added, "If I'd wanted formality, 
Na-quin, I would have moved into your place to begin with." 


Naquin smiled piously. "You would have found it terribly boring, I 
did." 


"That's why you took to the drinking?" 


"In part. Partly it was the great pressure I was under to try to 
sustain the worship of a self-serving, destructive monster I didn't 
really believe to be a god." 


Erri lowered his eyes. By now, everyone in Lamath had beard the story 
of Naquin's transformation. Formerly the High Priest of the 
Dragonfaith, he had worn the jewelled hood of office through the final 
days of Vicia-Heinox' destructive life. By the time Erri returned from 
Dragonsgate with the news of the dragon's death, Naquin had 
disappeared. Mobs of angry citizens rushed toward the temple to 
destroy it, but found that Erri had boarded it up. The High Priest 
couldn't be found. 


One night, on a walk through those ancient alleyways he'd come to know 
well as a sailor, Erri had found Naquin , drunk in a mud puddle and 
cursed him for a fool. ':' "I certainly got hot at you that night, 
didn't I?" Erri chuckled. 


"It was necessary, Prophet, that I see the error of my ways, and be set 
on the proper path " 


^ "Pardon me, Naquin, for interrupting you, but you've lived around 
religion all your life, and you know a lot of these religious terms 
that don't mean much to the rest of us. I know you want to sound 
pious, but just speak your 



/ mind, as you did the night I found you. May not sound holy, but 
you'll make a lot more sense." 


In actual fact, Naquin had struggled to his feet that night and cursed 
Erri right back. Then the two had gone off together for a long 
discussion about religious matters. It was a curious conversation. 
Naquin knew all the words and concepts, and Erri knew almost nothing. 
But Erri knew the Power and Naquin didn't. Naquin didn't discover 
until the next morning that he'd been talking to the Prophet himself 
and later on that same day he put on the sky robe for the first time. 


"I apologize, Prophet. My past experience " 


Torget it." Erri shrugged, meaning more than just to ; forget the 
moment. But men don't change overnight either. Any news of 
Serphimera?" Erri asked. 


No direct word just the same information we've been 


-. hearing for weeks. She traveled so fast that it's hard to be sure, 
but it seems she was last seen in the southern region. 


T&t Wizard f* Waiting 


I'm beginning to believe like everyone else that she passed 
Dragonsgate." Erri nodded. "Why not just let her go?" Naquin asked. 
"I met the woman and had a chance to see how very dangerous she could 
be! Do you really want to bring her back?" 


Erri graced Naquin with a slow smile. "I'd wager that if the Priestess 
could see you now, she'd say you were dangerous, too!" He stood up, 
and walked behind his desk. He picked up a piece of straw and absently 
began cleaning his ears with it. "Trouble is, in the face of the 
dragon's savagery, she still maintains her devotion to the beast. I 
can't understand it. I only know that Pelmen said we must love her out 
of it, and we can't do that if we don't know where she is." 


Naquin said nothing. Though he'd never revealed it to his master, he 
did not care for Pelmen never had liked him since the first night he 
laid eyes on the man, here in this very dungeon, and found he was a 
disguised power-shaper. Naquin's priestly father had bred him to 
despise power shapers and Pelmen was no exception. Never mind that 
Erri considered the man a Prophet Naquin knew better, and if the 
opportunity ever arose, he intended to expose the man for what he truly 
was. 


Erri sighed, then went on: "Much as I hate to admit it, I fear you're 
right about her passing Dragonsgate. But which direction? Did she go 
to Chaomonous or to Ngandib-Mar? I don't have a hint. That's why I've 
decided to send you as my envoy to one of the royal courts to find 
out." 


Naquin's eyes widened in surprise. "Which one?" 


"A good question, and one I've been studying for days. Now, 
Ngandib-Mar is a land of free-spirited folk who are terribly 
superstitious. Certainly the woman would find a hearing there, more 
easily than among the cocksure, cockeyed Chaons." 


"A reasonable guess." 



"On the other hand, the woman loathes power shapers as we both know .. 
." Erri studied Naquin's reactions as he went on. "... A feeling I 
believe you share with her?" 


"Never trust a power shaper my master. They'll turn on you every 
time." 


"So you've said before. And Ngandib-Mar seems to be full of them. Has 
she gone south instead? That's what I 


want to know. There's more to it than that, however. We have .. . 
friends ... in Chaomonous who inform me that the land is ripe to be 
claimed for the skyf aith." 


"Then I'm bound for Chaomonous?" the former High Priest asked. 


Erri nodded. "I want you to take a group of initiates with you to 
scatter throughout the countryside. Let them begin spreading the 
precepts of the book and explaining the Power. I want you, however, to 
report directly to Queen Ligne's castle. Chaomonous has a court full 
of snobs. Please take no offense in this, Naquin, but you'll fit right 
in. Your manners and training even your fancy words suit you admirably 
for the court of that Queen." Erri's eyebrows knitted, and he leaned 
down toward Naquin. "Besides, you're experienced at intrigue, and it 
seems that's essential to life in her castle. Once inside the Imperial 
House, you are to find the fool. Do whatever he tells you." 


Naquin's eyes flew open. "What?" 


"That's right, the fool whoever answers to that name. He's our .. . 
friend." Erri gazed into Naquin's eyes. "Wilt you do it?" 


"How could I refuse my Prophet?" 


Erri smiled, clasped Naquin's hands warmly, and pulled him to his feet. 
"Go with my blessings," Erri ordered. "And remember. You represent 
the Power now not yourself." 


"It seems we always meet in dungeons," said the woman. 


"Shh .. ." Pelmen hissed, looking up at the stairway. 


"Don't concern yourself with the noise. Those above us can't hear what 
takes place down here. That's why the Queen had me put in this lower 
dungeon. So she and I could speak privately." 


"But why are you here?" Pelmen whispered. "Why are you in her 
prison?" 


"It appears that I am the Queen's .. . confidant. She's a woman with 
deep spiritual needs she comes to me for ; comfort." 


"She keeps her confidant in the dungeon?" 


"She is also a woman of great insecurities." 


Pelmen peered through the bars that crosshatched the Window in 
Serphimera's door, and gazed into those emerald eyes that had entranced 
him so many months before. His mind wandered, stunned by the sheer joy 



of seeing her face once again. Then he remembered where he was, and 
his white forehead knitted in concern. "How did you know me?" he 
asked cautiously. 


Her half-grin took him by surprise. He had never before seen 
Serphimera smile. "How indeed? How do you think, Prophet? Or should 
I say player? The silly white grease on your face doesn't befit a 
supposed holy man." 


Pelmen's heart sagged. "You know ... so much .. ." he began. 


"Oh, I know a great deal about you. Ligne's told me all she remembers, 
and I've given her an earful as well." Serphimera's eyebrows arched 
disdainfully. "I let her know exactly what I thought of you. And of 
course, she agreed." Serphimera walked back into her cell. Pelmen had 
a chance now to see into it, and was surprised again. It was well 
furnished, with a hand-carved headboard and a large bed, a desk, 
several chairs, and a rich rug. A dozen silver candlesticks lined the 
walls. Ligne obviously kept her in style. 


"You still blame me for the death of the dragon," he said softly. 


"Shouldn't I?" she asked over her shoulder. Her long black hair 
coursed down her back, and the flickering candlelight enhanced her 
delicate beauty. Hers was not the blatant prettiness, the 
sophisticated sensuousness of Ligne. Serphimera's features were at 
once mysterious and innocent Where Ligne called out of men a hot, 
objective lust, Serphimera warmed the spirit. Her eyes were open 
windows to her feelings, for Serphimera never hid anything she thought. 
She broadcast her emotions to any who would listen with their eyes and 
Pelmen listened now to her anger. "You killed him." 


"He would have eaten you." 


"I longed for him to!" 


"You longed to be one with the Power. That wasn't the way." 


"The Power!" she spat. "What has this Power done for Lamath? Stripped 
her of her god and cast her spinning into a sea of faithlessness! 
Every shrine is destroyed, every monastery scattered! Is this what your 
Power does?" 


"If it must to reach through to the people " "I was reaching the 
people!" the woman cried, and she turned away from him again to walk 
to the blank wall on the far side of the room. 


Pelmen looked nervously behind him at the stairway. It occurred to him 
then that in all his days in dungeons he'd never once seen a guard 
respond to a prisoner's shouting with anything other than apathy. He 
looked back into the cell. "And that's why you're here?" 


"I came to urge the Queen to march on Lamath, to rid the land of 
heretics and reinstitute the worship of Lord Dragon." 


Pelmen waited through a long pause. 


"She laughed at me," Serphimera finished. 


Pelmen waited another moment before he spoke. "I never did that," he 



said. 
Serphimera sat on the bed. "When I told her the Lord Dragon would burn 
her palace for her disobedience, she laughed again but she also ordered 


me to be brought here. It was only later that she began to come and 
talk to me." 
"Made you her confidant." 
"Exactly." Serphimera gestured at the room. "She treats me well." 
Pelmen smothered his rage at the Queen, and whispered resolutely, "I'll 


get you out." 


"Oh, no need of that," Serphimera said. She stood up and walked toward 
him. "I shall leave this castle as I came in ... walking freely." 
"But how do you " 
"How do I know? The same way I knew you were coming, Prophet. I had a 


vision." 
Pelmen had brushed with Serphimera's visions before. Whatever their 
source, they tended to come true. Her words made him feel very 


vulnerable. "Serphimera .. . do you .. . tell the Queen your 
visions?" 
The Priestess looked away. "Most of them. That's one reason she comes 


to call. Among other things, she seems to see me as some sort of 
fortune teller." Serphimera bit down on the words. "The humiliation 
of it! Priestess of the dragon, viewed in the same light as a Mari wit 
cher woman!" 


"Have you told her about my disguise?" 
Serphimera met his eyes, "No." 
Pelmen experienced a flood of relief. "Why not?" 
Her gaze remained fixed. "I think we both know the answer to that." 
Her lips looked lovely. He wanted to kiss them. 
As if reading his mind, Serphimera backed away and crossed her arms. 


She fixed her features in an imitation of scorn but her eyes told a 


different tale altogether. 
"I don't suppose your vision told you how you'll manage to walk out as 
freely as you came?" 


"No." 
"Then is it possible that I might play some part in that event?" 
"Perhaps." 
"Fine. Then " 
"But I doubt it." 



Pelmen looked at her, puzzled. "Why?" 


"Because you came crawling in through a tunnel. Knowing something of 
your previous antics, I daresay you would expect me to crawl out of 
this dungeon on my belly." 


"And you wouldn't do that," he countered. 


"That wasn't in the vision." 


Pelmen bit his lip in consternation, and thought for a moment. "You 
knew I was coming. Is there anything else you know that might help 
me?" 


Serphimera smiled. "That all depends on what it is you're trying to 
do." 


"I came down here expecting to find the Lady Bron-wynn. She's the 
rightful heir to the throne of this arrogant land, and I'd like to see 
her on it." 


Serphimera's nostrils flared slightly at the mention of the Princess' 
name. "Bronwynn. Isn't she the rude little girl who followed you so 
devoutly?" 


"She was one of my initiates, yes you met her with me in the dungeon of 
Lamath." 


"And if she's crowned, what will that make you?" Scr-pbimera asked, 
her lips curling into the tiniest of sneers. "The new king?" 


Pelmen laughed aloud. He hadn't meant to, it just came out. He 
clapped his hand across his face and stepped swiftly to the base of the 
stairwell to listen. Then he came back, still chuckling at the idea. 
He laughed harder when he saw the glare on Serphimera's face. 


"Well?" she snapped angrily. 


"No," he chuckled. "There's a lad upstairs who'd take my head off in a 
stroke if I tried." Pelmen's smile softened from mirth to one of 
concern. "I just want to restore to this land a little peace and 
security." 


"As you did to Lamath?" she snapped. 


If you know anything of Bronwynn, my Lady, I urgently request you share 
it" His face had turned grim as grim as was possible in white face, 
anyway. Serphimera had to smile at that. His serious expression 
remained, however, and she grew solemn as well. 


"She spent many days in the pit at the far end of the corridor. The 
Queen treated her as badly as she's treated me well. I heard her 
groans each night. Then one night I heard them no more. I feared she 
was dead, but the Queen shared with me later the information that 
someone had snatched her out of the dungeon. She told me whom she 
suspected, and I'm dismayed to have to relay it, for I travelled with 
the man and know him for a cruel, lying unbeliever. His " 


"How wonderful!" Pelmen snarled, for be knew immediately whom she 
meant. "We're stuck in Ligne's dungeon, and Bronwynn's in the hands of 



Admon Fayel" 


CHAPTER THIRTEEN 


An Ancient Spell 


"My ARM is TIRED!" Bronwynn yelled. 


"Do you think an enemy will hold off and let you rest it?" Admon Faye 
challenged, then he swung his mock blade around savagely to crack 
across Bronwynn's left shoulder. "Come girl. Parry or feel pain." 


Bronwynn hurled her wooden weapon away, and it clacked off the stone 
floor several times before coming to rest against the wall. "Now both 
my shoulders ache," she snarled, and she grabbed them with opposing 
hands and began massaging. Admon Faye raised his weapon as if to 
strike again. "Go aheadl" she screamed belligerently. "Beat me black 
and blue!" 


He lowered his practice sword and grinned at her. "I'm just trying to 
teach you to defend yourself " 


"Maybe I don't want to learn to defend myself today!" 


"Pick up the sword and return to work!" he ordered her. "We haven't 
much time!" 


"You haven't much time," Bronwynn snarled, turning her back on him. "I 
have plenty. Owl" she yelped suddenly as the slaver whacked her 
across the rump. 


"You're lazy," Admon Faye grunted. "I'm offering you a kingdom, girl. 
Don't you consider it worth a bruise or two to be the Queen?" 


"Queen!" she snapped. "What kind of rule could I have, with you and 
Flayh constantly looking over my shoulder? That's no reign just a new 
kind of captivity!" 


You're a child. You still believe it possible to be free." 


Bronwynn rubbed her shoulders and sulked. "No, I don't." 


Admon Faye glanced up at her jutting lip, and snickered. "Pining for 
your boyfriend? He's not pining for you." 


"You shut up about Rosha!" 


"Why should I?" the slaver sneered. "I speak only what I heard from 
the magic glass .. . perhaps my lady missed that?" he mocked. 


"I didn't miss it!" Bronwynn flared. "I just don't believe it!" 


"And why is that?" he baited her. "Oh, don't tell me. Let me guess. 
Your Rosha lad is too pure to sully himself with such a scheming, 
wicked woman. Right this minute he's in a room somewhere in your 
father's old castle, weeping romantically for you, his only love." 


"Rosha doesn't weep," Bronwynn muttered, her head turned away from 
him. 



Admon Faye hooted. "You believe that?" he laughed harshly. "You 
actually believe he's faithful and pure?" 


"Why shouldn't I believe it?" she roared. 


The slaver's face turned incredibly hard. "Because that's not the way 
life is, little girl. And underneath that pout, you know it's not." 


Bronwynn whirled away from him and walked over to stare angrily out at 
the sleazy gray sky. This practice session had been scheduled for the 
courtyard, but the weather had refused to cooperate, dropping showers 
on the keep from early morning throughout the afternoon. The snow that 
had frosted the ground for months had melted away, leaving behind a 
thick, black muck in place of the court. The change in climate made it 
as miserable inside the castle as it was outside. Bronwynn's soaking 
practice garb dung uncomfortably to her sticky back. But if her body 
felt as if she'd been swimming in a swamp, it couldn't compare to the 
murky wasteland inside her soul. She fought to hold the tears down, 
but they were there salty tears that struggled to push their way into 
her cheeks, to add their small contribution to her misery. 


"Face it. That boy is having the time of his life!" the slaver 
cackled lustfully. "He's learning things that " 


Bronwynn shot like a blur across the room to scratch viciously for the 
slaver's eyes. She was no match for Ad-mon Faye. He slung her past 
him to ram into the wall. She slumped to her knees in pain and leaned 
against it. Those tears that had threatened to drizzle now fell in a 
flood. 


Admon Faye walked over to stand above the sobbing Princess. "Get up," 
he snarled contemptuously. "Get up, and pick up that weapon. I'll 
teach you how to take some faide off that woman! Wouldn't you like 
that? To have Ligne's delicate neck at the cutting edge of your 
blade?" 


Bronwynn's tears subsided, but the hot pain in the back of her throat 
remained. She thought for a moment of Ligne. She focused her mind on 
a mental image of the woman's mocking smile and hated her. But when 
Rosha edged into that picture alongside Ligne, Bronwynn's feelings of 
hurt and betrayal overpowered her hatred, robbing her of the will to 
fight. Her tears flooded anew. 


Admon Faye stepped back, a bit chagrined. He'd never seen the girl 
weep before, and it surprised him. As waves of despair swept 
Bronwynn's body, raising the pitch of her sobs, the slaver turned his 
attention to other matters. He'd caused a host of people to cry in the 
course of his career and recognized that point when tears made further 
work impossible. He left her sobbing and went hunting for Flayh. 


Finding the power shaper took some time. No one seemed to know where 
he was. Pezi suggested the library, but if Flayh were inside, he 
didn't respond. Admon Faye strolled slowly through the hall, looking 
carefully at each of the dogs who scrambled up to meet him, but saw no 
unusual intelligence in the eyes of any of them. He wrapped his cloak 
around him and walked out into the drizzle. 


As he stepped carefully around the deepest puddles, he noticed a small 
figure standing on the battlements above him. The man didn't even 
bother to cover his bald pate. It took a few moments for Admon Faye to 



climb up to him. "Enjoying the rain?" the slaver asked with cruel 
humor. 


The in "Waiting 


"I was enjoying the privacy," Flayh responded without looking at him. 


"We have business to conclude, you and I." Admon Faye frowned. "I 
thought you were interested in haste." 


"I was," Flayh mumbled. "I was. Until I destroyed all possibility of 
my plan's success with my too hasty temper." 


"Why, I thought you acted with great moderation," Admon Faye mocked. 


"The Council in an uproar, the conclave dispersed prematurely " Flayh 
shook his head. "A tragedy. And all because of this young 
Tahli-Damen." 


"You surprise me, Flayh. For a power shaper you seem to have a limited 
imagination." 


Flayh looked at the slaver and raised an eyebrow. "Explain." 


"So the rest of the merchants know, now, that you're a wizard. Why 
should that matter?" 


The houses are split!" Flayh's eyes flashed indignantly. "Nothing 
could be worse for business than inter house rivalry. Tahli-Damen was 
right about that, at least." 


"You merchants." Admon Faye snickered. "So tied up in your cliques 
and Councils that you can't see the world as it is. Take a hard look, 
Flayh!" The slaver gestured across Wcstmouth Plain. "The world. It's 
free for the taking. And you and I, we have the power to take our 
share. I never played any of your merchant games, and I've done all 
right." 


"And yet you wanted a seat on the Council," Flayh reminded him. 


"On my own terms and for my own purposes. I still do. Relax, Flayh. 
You've done no irreparable damage to your precious Council, just shook 
it up a bit. A power shift was inevitable, after the dragon. Your 
little fireworks display just let these others know what kind of forces 
they're dealing with." 


"You are bold and inventive, Admon Faye, but you lack experience in 
dealing with merchant minds. The Council of Elders is damaged, and if 
it should be reconstituted in the days to come, I fear the house of 
Ognadzu will no longer be welcomed. Jagd and Ligne have locked me out 
of Chao-mo nous Pelmen the Prophet has chased me from Lamath, 


21J 


and our dominance in this land is threatened by this same 
Tahli-Damen." 


"Since when have you concerned yourself with mere business matters?" 


"That's just it. I've spent so much time improving my skill at shaping 



that I've let my family business fail." 


Admon Faye smirked, and shrugged. "So it fails. Don't worry, Flayh. 
You can always get work as the court pow-ershaper in the High 
Fortress." 


"What?" 


The slaver shook his head. "Pardon my jest. It just seems so out of 
character to see the ruler of the mighty house of Ognadzu bemoan his 
family's fortunes." 


"What were you saying about a High Fortress?" 


Admon Faye chuckled. "Over a year ago, the family of Pahd asked me to 
find them a power shaper to heal King Pahd of his laziness. They 
wanted Pelmen, actually " 


"Pelmen." Flayh spat. 


"He's not my favorite either," Admon Faye said grimly. "This twisted 
visage of mine is a gift he gave me long ago." 


"Pelmen did that?" Flayh asked. 


"Let's say he played a role in its shaping. But that's another story. 
I came out here to " 


"Did you find them a power shaper 


"The Pahds? No. Why such interest in this? I was only making a 
joke!" 


"So you were. You were trying to assure me that our plan will succeed, 
in any case, and that the fortunes of my house will soon be 
restored." 


"I guarantee it. Perhaps these other houses do mistrust you, but with 
my band in control of Dragonsgate, they're in no position to threaten 
us." 


"You're unafraid of the combined might of the merchant Council?" 


"Not if I have as an ally the most populous of the houses." Admon Faye 
grinned back. "For all your moaning, you certainly don't deny that you 
could field a formidable army from your cousins alone. And which 
merchant would be fool enough to challenge it, when he knows it's led 
by a proven wizard?" 


Flayh nodded. "You're probably right." 


"I am right," snorted Admon Faye. "You may depend on it." 


"I do, slaver!" Flayh said quickly. "Indeed, I do. For if this plan 
fails, I may be forced to seek employment elsewhere, doing 
dragon-knows-what. I assume your rough-. necks are already in 
place?" 


"You mean the members of my house?" Admon Faye asked. 



Flayh chuckled a malicious laugh coming from low in his throat. "Yes. 
I mean your family. Are those your chosen colors?" He nodded toward 
the sweaty garments Admon Faye wore. The slaver's tunic was a dull 
gray. His leggings were an equally drab green. 


"I thought them appropriate." Admon Faye grinned, 


"Brutally ugly," said Flayh, meeting the slaver's eyes. 


Admon Faye smiled no longer. "As I said. Appropriate. Also 
practical. These are the colors of the Great South Fir. A hundred 
times I've watched your riders move through my forest, completely 
oblivious to my presence. But of course, they looked so noble, so 
prosperous in their blue and lime tunics. Very favorable targets, to 
be sure." 


"What you wear is of no concern to me. What you do is Flayh raised an 
inquiring eyebrow. 


"Yes, my band is in place." 


"Fine. And the girl?" 


Tm working with her." 


"Don't rush her. I learned that with Ligne. I paved her a path to the 
throne room of Chaomonous because she seemed empty-headed and pliable 
enough to be controllable later." 


"Oh?" Admon Faye smiled. "Ligne believes she came to : her exalted 
position entirely on her own." 


**I realize she does. And the mudgecurdle Jagd has encouraged her to 
think so, milking her at will. That's why I Want him dead as soon as 
possible, and her, too." Flayh sighed. "I never guessed things would 
turn out as they did. : That's why this time, I want to be certain the 
girl knows }'," ijcbo her masters are before we give her the crown!" . 
i|>: "She's learning." Admon Faye snickered. life' "Be certain, 
before you move. Speed is important, yes, not as important as 
success!" 


"You're talking to me, Flayh, not Pezi," Admon Faye responded, 
annoyance showing in his voice. 


"Forgive me," Flayh said, shaking his head. "I've been surrounded by 
my dense relations so long, I've had to make a habit of double-checking 
their every move. When the girl is ready and I leave that decision to 
you notify me by flyer. Of course, once you've disposed of Jagd, we'll 
have a more direct link of communication." 


"You mean the other pyramid." 


"I do. Pezi will retain his. He's an oaf, of course, but an 
occasional burst of savage cunning has convinced me to keep him around. 
Besides, he's in the family, and thoroughly tame, and he shuts up when 
I tell him to. I didn't enjoy the period of Tohn's possession of the 
object. My dead cousin had an inflated moral sense something I trust 
you've never been plagued with?" The slaver guffawed at that, and 
Flayh nodded. "Nor have I. Three nights after you toss the bird to say 
you're ready, Pezi and I will be watching our pyramids. That should 



give you time to capture the castle and seize Jagd's crystal .. . ?" 
Flayh left the question dangling, his eyes asking for yet another 
assurance that this plot would succeed. 


"I'll be there. And our little Lady Bronwynn will be on her throne." 


"I do hope so." Flayh nodded "I've been surrounded lately by people 
who have disappointed me. I have confidence you're made of sterner 
stuff. You're leaving for the pass in the morning?" 


"That's the plan." 


Flayh looked at the skies. "Maybe the weather will clear up. If I 
don't see you before then, I wish you well in your journey. Now if 
you'll excuse me, I have some urgent business in my library." 


Admon Faye watched the wrinkled merchant scurry away, and scramble 
eagerly down from the battlements. Flayh puzzled him. He wondered if 
he should be worried, then dismissed the thought. "He's a power shaper 
the slaver said to himself, "and all power shapers are a bit 
strange." 


He made his own way down the slick steps, and back into the practice 
hall. He found Bronwynn still lying on the floor. He decided to try 
the soft approach. He walked over 


Wi *r in Waiting and knelt beside her, reaching out to touch her 
shoulder. "I don't suppose you've cried yourself to sleep, have 
you?" 


"No." 


You've been thinking about what I said." "Yes," she said after a 
moment. 


*Tve been thinking about what you said, too. And I think I can 
understand. Of course you don't feel like recapturing a crown when 
you've lost your lover. But tell me this. After what we all heard 
Jagd say the other day, if you could have your Rosha here right now, 
what would you do?" 


Bronwynn sniffed, and growled, "I'd kick him in the teeth!" 


Admon Faye chuckled. The low, soothing tone of his voice contrasted 
sharply with his words, as he said, "Oh, but I'm going to teach you how 
to get much better vengeance than that Here ..." He handed her the 
wooden practice sword again. His calm manner planted the seed deeply 
in Bronwynn's mind. Like the grass outside responding to the warmth of 
spring, the notion of vengeance took root and grew. 


The next morning the sun came out. The rain was gone, blown eastward 
in the night to Ngandib. Strong, cool winds continued to rip the plain 
this morning. Bronwynn had been bundled aboard her horse by Flayh's 
servants, and now she and Admon Faye rode from Castle Tohn against a 
heavy gale that seemed resolved to blow them back inside. She squinted 
against the whistling gusts, looking up at the crags of Dragonsgate, 
outlined sharply against the cloudless sky. Snow still topped those 
peaks, but the hills below bore the unmistakable signs of early spring. 
There was green everywhere across this Westmouth Plain as far as she 
could see; up in the high valley that formed the heart of the pass 



itself; and tufting every patch of ground that clung tenuously to the 
faces of the cliffs. The wind made her eyes blur and, in the same 
breath, stirred every branch and blade. For a moment it seemed that 
all the world was astir With the writhing and twisting of living green 
beings. Amid the emerald shimmer of life, the mountains stood cold and 
A firm. But the shrubs and the grasses bore brilliant witness 
immutable truth proven anew with each cycle of the -that life will not 
be denied. Less than a year before, 


The Wizard i Waiting 


Vicia-Heinox had burned every green thing from this, his ancient home. 
Only a few short days ago, the pass had been clogged with snow. But 
the snow had melted the dragon was dead and the grass lived on and 
grew. 


Freed of the castle's stifling closeness, Bronwynn inhaled a deep 
draught of the heady new possibilities before her. She was alive, she 
was young, and after months of hopeless captivity she at last had a 
chance to claim her rightful inheritance. For the few moments of their 
windswept ride she forgot Admon Faye completely and dreamed again the 
dreams of her girlhood, dreams that had been born long ago in the warm 
security of her father's court. But her exhilaration was fleeting. 
Thoughts of her father's house led inevitably to thoughts of Rosha, and 
the fresh, clean air of freedom turned stale and lifeless in the wake 
of those memories. 


Her tears of the day before had been an exception. Bronwynn had never 
been much of a crier. She didn't weep now, though the hard lump in her 
throat might have been eased by the cleansing of tears. Instead she 
set her jaw and scorned the sen she'd been when she'd loved the 
stuttering warrior. "He'll pay," she muttered between clenched teeth. 
Then she lashed her horse needlessly and leaned low over its neck. 


Admon Faye glanced over at her in time to see her lips move. His grim 
smile went unseen, and he turned his attention back to the oncoming 
pass. Already a knot of gray-clad riders formed a line abreast the 
narrowest stretch of Dragonsgate's Westmouth. They knew him and the 
girl. They were only following his explicit orders not to let anyone 
approach the pass without stopping them with a show of force. As his 
sharp eyes searched the line, he saw a struggle evolving among a group 
of unmounted warriors to his right. He turned his reins in that 
direction and spurred his horse toward the disturbance. 


"I tell you I belong to Admon Faye!" a lank character he didn't 
recognize was shouting. The man wrestled to free himself from the sure 
grip of two of the slaver's trusted comrades. Another stranger, a 
squat fellow who wore an expression of sheer disgust, no longer 
struggled against his captors. It was this short bandit who first 
noticed Admon Faye's approach. The man seemed to sigh in 
resignation. 


"You belong to me?" Admon Faye asked. The tall stranger twisted 
around to smile up at his hero. Pinter's smile froze on his face at 
his first glimpse of the slaver's monumental ugliness. Admon Faye let 
him stare a moment. Then he demanded, "Well?" 


"Ah yes!" Pinter said with forced brightness. "That is, I long to be 
" 



"These two attacked us when we rode into the pass," a wrinkled old 
slaver grunted. "Claimed they were members of your band and demanded 
tribute in your name." 


"I told you they were cutthroats," Tibb whispered to his wildly 
grinning companion. 


"And we meant it!" Pinter defended. "We have some tribute to offer 
you!" 


"Dent " Tibb snapped, trying to stop his cohort before Peter got the 
words out. Failing, he winced, sighed, then shook his head. 


"Tribute?" Admon Faye asked. "Show me." Pinter grinned proudly. 
"Show him, Tibb." Tibb's expression of rueful disgust returned, as he 
jerked ian arm free from one of his captors, reached into his shoulder 
pouch, and pulled out three copper coins. He held them out to the 
slaver. 


Admon Faye gazed at Tibb's palm. "That's it?" "That's it," Tibb 
muttered matter-of-factly. "We would have had more," Pinter explained 
sheepishly, but somebody robbed us." 


Admon Faye still stared at the coins. "I could get more than that just 
by selling your bodies for tugolith fodder!" "Didn't I tell you?" Tibb 
sighed to his friend. "Please, Lord Faye!" Pinter begged, dropping to 
his knees at the slaver's feet. "I realize we don't appear very likely 
prospects for your band, but you've got to understand you've arrived at 
a difficult time for us. We're actually much better outlaws than we 
appear!" 


Admon Faye winked at his fellows. "Lord Faye. I like that" 


We actually had a tidy sum accumulated to present to you. We were just 
outsmarted by a fiendish Mari free trader who got us so interested in 
one of his metal pots we didn't notice when be took off with our bag 
of 


Tkt Wizard in Wailing 


"I see." Admon Faye nodded with mock gravity. "And you still have 
this pot?" 


Pinter and Tibb exchanged pained expressions, then Tibb blurted out, 
"Actually, we sold it the next day to another trader for these three 
pence." Tibb shrugged. "We're not bad thieves, really. Just terrible 
businessmen." 


"But we can handle our swords," Pinter inserted proudly. 


Admon Faye raised a hairy eyebrow at his grizzled lieutenant. The man 
nodded. "They gave us a go before we overpowered them." 


The slaver glanced back at the two forlorn thieves, obviously amused. 
"You want to join my band, yet battle with my warriors?" 


"How were we to know they really belonged to you?" Tibb barked. "Just 
because they said so doesn't make it so. We're living proof!" 


"Presently living," the brutal slaver corrected. "With no guarantee 



that will continue." Admon Faye stalked around the two would-be 
recruits, examining them as a horse trader inspects his livestock. 
Finally he snorted and muttered, "Very well. You may present your 
swords to me." 


Pinter cleared his throat. "We would, however " 


"However what?" 


"Your men took 'em away from us!" Tibb growled. 


Admon Faye glanced at his warriors, and they quickly passed the two 
thieves their weapons. In a time-honored gesture the two knelt and 
held their blades out before them. They contrasted sharply. Lanky 
Pinter offered his polished sword proudly, a smile of victory lighting 
up his face. Barrel-shaped Tibb, on the other hand, still wore his 
look of disgust as he offered his bent and battered blade to his new 
master. Admon Faye noted the odd angle of Tibb's weapon and chortled 
uncontrollably, slapping his companions, who also cackled at the sight. 
Then the slaver clamed himself and asked in ritual fashion, "Your 
names?" 


"I am Pinter," Pinter said grandly. 


"I'm Tibb," his friend grunted. 


"Very well. I accept your service .. . Pinter the proud, and Tibb the 
twisted .. ." Here he convulsed again with mirth, and couldn't 
continue. 


"Go on with you," instructed Admon Faye's wrinkled companion. "You 
know where the soup pot is Pinter and Tibb rose hurriedly then, and 
made their way up the pass to the spot where the slavers had pitched 
camp. 


Admon Faye wiped the tears from his cheeks and grinned at his 
lieutenant. "Other than that, how did you find things here?" 


"Undisturbed. The two bunglers had not discovered our cache of weapons 
" 


"Evidently!" Admon Faye cackled, still thinking of Tibb's sword. 


M Land all is ready for us to move, whenever you choose." 


Admon Faye nodded. "Very good. The young lady seems to be coming 
along well. If I can increase her combat confidence, I think she'll be 
ready as well." 


"Who will you assign to build her confidence?" 


"Who better than our new recruits?" Admon Faye snickered, and the 
other slaver laughed aloud. They slapped one another's backs as they 
made their way to the soup pot. 


Flayh's hands trembled. He stared at the ornate page Spread before 
him, awed by the crystalline clarity of the words scratched upon it. 
How many years had this book sat on a dusty shelf in this library? 
Power unheard of, power beyond the imagination, hidden between these 
gilt-edged sheets, patiently enduring the passage of time! Surely Tohn 



had never read it. Tohn, the man of action, Flayh thought to himself 
as he winked contemptuously at the nickering candle. Tohn had probably 
never entered this room, much less plowed doggedly through its stacks 
of musty tomes to find the jewels of precious thought buried here. But 
Flayh 


J had. The power shaper lifted his shaking arms in exultation. His 
ultimate victory was assured him, for he now owned a Copy of an ancient 
master's spell-book! 


No one had instructed Flayh in how to shape the powers. He'd learned 
everything he knew on his own, through hard work and ceaseless 
experimentation. His own library la Lamath had been worthless, for 
those volumes had been filled with religious garbage, more concerned 
with miracles magic. But this was Ngandib-Mar, land of wizards! its 
pages caked with choking dust, some of them Jding with age sat a 
teacher. And what a teacher! 


Flayh's old eyes rested upon the most spectacular spell of all. With 
this knowledge, added to that he already possessed, Flayh could bring a 
castle to life! 


He rose and paced the tiny sliver of floor that was not clogged with 
still more books. "I'll need the High Fortress of Ngandib, of course. 
That's a castle of substance, an unassailable citadel that will soon be 
able to defend itself from attack, leaving me free to concentrate on my 
craft without interference." No longer would he concern himself with 
the unpredictable maneuvering of the Council of Elders. Oh, he would 
keep his hand in, of course, but with Admon Faye as his ally and this 
new found spell-book, the Council was no longer necessary to him. He 
would go to Ngandib and volunteer his services as court power shaper 
With this new ability he could quickly control Pahd and with his puppet 
Queen on the golden throne, he'd control two-thirds of the world! 
"Then," he muttered, "I can turn my attention to Lamath and Pelmen." 


He summoned Pezi to meet him in his apartments. Pezi entered Flayh's 
room as he always did cringing, expecting a tongue-lashing, uncertain 
as ever about why. Flayh smiled sweetly, making Pezi even more 
anxious. "Have a seat, my boy!" said Flayh. Pezi obeyed. Flayh 
beamed. "How are you doing, nephew?" 


"Fine, uncle," Pezi replied. If Flayh was expecting any elaboration, 
he was disappointed. 


"Getting along well, are you?" 


"Fine, uncle," Pezi said. 


"Are you enjoying Ngandib-Mar?" 


"It's fine, uncle," Pezi replied, 


"Liking the climate?" 


"It's fine, uncle," Pezi answered. Pezi was suspicious. What was his 
uncle driving at? 


Flayh kept on smiling, staving off exasperation. How to get the lad's 
attention? He had a sudden inspiration. 



"Had any good meals lately?" 


Pezi's interest immediately picked up. "Oh yes! I had a stuffed 
pheasant leg this afternoon with a dish of mallinsok pudding, and a " 


"Fine, nephew," Flayh cut him off. He knew from long experience that 
Pezi could wax positively rhapsodic on the subject of an onion souffle, 
and he'd already accomplished his purpose. The fat merchant was at 
least listening. "I've been studying you, Pezi. You have 
potential." 


"I do?" Pezi asked. He quickly altered that to a quasi-firm 
expression of self-confidence. "I do." 


"Yes," Flayh smiled, carefully avoiding the subject of what Pezi had 
potential for. "That's why I'm placing you in charge of this manor." 


Pezi nearly swallowed his tongue. "You what?" he exclaimed. 


"You were a competent enough manager in Chaomon-ous not brilliant, but 
so few of us in the family really are and I believe you can handle the 
responsibility. If " 


"If what, Uncle Flayh!" Pezi was excited. 


If you'll concentrate with your brain instead of your belly." Flayh 
stood. "I'll be travelling for a while, and someone needs to handle 
the Man accounts. Trade will soon be returning to normal, with control 
restored to the pass. Of course, Admon Faye is readying a strike for 
I4gne*s heart, and you'll need to notify me by flyer immediately when 
you've received word. After his conquest of Chaomonous and his 
recovery of Jagd's pyramid, we'll be able to converse regularly." 


"Yes, uncle!" Pezi responded. He was flabbergasted. He, Pezi, in 
charge of the Man accounts! But Pezi was suspicious by nature, and he 
wasn't a dummy. Obviously his uncle was planning something. And 
knowing Flayh, it would be deliciously sinister. "What are you going 
to be doingr 


"What business is that of yours?" Flayh snarled. Pezi sank back into 
his pitiable chair, chastened. "That's not for you to know .. . yet," 
Flayh went on, a bit more cordially. "All you need to know is where to 
post the flyer, informing me of Admon Faye's move." 


"Fine, uncle," Pezi replied. "Ah .. . where will that be?" 


Flayh got a faraway look in his eye and appeared to Ware through the 
room's western wall. "I'm bound for the palace of Pahd mod Pahd-el the 
fortress of the High City Of Ngandib." 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 


Drax 


BURIED IN THE TIMELESS DARKNESS, they couldn't know that they had 
talked away the morning and most of the afternoon. Pelmen and 
Serphimera knew only that they found each other's presence enchanting, 
and neither wanted to be first to break off the conversation. For the 
first time in their unusual relationship they felt really free to talk. 
She teased him, her emerald eyes flashing warmly as she charmed him 



with her mischievous smile. Again and again, his quick wit and 
self-mocking humor pulled trills of unexpected laughter from within 
her. They leaned on the door, clinging to the bars that parted them 
until their legs could stand no more. Then they slumped to the floor, 
propping their heads in their hands as they continued their rapt 
discussion through the door's narrow food slot. Mostly they compared 
backgrounds. His experience as a cosmopolitan traveler contrasted 
sharply with the memories of this small town girl from the Lamathian 
farm lands. They were as different as their origins. It was no 
surprise that they seemed to agree on almost nothing. The surprising 
thing was how little their differences mattered at the moment. They 
skirted the issues of religion and faith entirely, realizing that a 
chasm too deep for even love to bridge separated 


The Wizard w Waiting 


22* 


their two views. While that difference loomed as a giant question mark 
between them, they both ignored it, preferring for the moment the 
warmth of one another's eyes, and the halting hope that perhaps even 
that wall could someday be breeched. Occasionally verbal conversation 
ceased entirely, and their lips communicated silently by touching. The 
food slot permitted little contact, so they stood again and kissed 
between the bars. 


Their kisses saved Pelmen from discovery, for it was during one of 
those sweet silences that they heard sandals slapping on the stairway. 
Serphimera's eyes shot open in shock, and she whispered, "My dinner!" 


"I'll be back," he whispered intensely. Then he streaked down the 
hall, past the stairway toward the half-open cell door at the far end 
of the corridor. 


"Ho!" he heard someone cry behind him. "Is someone there?" He 
slipped into the cell and wasted no time slithering head first through 
the narrow gap into the caverns beyond. There he paused and listened. 
There was no sound of scuttling soldiers, no shouts of alarm. Evidently 
Serphimera had succeeded in covering his escape, 


Pelmen sat in the dark, contemplating this new situation. He was 
hungry. He was tired. And now that he'd at last been forced out of 
the warmth of Serphimera's gaze, the seriousness of her circumstances 
finally impacted on him. Now he had to evolve some plan to extricate 
both Serphimera and Rosha from Ligne's grasp and then to deal with 
Admon Faye. And he didn't even know his way out. "I hope you're still 
around," he mumbled fervently, then crawled to his feet and started 
down the corridor in the dark. 


He tried to concentrate on solving the maze, but his thoughts kept 
drifting back to Serphimera. He'd be counting his step , trailing one 
hand along an uneven wall, then would realize suddenly that for the 
past ten or fifteen paces he'd been replaying some snatch of their 
lengthy conversation, and that his count was hopelessly off. From time 
to time he would stop and wave his arms above him, searching for some 
drafty sign of the Power's presence. He felt none. He wasn't 
surprised. 


The Power did not jump when he called. He had no assurance that his 
every request would immediately be met. 



22 6 


If past experience were any guide to the Power's actions, Pelmen could 
count on no assistance until he'd exhausted his own resources. Often 
in the past, when he'd felt he had no other alternatives, a silence 
from the Power had demanded that he seek new ones and he'd found new 
alternatives in every case. Other times, the Power had come unbidden, 
before Pelmen realized his own inability to cope with the particular 
struggle at hand. The relationship was complex and constantly 
puzzling, forcing him into continual reevaluation of the Power's nature 
.. . and sometimes even of its existence. At other times, the Power's 
presence was so overwhelming as to brook no doubt whatsoever. There 
seemed no logical consistency to the Power's participation in his life, 
and yet a perplexing patterning appeared to run through all of their 
relating. It was not quite capricious, but certainly unpredictable 
beyond him, somehow. All in all, it was easier to shape than to be 
shaped, but far less exhilarating. He had learned to live with the 
ambiguity between the two. 


At the moment, it appeared he had not exhausted his own resources. 


His foot sloshed into water, and he froze against the wall. Like a 
shaft of light in this dark tomb, a long-forgotten memory broke into 
his consciousness with a force that left him gasping. He saw before 
him the book, spread open to the pages of prophecy he had come to term 
the "cryptics" because of their hidden purposes. A single phrase stood 
out boldly for him to read: "Deal gently with the House that speaks, 
lest it make the waters rise." The line had been meaningless when he'd 
first read it, meaningless when he'd memorized it. But the cryptics 
were always meaningless until they were needed. This one had suddenly 
become so. 


"House?" Pelmen asked tentatively. "Are you listening to me?" 


For once, it wasn't. It had done a very good job of shutting the fool 
and his lady out of its thoughts completely. And for very good 
reason. 


The castle had watched manifold love affairs blossom, flourish, and 
fade within its walls. Long ago, the high drama of such involvements 
had been intriguing. It had watched with some amusement the initial 
stirrings, listened intently to the inevitable counsel of friends, 
sniggered with the naughty glee of a Peeping Tom at the final 
consummation. Thus involved, however, it had been drawn unwillingly to 
witness the often tragic outcomes of one affair after another the 
miscommunication, the pride, the jealousy, stubbornness, the 
selfishness that presaged broken heart after broken heart. And though 
it often knew far more about these relationships than either 
participant and could clearly see the pathways to reconciliation, it 
was powerless to help. No one took its advice. 


The house had tried then, for a time, to view love as a broad comedy, 
and the broken hearts as merely comic pratfalls that soon would heal, 
then- causes forgotten. That paled too. It grew tired of the sameness 
of it alt the same ritual, repeated infinitely, from the crown through 
the craftsman to the crassest of slaves. It concluded at last that 
human love was an insidious disease, excessively communicable, 
universally endemic and thoroughly depressing to one utterly and 
hopelessly alone. The Imperial House dismissed love affairs as 



unimportant. It found that easier than wishing there were another 
castle nearby that could think, and speak and love. 


So when Pelmen and Serphimera had drifted into the same predictable 
patterns of conversation the House had heard so many times before, it 
took care to look elsewhere. At the moment, there was a mystery 
unfolding, and it was trying to find answers to some questions. There 
had been several conferences between the Queen and her Lord of Security 
in the past two days, and it had missed the most critical of these, 
being distracted by the pain from the pyramid. Now it followed Joss 
from room to room, trying to account for the burst of troop activity 
within its walls since the General's return. But the castle was 
discovering Joss to be a tight-lipped individual. For whatever reason, 
the Lord of Security had spent the afternoon cross-examining his 
dungeon guards, but the Imperial House couldn't tell exactly why. 


Perhaps he's going to tighten security, the House muttered hopefully. 
The castle hoped so. Internal defense had grown terribly sloppy when a 
fool could penetrate the dungeon at will! 


Joss dismissed an anxious guard, then folded his hands before him for a 
moment and leaned back in his chair. Abruptly he shot out of it and 
stalked up his private staircase to the upper levels. He found the 
Queen where he expected to find her at the Drax table. Ligne kept her 
eyes fixed on the board as the General stooped to whisper in her ear. 


Here now! Speak up! the castle snapped. 


Ligne frowned and looked up at him. "You think he's who?" 


Joss whispered again, then looked at her meaningfully. She stared at 
him, then ordered, "Go away, I need to think about this." Joss 
returned to his offices in the same way he'd come. A moment later 
Ligne rose from her Drax table and marched across the hallway to the 
throne room. 


For Pelmen there had been no answer. Perhaps he hadn't understood the 
cryptic after all. At least the water helped him find his way back to 
the cistern. It was overflowing, evidently the result of heavy rains 
up river. From there, it was a simple task to find the galleries that 
climbed toward the front gate of the castle. Pelmen quickly made his 
way up the ramps, noting how the tunnels broadened out as he ascended. 
He turned a corner, and stumbled on the lowest step of a stairway. He 
looked up and saw a thin box of light above him. "An entrance," he 
whispered to himself, and he started climbing up the stairway that led 
to the infirmary. 


Rehearsal was in full swing when the double door slammed open. Silence 
dropped on every occupant of the room as the Queen pointed at Gerrig 
from the doorway and shouted, "Where's the fool?" 


"The fool? The fool. Ah, ah, as we told you, he's sick " 


"With what?" 


"Ah, ah " , 


"I suppose he's had the wisdom to report to the infirmary?" the Queen 
asked, her tone suddenly softening. 



Gerrig saw an opening, and sprinted through it. "Oh yes! Of course! 
He may be a fool but he certainly has good sense when it comes to " 


"Why isn't he there then?" Ligne demanded. Her eyes sliced Gerrig 
like a pair of knives. 


"Perhaps he's in his quarters," Parmi offered. 


"I've had his quarters searched!" Ligne snarled, whirling to glare at 
Yona. Then she casually wheeled back to Gerrig, who was wishing he'd 
never even heard of the acting profession. "But you said he was in the 
infirmary, didn't you?" She smiled sweetly. "Sick, is he?" 


Gerrig could do nothing but nod. 


"Shall we go look?" she inquired with that same sarcastic sweetness. 
Gerrig swallowed, and nodded again. "Go!" she shouted, pointing to 
the doorway, then her long finger whipped around to Yona and she 
ordered, "You, tool" As the two men turned to walk into the hall, they 
shot each other anguished looks. "Come along, Rosha. We're going to 
get to the bottom of this, or I'm going to fry me some actors!" 


Rosha's hands formed fists and he glanced at Carlad's sword. He could 
take it and decapitate the Queen in a stroke 


"Come on, Rosha," she shrilled. She started out of the throne room. 
Rosha took a deep breath and clamped down on his emotions once more. 


By the time they reached the door of the infirmary, Gerrig, too, had 
controlled his feelings and had donned his toothiest smile. He slung 
the door wide, shouting a hearty, "Hello!" at the back of the spindly 
Lord of Herbs. The man leaped off his stool and swung around in 
horror. "He's not here, my Lady, perhaps we" Gerrig stopped and stared 
at a bed in the corner, as his false smile turned genuine. "I mean he 
is!" 


"I'm what?" asked Pelmen. 


"You're here!" Gerrig beamed. 


Pelmen frowned in the character of Fallomar. "You don't have to sound 
so pleased at my illness!" 


Ligne drifted into the room and looked at him in disbelief. "You're 
sick?" she asked. She turned to her Lord of Herbs, whose mouth hung 
wide open. "What's he got?" she demanded. 


"Wha-wha-why, I've never seen this man in here before!" 


"It really is hard to get a doctor to look at you these days," Fallomar 
offered, as he hopped off his cot. "In spite of the lack of care, I 
feel much better now." 


Ligne gazed at him suspiciously, as if making up her mind what to 
believe. Suddenly she smiled. "I've missed you, fool. I want you in 
the game room immediately. But change your clothes! You smell as if 
you've been in the garbage or the dungeon!" She spun on her heel and 
marched out. 


Pelmen stared after her, feeling a heaviness in his chest "Are you all 



right?" Parmi asked quietly. 


Pelmen nodded. "I think so." 


"Wonderful," snarled the Lord of Herbs. "Then I'll thank you to get 
out of my infirmary!" 


As they moved into the hallway, Gerrig groused, "Next time you choose 
to drop out of sight, would you take the time to inform your 
friends?" 


"My drop came as quite a surprise to me too, Gerrig. I had no chance 
to tell anyone." 


"What did you learn?" Yona Parmi asked him quietly. Rosha pulled up 
close behind to hear as well, which prompted Carlad to edge closer. 


"Nothing any half wit doesn't already know. Stay out of the mouths of 
fishes, don't think you can walk in the dark without running into the 
walls, and never trust a woman to be where you expect her." 


"What?" Gerrig asked. 


Carlad, at least, was chuckling. "I know what you mean, fool." 


Pelmen glanced back at him and smiled brightly. "I'm sure you do!" He 
looked back at Rosha. "Who decided to make you an actor?" 


"I d-d-did," Rosha responded carefully. 


"A wise choice," Fallomar nodded, his eyes holding onto Rosha's as he 
added, "I'll wager a Queen's consort has a lot of acting to do." 


"He does indeed." Carlad laughed, missing the exchange of looks 
entirely, "And this lad's already done a fair share of it!" 


Now the clown looked at Carlad. "Has he now? And how about you? 
Aren't you also an actor of sorts?" 


"Of some sort, I suppose." Carlad chuckled. 


"Then perhaps we should find a role for you as well." The clown 
smiled, catching Yona Parmi's eye. Parmi nodded. 


"Me?" the guard asked. "No .. ." he went on, shaking his head, but 
it was clear he could be cajoled. 


"Why don't you two go on to rehearsal while the three of us think you 
up a part?" Fallomar suggested, and Carlad, charmed by the idea, 
eagerly led his young charge up the stairs. 


"What are you getting us into?" Gerrig demanded. "First we get stuck 
with this young stutterer, now a castle guard! You miss rehearsals 
without a word to anyone! Are you trying to scuttle this performance 
altogether?" 


"Why not teach Carlad my lines," the fool suggested. "He seems eager 
enough, and it appears the Queen is determined to dominate my time. 
That'll keep him from staring at you suspiciously when you're trying to 
rehearse." 



"Let a guard play the role of the clown King?" Gerrig asked, 
incredulous. 


"Why not. You've always said any oaf could act as well AS me. Hasn't 
he, Parmi?" 


"He has, indeed." Parmi nodded. "But what about the lad?" 


"Let him play himself suitor to the Queen." "Stuttering suitor to the 
Queen," Gerrig snarled. "I wouldn't say that around him, Gerrig," 
Pelmen advised. "Not if you fancy keeping your head where it is." 


Gerrig's eyes widened, then he nodded. "Very well. But I don't mind 
telling you all this is making me very nervous! I'm ready to get out 
of this place." 


"Funny," said Yona. "You wanted so much to get in." "Close it up, 
Parmi, or 111 stuff this in it!" Gerrig shook his ham-sized fist in 
Yona's face, but the round-faced actor Seemed unconcerned. 


"Do it and I'll kick you in the shins," he replied honestly. Yona had 
never been a fighter. Nevertheless, his association with Gerrig had at 
times involved him in unsought, yet unavoidable, altercations. He 
often got his face punched, but no adversary left a fight with Parmi 
without tows of blue bruises on each shin. Parmi looked at Pelmen. 
"Can we help in any way 


"Not yet, my friend. Take care for what you say," he added. "I think 
the walls may be listening," Pelmen then stalked up the stairs toward 
his tiny cell. 


"What did he mean by that?" Gerrig asked. "What does he ever mean?" 
Parmi shrugged. "Come on, we have to rewrite a play." 


As Pelmen walked toward the game room a sense of dread built inside 
him. Something had roused Ligne's suspicions, and Pelmen wondered if 
he were walking into the jaws of a trap. There was little he could 


Got you I 


Pelmen scrambled around to face the speaker, his heart in his throat. 
There was no one behind him. 


Not that! Don't do that] 


Pelmen felt a little dizzy. He was hearing words that weren't words at 
all. He listened to the fluctuations of temperature in this corridor 
and comprehended them as thoughts. 


Are you blind? Her red column is sitting on your flank! 


Drax. The castle was talking the language of Drax, And Pelmen 
understood it 


If the House found any redeeming feature in the vain woman who 
presently wore the crown, it was her compulsive urge to spend hours at 
the Drax table. Of course, the game had advanced considerably during 
the castle's extended nap. The openings were now far more 
sophisticated and the end game much more subtle, but it was still the 



same vicious pastime the castle had enjoyed so long ago. It was 
fortunate for the occupants of the palace that the board's shape and 
the basic moves had not been altered in the last thousand years. The 
Imperial House was a Drax purist, and would have been enraged at such 
trifling with perfection, 


It was studying an animated match being played by the Queen, her Prime 
Minister, and one of Ligne's ladies maids. "Come on," Ligne goaded the 
woman. "I'll loan you the gold!" 


"But I'm already so deeply in debt," the maid protested. "Oh please, 
my Lady, can't we just play this game for fun?" 


Absurd! the House sniffed. Drax was played for blood and gold not 
fun. The castle reflected back on ancient 


2JJ 


games, played with power shapers not so dense as this Fallo-mar fellow. 
It chuckled, recalling how one night it had lost one of its gold-inlaid 
floors, but won it back the following day, along with the wizard's 
tunic, vest, and pantsl . Savage game, the Imperial House snickered. 


"Ah-ha!" Kherda said with satisfaction, as he made his move and 
removed a red piece from the triangular table. 


Ligne cursed, and her azure eyes devoured the board, searching for a 
move that would take this sudden pressure off her disc. Kherda always 
made sure she won, but she inevitably had to work at it. The Prime 
Minister considered his skill far superior to the Queen's often it was 
a difficult task just to avoid winning. Occasionally he daydreamed 
about actually beating her .. . 


Deliciously wicked! the Imperial House crowed in praise, as Ligne 
found the soft underbelly of Kherda's defense and slashed into it with 
her star. The Queen's eyes gleamed. She did not hide her glee. 


"Fallomar, my Lady," Pelmen said, ambling into the game room. "At your 
hand." 


"You took your time, didn't you, clown?" the Queen said archly. "But 
no matter. I'm winning." 


"She always wins," the maid explained, smiling at the jester 
flirtatiously. 


"Indeed, Queens usually do," Fallomar said. 


"Do you play?" Ligne asked, eyes on the board. 


"I am a player by profession, my Lady. Does a seamstress sew? Does a 
sewer man slough?" 


"Such a graphic expression!" Ligne smiled, wrinkling her nose at her 
maid, who giggled merrily. "But do you play games?" 


"Life is a game, my mistress, and I am alive, thus I must play it 
well." 


"Answer me directly," Ligne said sharply. "Do you play 



Drax?" 


"A penny less player?" he responded, his eyes wide, "Not without a 
wealthy patron to pay my bills." 


"Then you know the game?" 


"Vaguely. Play on, and I'll watch. You'll find I pick up new moves 
quickly." He winked at the ladies' maid. 


The game had often been described as something akin to a three-sided 
dagger fight in an alley. With lightning speed, 


the pieces whizzed around the board, each move drastically altering the 
subtle balance of power. It was a game both of cutthroat diplomacy and 
studied tactics, changing far too rapidly for any player to develop a 
grand strategy. And it was quickly over, with Ligne the victor. The 
maid hid her eyes behind her hand. 


"How much do you owe me now?" Ligne demanded of her, and the woman 
shrugged and smiled helplessly in response. "Too much to pay, I 
realize. And you, Kherda, I suppose you must owe me the entire 
treasury by this time," "My Lady, as you say. I am flat of purse." 
Ligne looked at the painted fool and smiled scornfully. "You see the 
kind of stakes I play for? We might as well wager handfuls of dirt!" 


"Ah, yes." Fallomar sighed. "There's a price to be paid for owning 
everything. Of course, that means you can always afford it " 


Ligne stood and brushed past him, toward the double doors of the game 
room. "It's boring, playing for nothing! What I want is a real game, 
with real wagers! Fortune riding on every move!" 


Hear hear! cried the House in absolute agreement Ligne cocked her 
head, and looked at the door frame. "Did you hear this thing crack?" 


"This castle is full of curious noises lately," the maid observed, 
clearing the reference plank of pegs. 


"It's a very old House," Kherda snorted, looking at the ceiling. "Looks 
as if it could all fall in any minute!" The castle said nothing. But 
it had heard. "Pity it doesn't fall on you, Kherda," Ligne said. She 
couldn't know the House was contemplating such at that very moment. 
"Don't you agree, clown? 


"If it crushes Kherda, I hope it'll crush me as well." Ligne looked at 
him. "Why would you hope that?" "Why, if he were gone, you might make 
me your Prime Minister, and any fate is better than that." It was a 
skillful remark, one designed to chop either way. Ligne took it as 
more abuse for Kherda, and threw back her head to laugh aloud. The 
Prime Minister, however, caught the fool's wink, and just for an 
instant remembered how to smile. He was coming to like this clown. 


2JI 


Ligne slapped her hands together. "Very well. Kherda, you may go bury 
your nose in your bureaucratic burrow. I have my clown back!" Kherda 
left the room quickly as Ligne walked over to seat herself at the board 
again. "Well, fool, what will you wager on a game of Drax?" 



"Only my antics. They're all I own." 


"Then plant your antics in that seat and let's begin," the Queen 
commanded. 
Pelmen's mind raced. He was gauging the quickest way to lose. 
"You want me to play what?" Carlad asked incredulously. 
"just give it a try," Danyilyn coaxed him in candy-coated tones. "You 


don't know, you might find you like it." 


"But do I have to put that white stuff on my face? No. No, not for 
me. My sergeant would take one look at that and " 
"He'll never see it." Danyilyn smiled. "Come on, try it. It's a 


large part .. ." 
"It is?" 
"One of the most critical roles," Gerrig broke in. 
"Well ... all right," Carlad grumbled, but he was smiling as Danyilyn 


started coating his face. "You know, I'd kinda like my wife to see 


this .. ." 
Yona Parmi and Rosha had drifted toward the door of the room, and now 
Parmi whispered, "The clown has informed me of who you are, Rosha, and 
your connection with him." 


"Oh?" Rosha responded guardedly. 
"Your secret is safe. I wish I felt the fool himself was." 
Rosha studied Yona's face. "I've heard them call you Yona. Are you 


the Yona Parmi who's travelled with this fool all over Chaomonous?" 
"I am. Unfortunately, he's not allowed me to help him as much as he 
has your father. I suppose he hasn't needed help .. . But I have a 


sinking feeling that this business is too large for him to handle 
alone." 
"He's not alone," Rosha said flatly, his eyes on Carlad. The guard was 


laughing now as Danyilyn read him his lines. 
2J6 
"You mean the Power, of course." Yona nodded. 
"You know the Power?" Rosha asked him, shifting his dark eyes to 


Yona's face. 
"I know of the Power, only." 
"So far," Rosha grunted, and Yona smiled. 
The door clacked open, and Maythorm popped his handsome head inside. He 


was grinning. "There you all are." He glanced around the room. "But 
where's Pelmen?" 



Yona stiffened in shock. "Where's who?" he asked quietly, glancing at 
Carlad to be sure the guard hadn't heard. 


"You thought I wouldn't catch on, didn't you." Maythorm smirked. "Who 
were you trying to deceive? Me?" Maythorm showed them his dimples. 
"Surely not the Lord of Entertainments! I'm the one who discovered 
you, Parmi, in the days when your Pelmen was but a pitiful, penny less 
playwright with verses to flog." Maythorm sneered. "You may fool 
Ligne, and you may fool Joss, but you'll not fool the premiere critic 
of Chaomonous with your little masquerade!" 


Yona had caught Danyilyn's eye and jerked a thumb at Carlad, and the 
actress quickly picked up the cue, hiding her anxiety as she walked the 
grinning guard to the far side of the room. Now Yona turned back to 
face the arrogant court ling "What do you want from us?" he 
growled. 


"From you? Why, nothing, little Parmi. What I crave is the head of 
your pompous Pelmen! Oh, I don't know how he did it his special 
effects were excellent! But he'll pay for that particular 
performance!" 


"I don't know what you're talking about," Parmi rasped, his round body 
trembling with rage. 


"Oh, I think you do." Maythorm grinned. He nodded toward Carlad. "Be 
glad you've found another clown. After I meet with General Joss, 
you're going to need him!" The Lord of Entertainments swept his cloak 
aside and left the room. 


Parmi whipped around to Rosha. "Do you think we could " He stopped. 
Rosha was gone. 


Maythorm swept past the closed door of the game room and around a 
corner. That was as far as he got. Rosha clubbed him once in the gut, 
twice in the face, and a final time across the back of his neck. A 
crackling of bone assured him Maythorm would say no more. He caught 
the man as he fell and lowered him to the floor, then glanced around 
for a place to hide the body. 


His eyes met those of a startled slave, who stood five feet behind him, 
leaning on his broom. Rosha gazed up at him a moment, slack jawed, the 
blood draining from his face. His muscles tensed, and he prepared to 
spring. 


"Was it your wife or your sister?" the slave whispered. "What?" Rosha 
asked. 


"No matter. I'll sweep up the remains." The slave swiftly leaned his 
broom against the wall and stooped to grasp Maythorm's body under the 
arms. Then he glanced up. "Well, get on!" he snapped. "You waiting 
for someone to give you a kiss?" 


Rosha blinked, then slipped around the corner and back into the throne 
room. A quick glance around relieved him. Carlad was still busily 
engaged in learning his lines. 


Yona Parmi drifted around in front of him, anxiety etched in his face. 
Rosha sighed. "Relax, Yona Parmi. He's made his last speech." 



It didn't take long for Pelmen to lose the first game nor for the House 
to begin abusing him for it. 


Stupid move! Stupid move! jangled the bells on the wall. 


"Ignore those silly bells," Ligne instructed. "Just play." That was 
easier said than done. The castle's comments were starting to effect 
his concentration. While Drax was a rough game frequently associated 
with fistfights and murders, there were some things one simply didn't 
do. One of these was to mock a player at the board. 


Insipid, pasty-faced actor! Too proud to accept expert advice when 
it's offered you! 


Pelmen shifted in his seat as the bells clanged on. Finally he clamped 
his hands over his ears. "They're a nuisance, to be sure," he admitted 
to Ligne. 


"What difference does it make?" She shrugged. "You're going to lose 
anyway. Move." 


Why not sweep your cube, the Imperial House suggested sarcastically, 
and slit your own throat? Pelmen smiled to himself, and did just 
that. 


And you did! Oh! Fool! You've lost it now, though doubtless you're 
too dense to know it! 


"Got you!" Ligne crowed, as she slammed her disc into Fallomar's sole 
remaining piece, sending it flying off the table. That was another of 
those things one didn't do at Drax, but Ligne had already demonstrated 
that she had little concern for manners. 


"What a surprise," Fallomar lied. "I didn't even see that piece 
sitting there!" 


Try opening your eyes! the House snarled. Pelmen stood, bowed 
politely, and asked, "Could I take a moment's break?" 


"Where are you going?" Ligne snapped. "Just out in the hall to 
collect my thoughts." 


What thoughts? the castle growled. 


"Five minutes," Ligne told him. She seemed in a terrible humor. Pelmen 
hoped he didn't know why. 


He nodded at the pan1 of guards who opened the door for him, then 
walked fifteen feet down the hallway and leaned against the wall. The 
guards craned their necks to watch him. After a moment, one asked the 
other, "Is he talking to himself?" 


The other, who had already had some strange experiences with Fallomar, 
nodded wisely and tapped his head. "With this one, expect anything." 


You're undoubtedly the most miserable Drax player to set foot within 


"That's not sporting, you know," Pelmen said quietly. Everyone in the 
castle was relieved by the sudden cessation of the bells. 



Do you address this House? 


"You think I talk to walls to hear my own echo?" 


You do understand! the House shouted, and a whistling wind of joy 
whooshed down every hallway, blowing tapestries off of walls and vases 
off of tables. 


"I certainly do, and I'm appalled! If you are the expert Draxist you 
claim to be, you ought to know it's poor manners to mock a man at the 
board." 


It's bad manners to ignore the Imperial House! the castle responded 
defensively. 


"Actually it's only been in the last hour or so that I've understood 
your speech. It's remarkably easy to pick up." 


Naturally, the House sniffed. It makes infinitely more sense than your 
human gruntings and snortings. 


"Nevertheless, it is distracting to play with such vile language 
ringing in one's ears. Literally." 


Then pay attention! You've forfeited one golden opportunity after 
another! 


"Because I'm trying to lose." The Imperial House was shocked. It 
responded with a frosty silence. "I realize that's offensive to a 
purist like yourself, but I'm losing these games to keep the Lady 
relaxed and happy. There's something far more critical at stake here 
than the outcome of a Drax game." 


If you're speaking of your trivial little plot to deceive the Queen, 
how could you possibly compare them! 


"Misplaced priorities?" Pelmen shrugged sardonically. 


This House could not agree more! 


"In spite of what you think," Pelmen whispered, "it's more important to 
me than Drax." The House echoed with an angry ringing. 


That's a form of cheating! To throw a Drax game is repugnant behavior, 
far more unsporting than to mock a horrid Draxist at the board! 


"It bothers you that much?" 


There is only one thing worse than a Drax cheater, and that is a Drax 
welcher! I suppose you're one of those as well? 


"Well, I really didn't bet anything " Pelmen was unprepared for the 
explosion of outrage that greeted his words. 


Then why play at all? bellowed the Imperial House. The castle took 
its Drax quite seriously. 


"If it's cheating to lose a match deliberately, isn't it also cheating 
to intimidate your opponents so that they fear whining worse than 



losing? That's what this Queen does." 


The House was silent for a moment. 


This demands some consideration. 


"Fine. You think about it. I've got to go back inside and lose 
another round, and I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your opinion of my 
play to yourself." FaHomar turned away from the wall and walked back 
to the door of the game room. The guards regarded him curiously as he 
passed between them and stalked back to the table. 


"Where have you been?" Ligne demanded. 


"Telling the walls to shut up." 


"Oh, you talk to walls, do you, clown?" 


"Only when they talk to me." 


"I see. And are the walls amused by your jesting 


"You hear them laughing, don't you?" 


"Did my warders laugh at your jests today?" Ligne asked pointedly. "I 
was told you paid them a visit." 


"To the warders? Oh, the dungeon! Certainly. I frequently visit 
prisons. They're always good for a laugh." Pelmen studied the board. 
The game it represented would quickly be lost and forgotten, but he 
suddenly found himself in a game he needed to win. 


"You were trying to follow me in. Why is that?" She turned a harsh 
stare at him. 


Pelmen maintained his composure, smiling smoothly and saying, "To amuse 
you, my Lady. As I said, I know dungeon life well all jesters do. I 
sought only to entertain." 


"I see. I've decided to give you your wish." 


"My wish? My Lady, in my work I utter many meaningless phrases, which 
live in my listeners' ears only briefly, and in my own memory not at 
all. Which wish is this?" 


"Why, to see my dungeon, of course." Ligne smiled cruelly. "I do hope 
you truly are entertaining. Otherwise, I might be tempted to leave you 
there." She tapped the board, then swept her hand across the pieces 
and stood up. "I tire of this. I'm off to bed." The maid quickly 
hopped up to follow her. "After breakfast, clown," Ligne called from 
the doorway, "I promise you the grand tour. I'm sure well both find it 
amusing." She swept out, followed by the maid and the pair of 
guards. 


Left alone, Pelmen contemplated this new twist. One thing was sure he 
could do no more today. He felt exhausted. 


CHAPTER FIFTEEN 


Defending the Faith 



"WHAT DID I DO to deserve you?" Bronwynn spat down at Tibb, who lay at 
her feet. She had just tossed him against the wall of the canyon and 
was threatening to inflict more damage if he got up. 


Tibb rubbed his aching back. "You know, Lady, I was just asking myself 


the same question." 
"Would you get up," Pinter urged his short companion as he cast an 
anxious look over his shoulder. "Admon Faye is watching us!" 


"Fine, he can watch me lie here awhile 
"He's laughing." Pinter frowned, his gaunt face flushing. 
"Let him," Tibb grunted. 
"But he's gonna think we're fools!" Pinter cried. 
Then he's half-right already. I'm not proving I'm one by standing up 


and getting my head split open." Tibb gazed up at Bronwynn. "You're 
good, Lady. You'll make a great murderess." 
"Murderess," came Bronwynn's dull echo. 
"You're a natural. I even feel a little sorry for the fellow." 
"A natural murderess," Bronwynn repeated grimly. 


"He's wondering why we're just standing around," Pinter 
said nervously, still gazing over his shoulder. He spun around and 
charged Bronwynn earnestly. She responded with a quick grab of his arm 
and a flip, and Pinter cartwheeled off the wall, just as Tibb had 
done. 


Tibb raised his head to watch, then smiled. "He's all arms and legs, 
hunh." Bronwynn didn't smile back, but leaned thoughtfully against the 
wall. "Why so glum?" Tibb asked. "Being a cutthroat is great 
practice for ruling " 


"Wonderful," the girl snarled, staring at her hands as if they were 
filthy. "Now I'm a cutthroat." 
"What's the matter? You got something against being a cutthroat?" 
Bronwynn looked at Tibb, surprised. "Well, of course I do!" 
"What?" he demanded. 
"It's .. . it's just .. . wrong!" 
"What's wrong about it?" 


"Why ... ah ... what's right about it?" Bronwynn challenged. 
"Listen, Lady. It's us cutthroats that make this economy go. Why, 
without us robbing people along, and kidnapping, and murdering the 
nobles and the merchants would have all the gold by this time, instead 
of just most of it." 



"But ... to murder someone! To be a murderer! That isn't " 


"Ladylike?" Tibb finished for her. "Some of the best women I know are 
murderesses." 


"Really?" Bronwynn asked. 


"Sure. My mother " 


"Your mother!" 


"Right. Sister, too .. ." 


"But ... if they were brigands ... no wonder you turned out as you 
did." 


"What do you mean by that?" Tibb snarled, starting to get up. 


"Don't upset her, Tibb," Pinter suggested, as he got shakily to his 
feet. "She'll bang your head against that wall most unpleasant " 


"I mean, they must have taught you it was right, or you " 


"Listen to me, my Lady! I know right from wrong, for sure. Right's 
what helps me, wrong's what don't,1* 


"But don't you see? That's so far from the real difference between 
right and wrong that I ... I wonder .. . if you'd ever be able to 
understand ..." 


Tibb snorted. "Maybe not. But I know this. As a cutthroat, I kill a 
man in an alley. As a Queen, you'll order a war and kill a thousand. 
As a cutthroat, I'll steal all the gold a man can carry in his 
saddlebag. As a Queen, you can make a single proclamation of a new tax 
and rob a thousand peasants of their life savings. Now, my Lady. You 
tell me what's the right and wrong of that!" 


"Ah, Tibb," Pinter mumbled in his friend's ear, "we're supposed to be 
training this girl to take the throne, not talking her out of trying. 
If our master " 


"Well, someone has to rule!" Bronwynn blurted out. "Someone has to 
make decisions for the good of the whole nation." 


"Fine," Tibb said, hitching his pants. "Let them do it. But don't try 
to convince me that their right and wrong is any different from 
mine." 


"Tibb," Pinter whispered, "would you please shut your mouth before this 
girl decides not to " 


"Why?" Bronwynn interrupted. "He's just telling the truth." She 
struggled to her feet, sliding her back up the wall of the cliff, and 
brushed between the two of them on her way to find a private place to 
think. 


"Now you Ve done it!" Pinter snarled. "Admon Faye gives us a chance 
to join him, and you kick it away!" "What did I do?" Tibb asked, 
confused. "You just talked her out of playing her role in the master's 



plan," Pinter roared, and he, too, stalked away. 


"I did?" Tibb asked. "Now wait a minute, Pinter," he called, stomping 
after his friend and grabbing him by the shoulder. "You tell me how I 
did that." 


"You called her a cutthroat!" Pinter snapped. "No one wants to be 
called a cutthroat." 


"But that's what we are," Tibb pleaded. "That's what you are, maybe," 
Pinter replied archly. Tm an outlaw." 


"But what's the difference?" Tibb begged. Pinter paused and looked 
back at him disdainfully. "If you don't know, I'm sure I couldn't 
explain it to you." Shouting in the northern mouth of Dragonsgate cut 
short their debate. They looked at one another in surprise, then 
bolted toward the noise. Pinter's longer legs carried him to the site 
of the confrontation well before his comrade, and he was full of news 
when Tibb came puffing up behind him. "What is it?" Tibb shouted. 
"What's going on?" 


"Some pale believers," Pinter smirked. "Some of that Prophet's band. 
Look." Pinter pointed, and Tibb watched as slavers dragged one 
blue-clad initiate after another off of their horses. The missionaries 
didn't resist, yielding passively to this brutal treatment. 


"Always was easy to bag a dragonfaither," Tibb snickered. 


"These aren't dragonfaithers," Pinter corrected him, "though I'm not 
surprised you can't tell the difference. They're members of that new 
heresy." 


"I know that," said an annoyed Tibb. "You think I've lived this last 
year with my eyes closed?" 


"Wouldn't surprise me." 


Admon Faye's companions were experts at fast-binding new victims. It 
took only moments for them to tie the entire group of Lamathians, which 
Tibb estimated as at least a score. 


"What will we do with 'em?" Tibb asked. "Kill 'em here? Sell 'em in 
the south?" 


"No. These fellows say we'll skin them and send them home as an 
example. Say, the Princess is a Chaon! Maybe watching a few 
Lamathians getting skinned would get her blood boiling to be Queen 
again! Let's go!" 


Tahli-Damen lay on his back, staring into space. The wounds that 
Flayh's alter-shape had inflicted on his leg had proved to be more 
spectacular than substantial. He was walking without any difficulty. 
But Wayleeth had noticed that a strange dread had settled over him. He 
refused to be cheered by anything she said. 


"Tahli-Damen," she called from the doorway. "The man who's been 
watching Flayh's castle has brought you a report " 


"Flayh's castle!" Tahli-Damen blurted, as if the words themselves 
touched a raw nerve within him. "I set no watch on Flayh's castle!" 



"I know that," Wayleeth answered patiently. "I did." 


"Why did you do that!" he demanded. "Didn't I tell you? That man is 
a power shaper He hurls balls of fire! He he he changes his shape at 
will! Look at my leg!" The young merchant frantically waved his leg 
in the air and pointed to it 


"I know all about your leg, my love," Wayleeth answered him evenly. 
"I'm the one who has bathed and dressed it, remember?" 


"Of course," he mumbled, and be rolled over, turning his back on her, 
as well as the strange powers that suddenly threatened him anew. 


"I set that watch because I know that's what you would do if you were 
being yourself." 


Tahli-Damen rolled back to face her. "If I were being myself. 
Wayleeth, look at me! I am being myself and myself is terrified." 


"You're going to let a little dog bite prevent you from seizing your 
rightful place on the Council of Elders?" 


"Oh, Wayleeth," he moaned, covering his ears. 


To prevent you from seizing one of those precious pyramids you've 
talked so much about?" Tahli-Damen swung himself off the bed and 
limped toward the door. "Where are you going?" 


"I told you before, I'm frightened and I don't want to talk anymore 
about Flayh!" 


"Flayh's gone." 


Tahli-Damen stopped and looked back at her. "What?" 


"He left a day and a half ago for the High City, for powers know 
whatever reason. What's important is that while he's off to visit the 
sloth-King, he's left guess who in , charge of his castle?" 


';' Tahli-Damen raised his eyebrows incredulously. "You mean Pezi?" 


Wayleeth giggled. "Old barrel-bottom himself!" 


The young merchant dashed to a closet and grabbed his cloak, shouting, 
"Dispatch a bird to Jagd at once and give him the news!" 


"Where are you going?" Wayleeth smiled knowingly. 


"I've got to plan a visit to our new local lord of Og-nadzu!" 


The Wizard i* "Waiting 


"What's happened to me?" Bronwynn whispered to her reflection. She 
gazed into a little pool, fed by the melting snow that trickled off the 
mountain. This pass was bare of the trees Bronwynn loved, and she had 
despaired of finding any private place where she could think. This 
quiet pool, at the base of the cliff opposite the dragon's old lair, 
wasn't really beautiful, but it was the nearest thing to beauty she 
could find. 



Bronwynn was amazed at herself. Only a few short months before she had 
bid good-bye to Rosha in this very pass she could see the exact spot 
from where she sat and had ridden away with Lord Joss, expecting to 
recapture her throne by sundown. So naive, so trusting. It was good 
she had learned something of the world. 


But was it right? Tibb had struck a soft spot within her. Until she'd 
met Pelmen, her own attitudes toward moral evil had been the same as 
those of these outlaws perhaps even worse. Her father Talith had 
exercised his power with the same savage expertise as Tibb wielded his 
knife well, probably more skillfully than poor Tibb and he'd taught 
Bronwynn to do the same. 


"But I thought that had changed," Bronwynn breathed, remembering 
conversations with Pelmen that had extended far into the night, and the 
sudden unveiling of a spiritual sensitivity that had long laid dormant 
within her. 


"My Lady! My Lady!" 


She glanced up. Pinter and Tibb both raced toward her. She'd become 
well acquainted with these two in the past few hours. Thus it didn't 
surprise her at all when Pinter's legs tangled and he fell in a pile at 
her knees. Tibb tripped and landed on top of him. 


"Yes, Pinter?" she asked wearily. 


"Get off a me!" Pinter growled, and Tibb complied quickly. Both 
struggled to their feet. 


"We've caught our first unauthorized passage!" 


"Twenty of them, actually," Tibb corrected. 


"They're being held in the north mouth. Hurry!" 


"Why should I?" Bronwynn asked pointedly. "I told you, I don't relish 
the thought of indiscriminate killings." 


"Oh, we're not going to kill them," Tibb protested. 


"No?" 


"Of course not. What good would that do? Would it keep anyone else 
from trying to come through?" "I would think so when word got out." 
Pinter laughed, and winked at Tibb, who winked back. Bronwynn didn't 
much care for their patronizing looks. "But who would carry that word 
out?" Pinter asked, as if of a child. 


Bronwynn frowned at this, and Pinter looked away. "So you'll send them 
back," she said, looking down at her reflection in the puddle. 


"Right!" Tibb crowed, a big smile spreading beneath his bulbous nose. 
"Of course, we'll skin 'era up a little first. Come and watch. They're 
Lamathians " 


"No, thanks. Beatings don't interest me any more than killings." 


"Might do you good," Tibb wheedled. "Help you see the real world. Our 



boys have already begun the job, stripping off a few of their funny 
blue robes and stretching them on the " 


"What?" Bronwynn asked sharply. "What kind of robes?" 


Tibb was puzzled. "They're just robes, my Lady, the usual kind " 


She spun around to Tibb's companion. "Pinter, what kind of robes?" 


"Nothing for you to be alarmed about, my Lady. We've just captured a 
group of religious fanatics that you would know nothing about " 


"What color robes?" she screeched, and Tibb, wide-eyed, answered: 


"Pale blue " He broke off, as Bronwynn sprinted between them and raced 
toward the northern mouth. 


She arrived, breathless, at the side of Admon Faye, just as the 
skyfaither leader was being brought before him. 


"What are you going to do with them?" Bronwynn demanded sternly, 
before the slaver could open his mouth. 


Admon Faye turned his ugly face toward her and frowned. "I'm going to 
beat them and send them back where they came from, to discourage 
further " "No, you're not." 


Admon Faye gazed at her. "What!" It wasn't a question, it was a 
threat. 


"You aren't going to beat them, nor will you send them back." 


Admon Faye grew conscious of the watching eyes of the rogues who ringed 
them. His initial thought was to slap the girl's face and have her 
arms bound behind her for still more instruction later. He resisted 
the impulse, but his frown stayed fixed in place. There were many who 
would have preferred a slap to that stare. "Are you ordering me, 
little girl?" 


"I'm no little girl, I'm your Queen or so you claim I will be. And 
perhaps I'll be more compliant with your wishes than Queen Ligne has 
been but there are some things that I demand!" 


"You're hardly in a position to demand anything," said the slaver. 


"Oh?" she replied. "It was my understanding that you needed me, as 
legitimate heir to the throne you plot to steal. Suppose I choose not 
to take it?" 


"Then we'll use someone else," 


"Ah," Bronwynn said. "But what of the wasted time? Another heir to be 
found and trained, rechecking the plans with Flayh are these few worth 
it to you?" She gestured to the two skyfaithers who stood before them, 
soundly trussed and gagged. 


"Are they that important to you?" Admon Faye wondered. 


"Yes." 



The slaver stared at her, then chuckled. At the sound of his laugh, 
the tension broke. He glanced around at his fellows and winked, and 
they began dispersing, echoing his laugh. He looked back at her. "Then 
they're yours for all the good it does you." 


"I see you've already begun your vicious game," Bronwynn growled as she 
un gagged Naquin. 


"Just a little lesson to help would-be free traders to think twice 
before crossing this pass. Perhaps this group will be willing to 
convey our message?" he asked Naquin, raising his eyebrows and 
grinning crookedly. 


"We carry only the message of the Prophet and the book none other," 
Naquin answered proudly. 


"Oh-ho!" Admon Faye cackled. "A proud one. Too proud to save the 
skins of some of your fellow travelers?" 


"Salvation is our purpose," Naquin announced, "but '" your threats are 
meaningless in view of the Prophet's words. The changes will come so 
says the book and the Prophet." 


Admon Faye wrinkled his nose in disdain and sneered at Bronwynn. "Never 
could understand these religious crazies. You're sure you wouldn't 
rather just send them home?" 


"No!" Bronwynn shouted, and she turned to smile hopefully at Naquin. 
"The Prophet sent you?" 


"He did. With instructions to proclaim the message ,|. throughout 
Chaomonous." 


v: "You're sure?" Admon Faye snickered. "Means nothing >, to me. 
They're harmless enough. But if you let them V through now, it means 
you'll have to put up with this garbage from now on." 
|f. "I don't think it garbage!" Bronwynn snapped. if "Oh that's 
right. You got a whiff of it yourself while in TeLamath, didn't you? 
Very well then, I'll leave you two to ponder worshipfully the wonders 
of theology." The slaver turned his back and strode away, trailing his 
laughter as he ;; left 


Freed now to mention his name, Bronwynn whipped around to whisper, "How 
is Pelmen? Where is he?" 


Naquin stared at her, then his face assumed an expression of pious 
distaste. "I certainly have no knowledge of that man's whereabouts and 
I wish none." 


Bronwynn stared back at him. "I thought you said you were from the 
Prophet!" 


"Indeed we are, from the true Prophet of Lamath. We have no dealings 
with the Mari imposter you mention." "Man imposter!" 


"That is what he showed himself to be when he abandoned the land to 
chaos." 


"He didn't abandon the land!" Bronwynn fumed. "He put Erri in charge 



of Lamath and moved on to other .-> things." 


_; "What other things?" Naquin demanded, and Bronwynn hesitated. "You 
see, you don't know his whereabouts," Naquin said smugly. 


"But I know him," snarled Bronwynn. "I was with him!" 


"That may be," Naquin said evenly in the face of Bron-wynn's clenched 
teeth. "But where are you now? In the company of cutthroats, outlaws 
and brigands. And by your dress, obviously one of them. That doesn't 
say much for this Pelmen, does it?" 


Bronwynn's fist flew toward Naquin's face, and he flinched. She 
managed to stop it in mid flight however, and backed away, amazed at 
the violence of her own reactions. Naquin smiled a pitying smile that 
made her want to vomit. 


"Go ahead and strike," he urged. "We skyfaithers are prepared for 
persecution." 


"Persecution I" Bronwynn gasped. 


"Of course. I'm not fooled by your pretended mercy. If you truly 
stood with us, you'd untie us and let us get on with our task. 
Moreover, you would don a robe yourself and follow me into 
Chaomonous." 


"Follow you!" she spat. "I'd not follow you anywhere!" 


"I cannot say that shocks me." He sneered. "Since you've chosen to 
follow Admon Faye." 


Bronwynn glared at him, her eyes blazing. "You can't make me believe 
Erri thinks as little of Pehnen as you do." 


"But he does," Naquin lied. It wasn't so much that he meant to lie. It 
was simply that Naquin had debated this point so many times since Erri 
found him that he'd convinced himself it was the truth even if Erri 
didn't realize it as yet 


"That's a liel" Bronwynn roared. 


"Child, you're speaking about things you simply don't have the 
experience to comprehend. The land has been changed a great deal since 
we've rid ourselves of Pelmen. Untie me, and perhaps I can explain the 
words of the Prophet to you more fully, and " 


Bronwynn didn't give him a chance. She jammed his gag back into his 
mouth and whipped out her knife. "The next sentence you utter in my 
hearing will be your last!" she warned, as she held the blade to his 
throat. "You listen to me. I once wore a robe like yours. Wore it 
proudly. I followed Pelmen as he led me to the Power, and I did that 
proudly. But I find no pride in these colors now. So Erri thinks 
Pehnen was an imposter? Well. Maybe he was. I only know that if 
you're what's become of the reborn faith 


2it 


Pelmen espoused, I want none of it!" She gazed around the cluster of 
bound skyfaithers who stared at her, their anxious eyes bulging above 



their gags. Then she looked over her shoulder. Admon Faye leaned 
against the cliff face a hundred feet away, watching her and laughing 
with his cronies. Her face flushed, and she looked back at Naquin. "If 
I hadn't made such a fuss about saving you, I'd give you back to Admon 
Faye. Since I did, I'm going to cut your bonds and send you on 
through. Interpret it as you will," she continued sarcastically. "Say 
that the Power moved me to do it. But I swear, if you so much as touch 
your gags before you reach Chaomonous, I'll send every slaver in 
Dragonsgate down on your heads, do you hear me?" she shouted at the 
group. They nodded eagerly, and she started cutting through their 
bonds, leaving Naquin for last. "Begone!" she shrilled as she cut his 
last rope, and she booted him in the rear. He joined the rest of the 
pack as they raced down the sour then mouth on foot. Then she sheathed 
her knife and walked off to find Pinter and Tibb. As usual, they 
squatted on their haunches, arguing. They stopped when the Princess 
joined them and looked up at her expectantly. 


"I'm ready," she announced. "Teach me how to murder." 


"Pahd! Pahd, get up!" 


"Hnim .. . humph .. . hunh?" said Pahd mod Pahd-el, as he crawled out 
from under a favorite pillow. "What the .. . what's (yawn) .. . the 
trouble, mother? Is it breakfast already?" 


"It's midafternoon, Pahd!" Chogi Jan Pahd-el, his mother, replied 
scornfully. "You had half a duck for your midday meal. Don't tell me 
you don't remember?" 


"Remember? Do I remember?" Pahd asked blearily, rubbing his eyes. 


"Yes, you remember!" Chogi yelled impatiently. This drew Pahd's wife, 
Sarie, to her husband's defense. 


"Please, Chogi, let him alone. He got hardly any rest last " 


"Ridiculous!" Chogi blustered, throwing out her generous chest and 
stomach and propping her fists on equally generous hips. "All he does 
is sleep." 


"Why, that's not true," Sarie protested. "Is it, darling?" she called 
sweetly to her husband. 


Pahd snored. 


"You see," Chogi growled. 


"Why not let him alone? It's hard business running a kingdom 


"I should know," Chogi replied vehemently. "I've been running this one 
ever since his father died." 


"And probably before that," Sarie huffed to herself. 


"I heard that!" Chogi said, thrusting her bulldog's visage into Sarie 
lan Pahd's pretty, if vacant, face. "You just tell me where we'd be if 
I didn't take steps to administer this realm." 


"We'd be living peaceful, ordinary lives right here as normal people 
do," Sarie answered. "People in Ngandib-Mar don't need to be ruled, 



any more than Pahd needs to rule them. We'd all get on very well if 


you just left things alone." 
"I know why he married you." Chogi scowled. "It's because you're 
content to let him sleep his life away, in exchange for your court and 
your crown!" 


"Why not?" asked Sarie sensibly. "It's what he wants." 


"Well, it's not what I want!" Chogi finished, and she walked over to 
jerk the covers off her slumbering son. "Get up!" she roared again. 
"Hmm? What? What's that? Breakfast time?" 
"I've brought someone to see you, Pahd." 
"Fine," said Pahd as he snuggled down again. "Let him look as long as 


he likes." 


"Oh, no," Chogi said, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him upright. 
"This one you're going to talk to." 
"What about?" Pahd yawned. 
"Remember months ago, before the crisis with the dragon, when you asked 


me to find you a court power-shaper?" 
"I did?" 
"You did." 
"Certainly I remember." Pahd nodded. "Where did the fellow go, by the 


way?" 
"We never found one," Chogi roared. 
"We didn't?" Pahd asked Sarie. 
"No, dear," she replied. 
"Most inefficient," Pahd mumbled. "Remind me to make a decree 


deploring inefficiency .. ." He was eying his favorite pillow 
longingly. 
"No need," Chogi snorted. "I've found one for us 


"Really!" Sarie said, genuinely delighted. 
"I thought that would get your attention, Sarie ... at least .. ." 
Obviously it hadn't gotten Pahd's. His eyes were closing, and his head 
listed to one side. "Wake up!" Pahd came back to attention. 
Momentarily. 


"Where is he?" Sarie bubbled. 
"Send in the power shaper ordered Chogi lan Pahd-el, and a servant 
lazily moved to obey. "He's outside," Chogi explained, not troubling 
to hide her own excitement "He's a most dynamic man if a bit short , 
.." 



"Announcing Flayh," said the servant as he reentered, 
"Flayh?" asked Sarie. 
"Just .. . Flayh? That's all?" Pahd said drowzily. "Rather 


unimpressive title." 
"I have others, but why be redundant?" Flayh had stepped into the room 
and suddenly commanded the attention of everyone. Even Pahd. "I am 
Flayh. Let's leave it at that." He wore his splendid red and white 


cape. He'd thrown back the hood, and it stood upon his shoulders like 
a high collar. 
"Certainly looks the part," Pahd mumbled. 
"Pay no attention to the King," Chogi said apologetically. "He often 


says things he doesn't mean." 
"I do not." Pahd snarled. "Do I?" he asked Sarie. 
"No, dear," she replied. 
"You see," Pahd said. 
"Yes, you do," said his mother, staring him down. 
Pahd raised an eyebrow, shrugged, and looked at Flayh. "All right. I 


do. So .. .*' He sighed, and bit his Up. "Shape." 
"Pahd, we don't want to rush the man," said Chogi, smiling at Flayh. 
"I'm not offended," Flayh interrupted, and he threw his cloak aside. 
He was a lean, powerfully built hound. 
"A puppy!" Pahd said, clapping his hands. The two ladies were 


awestruck. 
Flayh was again a man. 
Pahd looked a bit crestfallen. "I rather liked the puppy, myself .. 


." 
"Pahd, I'll not play word games with you," said Flayh as he walked 


brusquely to the side of Pahd's bed-shaped throne. "I understand that 
you need a court sorcerer." 
"That's what my mother says." 
Flayh examined the man closely. This was the first time he'd ever met 


the one they called the sloth-King face to face. Always before, he had 
discounted the stories of the man's laziness, but Pahd was certainly 
living up to his reputation today. It was hard to imagine that this 
lump on the bed could also be one of the foremost swordsmen in the 
world, "I've come to offer my services," Flayh explained. 


"Flayh," Pahd said to himself. "I know of Joooms, and that troublesome 
Mar-Yilot .. . Terril .. . Pelmen of course. Never heard of a power 
shaper named Flayh. You new to the trade?" 



"I am." Flayh nodded. 


Pahd yawned and rubbed his eyes. "Ah, what will you need? What are 
your requirements?" 


"All I ask is a tower of my own to practice my arts and free access to 
every part of your fortress." 


Pahd smiled in surprise. "Free access? Is that really necessary?" The 
King chuckled. "I somehow can't feature walking into my private 
chamber and finding you casting a spell on it." 


"I can't feature you walking anywhere," Chogi snorted. 


"Chogi!" Sane scolded. 


"Well, I can't," the square-jawed matron replied. "We've gotta carry 
him everywhere he goes." 


"Perhaps I should retire and let you decide," Flayh suggested. 


"Oh, no." Pahd smiled. "Why not decide, then I can retire." The King 
studied Flayh carefully, then looked at his mother. "Well, what do I 
decide?" 


Chogi wheeled around to Flayh. "Your wishes are granted. I know just 
the tower for you, it's right by this one. You'll love it. And of 
course it is very convenient to the kitchens and the library so that 
you'll be able to " Her voice faded away as she escorted Flayh from the 
room, her sizable forearm wrapped around his thin shoulders. 


Pahd was still chuckling. "I think mother's got a new beau. Poor 
fellow " he added. 


Sane regarded the door uneasily as she strolled over to sit on her 
husband's bed. "Did you really want him here?" 


"Why not? Mother's obviously taken with him. And if she's with him " 
Pahd grabbed the sheets and pulled them over his head. " maybe she'll 
let me sleep." 


It was hours later before Flayh was finally able to shake himself from 
the demanding admiration of Chogi lan Pahd-el. Free at last, Flayh 
paced through the uppermost room of his new tower and out a doorway. A 
tiny balcony, not more than four feet from tower to balustrade, ringed 
the spire, and Flayh stalked this circle, gazing down on the awesome 
view spread below him. 


Except for the blocky citadel occupied by King Pahd and his family, 
this was the loftiest point in the royal fortress which meant it was 
lofty indeed. Flayh had the sensation that he stood on the top of the 
world. The spring rains had cleansed the air of dust, and he could see 
to mountain peaks on every horizon. It thrilled him, this pow-ershaper 
life, and he vowed never to return to that other existence, where power 
was nothing more than the shadowy possibility of political influence. 
From this vantage point Flayh could see that his new power need know no 
bounds. "I stand atop the greatest fortress in the world," he 
whispered to himself and he was right. 


The High Fortress of Ngandib was founded on a small rock plateau, which 



sat in turn in the middle of a much larger plateau. The city of 
Ngandib covered the eastern half of this larger tableland from its very 
edges to the base of the castle's rock. The western half of the 
plateau was a gigantic basin carved of stone a man-made reservoir dug 
to contain the city's precious water supply. To reach the city, a 
traveler had to climb a switchback road carved into the eastern cliff 
face, which rose five thousand feet from the valley floor below. 
Theoretically, this road could be defended from above so easily that no 
army would ever be capable of taking Ngandib by storm. The theory had 
gone untested throughout the centuries, since no one had ever thought 
it sensible to try such a thing. The residents of this 


lofty plain boasted smugly that they lived in a city without walls 
their cliffs were all the defense they needed. 


Should an invader by some miracle reach the city, he would find yet 
another insurmountable obstacle to conquest in the positioning of the 
fortress. Since it was built atop that smaller outcropping of rock, 
its parapets extended another six hundred feet above the plateau floor 
far too lofty to scale. The only entrance was through a cave chiseled 
into the rock beneath the castle, and up a long flight of interior 
stairs. Of course, Pahd never climbed the stairs. He rode, instead, 
on a primitive lift, operated by slaves from the upper chambers. 


"Absolutely inaccessible," Flayh breathed, staring beyond the palace 
walls, past the larger plateau, to the far distant valleys more than a 
mile below. From this height the view was partially blocked by clouds. 
Flayh had never seen the upper side of a cloud before. The very 
thought made his heart pound. "Invincible," he muttered. It wasn't 
clear, even in his own mind, whether he meant the fortress or himself. 
No matter, for soon they could be one. He slipped back inside the 
tower and pulled a couple of precious treasures from his luggage. The 
first was his pyramid, which he slipped from its velvet bag and placed 
on the table. The second was the ancient grimoire. He sat down, laid 
the book open before him at the proper page, and began to chant. 


As the light in Dragonsgate waned, Admon Faye watched Bronwynn defend 
herself. He could barely contain his pleasure. What he'd been unable 
to accomplish with threats and arguments, one self-righteous skyfaither 
had done in a matter of minutes. "I'm amazed at your transition," 
Admon Faye grunted, as he watched Bronwynn make short work of an 
attacking slaver. 


"I learn quickly when I choose to," she replied grimly. 


"You do, indeed," he cackled. "Your stuttering bull has met his 
match." In answer, she smoothly attacked and disarmed another brigand. 
"But I wasn't meaning your battle skills. Your instincts for that have 
always been good; it was just a question of tapping that hostility 
bottled inside you. No, I'm more interested in your ah spiritual 
transformation," 


The Wizard to Waiting 


Bronwynn shot the slaver an ugly look. "Don't push it." 


"But you were such a stalwart defender of the sky faithful he mocked. 


"I said don't push it!" Bronwynn shouted, spinning to face him and 
whipping her dagger from its scabbard. 



Admon Faye gazed up at her coolly, un cowed by her fierce expression. 
"Still threatening me," he murmured. "That's not a good sign. You 
haven't yet learned who gives directions in the new family of Faye." He 
got slowly to his feet. "What do you choose, Bronwynn? Knives? I'll 
flay a patch of skin off your back not where it will show, you 
understand, except to yourself in a mirror. You prefer swords? Then 
I'll take off let's say four of your toes. A six-toed queen is just as 
much a regent, isn't she? Or would you rather choose staves? I'll 
leave you with one ear delicate and shapely, the other the size of a 
melon. Your choice, child. Which?" 


Bronwynn blinked twice, then sheathed her knife. 


The slaver nodded. "I take that to mean you yield?" Bronwynn bit her 
lip. "Do you yield?" Admon Faye demanded, stepping to her and 
grabbing her under the chin. 


"I yield," Bronwynn whispered. The words tasted bitter. 


Admon Faye's twisted smile spread across his ravaged face once again. 
"Good. Then we ride." At that single word, the host of gathered 
slavers sprang into a whirlwind of activity. 


"Now?" she asked. "The sun's almost gone." "Right." He nodded. 
"That makes it the best time of the day." 


Less than an hour later a hundred and seventy riders / pounded down out 
of Dragonsgate. Not, however, before ;: Admon Faye had tied a note to 
the leg of a blue-flyer and tossed it into the purpling sky. 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 


Words with the Walls 


PEL MEN WAS SOUND ASLEEP when the castle made its decision. It might 
have let the matter rest until morning, but the Imperial House had been 
longing for company for weeks. It decided to wake the power shaper 
up. 


Very well. Intimidating an opponent is another form of cheating, said 
the House. 


Pelmen fell out of bed, for the castle had communicated this through a 
dreadful creaking in the beams that supported the ceiling. His initial 
instinct was to get under the cot. 


Did you hear? 


"I ... did," Pelmen responded, a bit shakily. He crawled back out onto 
the straw covered floor and looked up at the darkness. "I ... 
appreciate your understanding spirit," he went on, rubbing his eyes and 
yawning. 


Don't mention it. 


"Can I go back to sleep now?" 


There are things that should be said. "I want to talk to you, too, but 
it's night. Don't you sleep?" 



There's been too much sleeping. A thousand years too much. 
"You mean you've been asleep for a thousand years?" 
Since the coming of the dragon to the Great Gate, and the cutting off 


of magic from this land. 


Pelmen felt a rush of intense excitement. Sleep was forgotten in the 
face of the incredible opportunity. "But what woke you up again?" 
The death of the twi-beast, said the Imperial House. A wind stirred 


through the room, rustling the straw. 


Pelmen felt it on his face, and smiled. "You're laughing about that," 
he murmured. 
Wouldn't you? the castle chortled. "I read about you in a cryptic 


sentence in a book composed in the ancient times!" 


Ancient times! scoffed the Imperial House. It was yesterday! If 
you'd like to speak with the true ancients, look to the hills! 
"Unfortunately, I don't know their language." 
Few do, replied the House through a change of the room's temperature. 


They speak so dreadfully slow that your human lifespan could not 
contain a sentence .. . 


"But what of you? Tell me of yourself!" 
This House woke under the spell of Nobalog a wizard of some renown, 
though often taken less than seriously by his peers. He was a 
practical joker, you see, and got more pleasure from his little tricks 
than from the major works of his art. 


"Such as yourself." 
Of course! the House thundered through the groaning beams. 
"Did he not keep some record of his achievement?" 
He kept a book of spells, but that is all. 
"No wonder I'd never heard of such, then," Pelmen muttered, biting his 


lip. "That book has most certainly been lost for centuries." 


So it has. Was found recently, however. "Found!" Pelmen exclaimed. 
"By whom?" 
That information you must discover for yourself, power shaper This 


House only knows that at this moment, another House is stirring. 


Pelmen stared into the inky room, dumfounded. "Where? What 
structure?" he asked earnestly. 
Such questions humans ask! the House replied. Al The "Wizard in 


"Waiting ways talking of where. There is only one place, and that is 
this place. 



"The the other living House is also you?" 
Fool! How can there be a House and a House in a House? The other 
House that wakes shares this world, that's all. It is semi-conscious 


now, but it already is clear that the shaper who wakes it is of a 
malevolent turn. 
"But who?" Pelmen asked himself. The House ignored the question. 
Why can you suddenly hear? the House inquired. For days you've 


ignored everything that was said to you. 
"I've known for some time that there was something different about you 


since the night you teased me out of my sleep and blew out a torch in 
the hallway." 
Apologies. 
"Accepted. But though I knew you were a power, I didn't know you were 


the castle itself. I recalled that cryptic saying about you after 
talking with a woman in your dungeon." 
Her words were heard. 
"Do you hear everything that takes place within these walls?" 
Of course. 
"Simultaneously?" 


The House puzzled over the word for a moment. 
Everything is heard and known. At this moment the Queen snores in a 
bed carved of ivory and inlaid with gold, beneath piles of fish-satin 
sheets. The man with whom you alternately plot and argue, Gerrig, is 
not in his room, but in the room of 


"I have a good idea what Gerrig is doing," Pelmen interrupted. "But 


what of the woman I mentioned? The lady named Serphimera?" 
That lady paces the floor and invokes for your protection the name of 
the dragon. Rather silly, the House added needlessly. 


"That .. . cheers me, nevertheless." Pelmen thought for a moment. "Has 


she ever spoken aloud about me?" 
The woman has a great fondness for you, power-shaper. She calls upon 
the twi-beast to protect only those whom she regards highly. Why does 
she? That lizard is long dead. 


"That's just her understanding. I confess, I don't understand it 


either, but it's nice to know I'm warmly remembered." 
Then her understanding isn't yours as well? Pelmen was surprised. "Why 
do you ask?" 


Because you, too, invoke such a power. Or was it the House you cried 
out to for aid, when trapped in the jaws of the fish? 
"Since I didn't know you existed at the time, I could hardly have been 



shouting for you." 
The dragon, then? asked the Imperial House. Pelmen was rapidly 


growing more sensitive to the castle's inflections. The House seemed 
troubled. 
"As you've said, the dragon is dead." 
Then .. . what? 
"Better whom. I called on the Power, not on a power." 
I know nothing of this Power, replied the House. 
"Really?" Pelmen asked. "You didn't feel the wind that was sent to 


guide me? You didn't feel the heat that boiled the big fish in the 


cistern?" 


This House boiled the fish, the Imperial House corrected. 


"Oh," Pelmen said, a bit startled. "Well, I thank you, but " 


But what? 


"But why did you?" 


The House was quiet for a long time. Then it said: 


Does this Power make you do things you might not ordinarily do? 
It was Pelmen's turn to ponder. At length, he replied, "I think it's 
rather that the Power leads you to do what you should and furnishes the 
energy with which to do it." 


This must be considered. 


"Wait! Don't go yet, there's so much I want to knowl" 


Ask, then. 


"Why were you wanting to talk to me?" 


Two reasons. Loneliness and pain. "Pain? You?" 


Excruciating agony. It occurs whenever some show-off sorcerer like 


yourself shapes power in the hallways. 


"But I didn't shape you," Pelmen replied evenly, "though I had the 
chance." 
Not the night you were teased, no. Thank you. "You're welcome." 
But you did shape the airs of my dungeons into ulcerous balls of 


light! 


"When I was in the caverns," Pelmen remembered. "I had no idea then it 
was you who kept blowing them out" 
Every time. 



"I ... I'm sorry. If I'd known, I certainly would have stopped.1* 


You were told enough times! roared the House. Its tone softened, 
however, and it went on: 
But that wasn't the real pain. The agony comes from that miserable 


parasite of a trader, the scarlet-and-purple-clad Jagd of Uda! 
"Jagd? A powershaperT Pelmen asked, alarmed. 
No, fool! the House shouted back. This Jagd causes pain by use of 


that savagely pointed pyramid of his. 
"Ah," Pelmen breathed, understanding at last. 
with those three devices before." 
"I've had experience 
Three? There are six of the magical objects. 
of three." 
Or were. "I only know 

Powerful magic is contained in each, embedded there from the days of 
their making, in the last days of the one land. 


Pelmen's mouth opened in wonder. This was a tale he'd never heard. "Go 
on," he urged. 


They were formed by all the parties in cooperation: those of faith, 
those of magic, and those of observable nature. The task was to shape 
a weapon that could destroy Vicia-Heinox, while forming a new unity of 
all parties in the process. The craftsmen of natural laws operated 
complicated devices wrought of steel and glass, and produced the six 
objects in their proper shape. Then the six were intrusted to Sheth, 
the foremost magician of that age. It fell his lot to pour each 
crystal full of power, then knit them all together with a mystic bond 
known only to himself. Thus prepared, the finished object was to be 
passed to the men of faith, for them to add then- contribution. 


"And what was that?" Pelmen begged eagerly. 


No one ever knew. Sheth went into meeting with those of the faith, and 
emerged with the bonded crystals still in hand. It was said that, 
along with his craft, he'd poured himself into those crystals. He 
couldn't give them up to be used by anyone else. Alone he scaled the 
Central Gate, intent on destroying the beast that had made the place 
its own. 


"And?" asked Pelmen sadly, for he'd already guessed the tale's unhappy 
conclusion. 


The dragon devoured him. The magical bond that had melded the crystals 
into one shattered in the instant of his passing. And in the final 
conversation this House recalls before falling into slumber, someone 
told of seeing the dragon tossing the sparkling crystals from one mouth 
to the other. These magical objects contained the sum of the one 
land's wisdom, and the fool dragon was playing catch with them. 


"Not quite the sum," Pelmen muttered. 


What's that? 


"They lack, evidently, the contribution from the party of faith." 



So they do. The House was silent for a moment. Perhaps that was to 
have been the Power's contribution? Pelmen nodded to the damp 
darkness. "I'm sure of it" 


This must be considered. 


"Then the crystals were never made for communication at all?" 


You've been told the story of their construction, said the House, a bit 
peevishly. Was anything said about communication? 


"No." 


Very well, then. When they're used in a task for which they weren't 
intended, they scatter waves of magical nausea that cause this House 
dire distress. It would be greatly appreciated if you would remove 
this magical thorn from within these walls. 


"Ill do my best. But I must have your cooperation if I'm to 
succeed." 


Gladly offered. With one condition. "Which is?" 


No magic. 


The phrase thundered at Pelmen from every side. "Done," said Pelmen, 
and he meant it. The conversation extended into the early morning, 
ending at last only because of their mutual need to absorb what 


2 64 


had already been discussed. House and man fell silent, but with an 
implied promise to renew the contact as soon as possible. Pelmen lay 
awake thinking for a long time, but finally slipped into sleep, leaving 
the House alone. It pondered a new idea that seemed at the same time 
very ancient: 


What is this Power? 


A heavy, wet mist clung to the heights of Dragonsgate. The band of 
slavers wore it like a cloak in the darkness as they pounded down out 
of the southern mouth and onto the flatlands of Chaomonous. At the 
head of the column Bron-wynn rode, her jaw set in hatred, her eyes 
aflame. At the base of the mountains the fog cleared, and the stars 
could be seen clearly above them. But she didn't tilt her head back to 
look. She peered straight ahead, down the road to the capital, driven 
by her determination to murder Ligne and her lover. 


Pinter and Tibb also rode with determination they were determined not 
to get lost in the dark. They rode horses stolen from the skyfaithers, 
and fortunately these mounts were proving equal to the task. But the 
two made a point of staying toward the center of the pack. They had 
not experienced universal acceptance among this band of outlaws, and it 
would have pleased some of their companions to abandon them along the 
road. In spite of Tibb's insistence that "a cutthroat is a cutthroat 
wherever he's from," their differences with these Chaons grew more 
pronounced with each passing hour. 


The moon rose blood-red over their left shoulders, dimming the stars 



and throwing eerie illumination before them. But the strange light did 
not reveal the forms of twenty sleeping figures until the column was 
already upon them. The campers woke to the terrifying sound of an 
onrushing wave of hooves. Most were alert enough to scatter out of the 
way, but a few unfortunates were deep sleepers. These never woke 
again. The charging army never stopped. It soon had disappeared to 
the south. 


The moon was long gone, and the sun's glow was just beginning to light 
the horizon, when the small group of blue faitbers finished burying 
their dead. Already, these four who had left them in the night seemed 
a little less human and a lot more holy than the living. On a green 
knoll only a few hundred feet from the site of the midnight tragedy, 
Naquin committed their bodies to the ground. A few moments later, as 
the sky turned from pink to gold, he quietly dismissed the survivors. 
The tiny group of missionaries dispersed in every direction, more 
determined than ever to share their Prophet and their book. 


Naquin turned back to gaze at the freshly turned dirt one last time, 
then spun on his heels to follow the band of outlaws to Chaomonous. 


Pelmen awoke refreshed and alert and immediately jumped off his cot. He 
zigzagged through the corridors to the wide hallway that circled the 
outer perimeter of every floor of the castle and found a window. It 
was early still the sun was not yet up, but the red sky above the 
horizon painted the day with promise. He raced to the gardens, found a 
secluded spot behind a bush, and addressed the House again: "Good 
morning." 


It may prove so. 


"Or it may not. The Queen has promised me a trip to the dungeon this 
morning." 


Her words were heard. "Any idea what's behind it?" 


Perhaps it's the result of the Lord of Security's suspicions. 


"Do you know anything specific? Does either Joss or the Queen suspect 
that I am more than just a fool?" 


The Lord of Security is secretive as well as suspicious. He says 
little, and this House cannot read thoughts. Actually, the man is 
proving a relatively responsible General in spite of his failure. 


"Failure?" 


He allowed a captive to be stolen from the dungeon of this House! the 
castle snorted. Pelmen heard bells ringing in the distance. 


"That angers you?" 


Certainly. Escaping prisoners threaten the integrity of this House as 
a fortress. Such failure on the part of the warders is intolerable. 


Pelmen felt alarmed at the castle's fury. "Would it anger you if I 
were to rescue someone from the dungeon?" 


Every soul in the castle was awakened by the Imperial House's clamorous 
reply. Pelmen couldn't translate the curses, but he could tell they 



were curses. He set his jaw, and plunged ahead: 
"That disturbs me, since I intend to do just that But before you break 
into another chorus, hear me for a moment." The castle was silent "You 


asked me to remove the painful pyramid from within you, and I'll do my 
best to help you. But I want something in return." 
And that is? the Imperial House demanded. 
"Freedom for the woman in the lower dungeon, and a route of escape for 


myself and my friends." Pelmen expected another barrage of bells, but 
none came. The House was silent. "Are you thinking?" 


This must be considered. 
Pelmen nodded and settled back on his rock to wait. As he waited, the 
castle came awake or rather, the people in it did. He became aware of 
the birds chirping above him and leaned back to enjoy their beauty. 


Can you do anything about them? the House grunted, making Pelmen 
jump. 
"About what?" he asked when he recovered. 
These infuriating fowls! "You don't like birds, either?" 


They besmirch the roof and terraces of this House. Daily. 
Pelmen nodded. "I see. Very well, you help me plan my escape route, 
and I'll steal the pyramid and free the birds. Fair enough?" 


This goes against the nature of this House! "Your requests go against 
my nature too. I'm no thief and I like birds." The House thought for 
several more minutes. 


Very well. "You're agreed?" 
You remember the condition? 
"I do. No magic." 
"Good morrow, clown," said a voice above him, and Pel-men whirled 


around in shock to look behind him. "Up here, fool." 
Pelmen tiJted his head up. On a balcony that had gone completely 
unnoticed until this moment sat the Queen, still clothed in her 


nightgown. She was scarcely fourteen feet away. "Greetings, my Lady." 
He smiled woodenly. 
"Why are you out there talking to yourself this morning?" 
"I am rehearsing a part, my Lady," he covered. 
"Ah. For the play about me?" 
"That is correct. I have little free time to rehearse, so 
I " 
"Very responsible of you. Come, join us on this balcony for 



breakfast," she invited. Then she added, "Now," turning it into a 
command. 


"How do I get to it?" 


"Come to the door of my apartments. They'll let you in. Ah, here's 
Rosha already!" she gushed, turning away. She popped her head over 
the balcony once again before she went on into her room and ordered 
him, "Get up here." Then she was gone, back inside. 


How much had she heard? Probably made little difference, he reassured 
himself, since she only heard one side of the conversation. 
Nevertheless, he reviewed his words as he made his way down out of the 
gardens and into the hallway, then back up the stairs towards Ligne's 
multileveled suite. He met Yona Parmi on a stair-landing. 


"Good morning, Fallomar. What's the matter?" Yona quickly added as he 
saw the expression on Pelmen's face. 


"Nothing. Ligne's taking me to the dungeon, that's all." Yona's face 
turned nearly as white as Pelmen's, and that made the power shaper 
chuckle. "Relax I don't believe it's intended to be permanent. 
Besides, I've found us a powerful ally within these walls, one that I 
think can get us all out of this place. Is Gerrig still anxious to 
leave?" 


"I don't know how he feels about that this morning. He met another 
young lady last night " 


"So I heard," Pelmen interrupted. "I have to hurry, but listen. During 
rehearsal today, arrange some signal to gather the troupe quickly in 
one place. It may be necessary to move fast." 


"Are you finally going to involve us in your plans?" Parmi smiled. 


"I'm afraid you're already involved because of your connection to me. I 
hadn't intended to become so well-known to the Queen. Since I did, if 
I disappear with Rosha, she's certain to take her vengeance out on 
you." 


"So we go out with you." Parmi nodded. "Through the infirmary?" he 
added, then smiled at Pehnen's surprise. 


"How do you know about that?" 


"Give me credit for some power of observation," Yona snapped. 


Pelmen nodded. "I do, Yona. I just wanted to keep you out of any 
danger." 


"Worry about yourself, not us. Maythorm announced to us last night 
that he knew who you were." Pelmen's eyes widened. "Rosha took care 
of it for you. He broke the man's neck." 


Pelmen heaved a relieved sigh" That sounds like his father. Yona, 
please try to help him hold his temper just a few more days." Then he 
charged up the stairs toward Ligne's apartments. As he walked, he 
asked the House, "Why didn't you tell me Ligne was listening to me in 
the garden?" 



Was that part of the bargain? 


"If it wasn't, it should be from now on." 


She didn't hear a great deal. However, the woman is acting curiously 
today. Perhaps you had better take care. 


Pelmen nodded. He had at last reached the Queen's door, and he knocked 
on it. 


"What kept you, clown?" Ligne asked sharply as he was escorted onto 
the balcony. 


"Your palace is so vast, my Lady I lost my way." 


Ligne raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "I had thought you got around 
quite well perhaps too well. Unfortunately, you seem to have missed 
breakfast while you wandered the halls. Joss and Rosha have just 
finished the last crumbs." 


Pelmen glanced now at the two men who sat flanking her. To one side 
was Rosha, looking more distressed than usual. Had Ligne discovered 
then- relationship? On her other side sat General Joss, who studied 
Pelmen's face with patient, emotionless suspicion. Pelmen ignored his 
own discomfort and smiled brightly. "No matter. Are you ready for me 
to take you slumming below?" 


"I had rather thought I was taking you," Ligne replied. 


"Whether I take you or you take me, what difference? We're all sure to 
be taken by someone, eventually." 


"Maybe not, clown." 


"And yet maybe. The possibility of being taken is more threatening 
than the certainty of it." Pelmen pointed toward her door with a 
flourish and shouted, "To the dungeon with you!" 


Ligne's face suddenly grew hard. "You overstep yourself, fool," she 
murmured dangerously. 


"Again?" Fallomar responded. "I'm forever doing that. Perhaps that 
explains why I so frequently fall on my face?" "Come along," Ligne 
snapped as she stood up and stalked past him. She stopped when she got 
to the balcony door, and looked back at Joss. "General," she said, 
"you will see that Rosha is moved to his new quarters?" "I will, my 
Lady." 


"Bye-bye, Rosha. See you after your rehearsal," she sang, and Rosha 
managed a shallow smile. Pelmen took comfort that he was at least 
still trying. "Come, clown," Ligne snapped, and she left the room with 
Pelmen striding swiftly along behind her. 


Throughout their descent to the lower levels, Pelmen talked and joked, 
earnestly gauging Ligne's responses for some change in her attitude 
toward him. As they descended to that final level, the lower dungeon 
where Scr-phi mera was housed, he grew quiet 


"What?" Ligne asked him. "No quick-witted remark for this level?" 



"To be forthright, my Lady, this hall is so drafty that the chill bumps 
have extended to the tip of my tongue. You see?" he said, thrusting 
it out at her. 


"Put your disgusting tongue back in your mouth! Your impudence begins 
to gall me." 


"Such cold makes my tongue thick and slow to wag." "Stick it out again 
and I'll have it extracted! It certainly won't bother you then." 
"Missing it might .. ." 


"Stay here." She pointed her finger at the floor and the jester made a 
show of rooting himself in that precise spot. Ligne ignored him and 
walked down the corridor to Scr-phi mera door. Pelmen hoped his loud 
remarks had altered the Priestess to his presence. He was confident he 
could maintain the pretense of not knowing her. He felt no such 
assurance, however, that Serphimera could do the same. He strained to 
hear their conversation. 


"Priestess!" Ligne called through the bars, and Serphimera uncurled 
herself quickly from her bed and padded across the floor to face her. 


"My Lady. I'd not expected you to return so soon." 


"Then perhaps I've been too predictable in the past. Come come, any 
news for me?" 


"News, my lady?" Serphimera said guardedly. 


"Visions! Predictions! What may I expect?" 


"You can expect me to freeze if we stay down here much longer!" Pelmen 
interrupted, leaving his spot to come toward her. 


"I told you to say there!" Ligne ordered, pointing her finger at him. 
"Do you want me to leave you behind?" 


The fool didn't slow his pace. "Why, look!" he shouted as he turned 
to peer into the Priestess' cell and feigned surprise at seeing 
Serphimera. "Here's a captive to remain behind for! Such radiance is 
like a light in this darkened world! Tell me, my Lady, who is she?" 


"You don't know her?" Ligne asked, keeping her eyes fixed on 
Serphimera's face to judge the woman's reactions. 


"Know her?" Peimen gushed. "Why, if I did, I'd have quit this costume 
long ago and followed her, hat in hand!" 


"You are taken with her, then?" 


"As I said, we all must at last be taken or forfeit our humanity. I'm 
taken, indeed! Do you pen her here because her beauty is the only 
rival to your own?" 


"You ask too many questions, clown." Ligne turned and explained to the 
staring Serphimera, "He's an insolent creature." 


"I see that clearly," the Priestess responded, and she clamped her jaws 
tightly together, freezing her expression in place. Serphimera's head 
swam. What was she supposed to do? 



"Like a cur, he'd been sniffing out my dungeon I wondered if he 
belonged, somehow, to you?" 


"To me, my Lady?" Serphimera said faintly. "Queen Ligne, my business 
has nothing to do with jesters, and certainly not with this fool!" 


"But surely," Pelmen murmured, "such beauty as the two of you share 
makes a fool of every man .. ." 


Ligne smiled. "You see why I like to keep him around. He has such a 
lovely tongue " Here she looked at Pel-men. " when he keeps it in his 
mouth." 


Serphimera looked at them both uncertainly, and it seemed to Pelmen 
that she made some sort of decision. He braced himself. 


"There was a vision .. . that .. . that came in a dream. I saw two 
plots against you, Queen, but neither plot succeeded." 


"Indeed!" said Ligne, startled. She turned to Pelmen. "Clown, get 
out." 


"Then I'm not to be behinded?" 


"Get!" the Queen roared, and Pelmen scrambled up the stairs. Over his 
shoulder he saw Ligne lean into the cell window and demand: "Tell me 
more." He wished he, too, could hear that revelation, but he felt less 
uncertain of his standing now than he had throughout the morning. Ligne 
evidently had found no clear link between himself and Serphimera, and 
that relieved him. He also felt confident Serphimera would not 
willingly betray him. In fact, he was convinced she had just passed 
him a pointed warning. 


"Two plots," he muttered to himself, "and neither one will succeed." 
The news was certainly troubling. But if Serphimera had seen it in a 
vision, he didn't doubt it for a minute. 


Carlad maintained his formal, cool manner as he and Rosha walked down 
the hallway side by side. Once in the throne room, he dropped that 
pretense and raced over to join himself to Danyilyn, laughing and 
clapping the other players on the back. Rosha stood near the doorway, 
trying to control his rage. Yona Permi quickly joined him. 


"I saw Pelmen in the hall this morning," Parmi said quietly. "He says 
he has an ally in the walls, as well as a way out for all of us. 
Patience, Rosha. Just a few more days." 


"I don't have a few more days," Rosha snarled. 


"What?" 


"The woman has moved me into the room next to hers," Rosha said grimly. 
Then he looked at Parmi. "She's going to marry me, she says." Yona 
nodded. "What am I supposed to do?" Rosha pleaded. 


"Stall her." 


"I can't do that forever. Yona, if that woman chases me around the 
room again, I swear I'll break her neck!" 



"Don't do it!" Yona snapped. "You'll bring the whole castle down on 
us!" 


"I can't help it! The woman makes me ill!" 


"That's it!" Yona smiled brightly. 


"What?" 


"Get sick! Everytime she comes near you, get sick. It's hard to 
maintain passion for someone who is retching." 


Rosha stared at him. "You mean " 


"It's easy. I'll teach you," Yona said, and he took Rosha aside and 
began his instruction. By late morning, the young warrior had mastered 
the art. 


Pelmen quickly climbed the stairs to the upper level of the dungeon, 
and started for the doorway. He stopped short when he saw Joss 
blocking it. The General appeared to be staring at him, and Pelmen 
felt some of his uneasiness return. He shot the aged soldier a quick 
smile. He was not greatly comforted when the Lord of Security returned 
it "Pardon," he mumbled as he brushed through the door and into the 
hall. Joss made no effort to stop him but neither did he get out of 
the way. Pelmen quickly put some distance between them. 


Moments later he slammed the door of his cell and sat on the floor 
before one of its walls. "What are they saying now?" 


They? the castle replied casually. There are at least four hundred 
conversations currently in progress. Perhaps you could be more 
specific? 


"The Queen and the woman Serphimera! What are they saying?" 


Nothing at the moment. Their conversation ended only moments after you 
were dismissed, with the captive woman pretending ignorance of any 
further details of these two plots she mentioned, and the Queen cursing 
her for a liar. 


"You say she's pretending she does know more about them?" 


She fears she does. 


"Does she think that my presence within the walls constitutes one of 
the two?" 


She does. 


"How do you know," Pelmen demanded. 


At this moment she addresses a long supplication to the dragon on your 
behalf. Since that scaly beast is dead, he surely cannot mind if this 
House eavesdrops. 


Pelmen stared at the wall, his mind as blank as its surface. 


This woman's appraisal of your so-called plot seems to bother you, the 



Imperial House chortled. 


"She's not the crazy woman you seem to consider her," Pelmen said 
quietly. "I know her. And her visions come true." 


Then your plan is doomed to failure. While this House can sympathize 
with your frustration, this certainly cannot be allowed to interfere 
with the contract agreed upon this morning. 


"I'll still get your pyramid," Pelmen said wearily. He lapsed into 
silence for a moment, then quickly demanded, "What's the best the most 
unobtrusive way out of you?" 


You plan to press on in spite of her words? "If I make no attempt, I 
prove her vision true already. What route?" 


It grieves this House to make this confession. It was a crack in the 
foundations that permitted that thief to steal away a captive. It may 
be reached through those same tunnels you became so thoroughly lost 
in. 


"But you could guide us to it?" 


Naturally. 


"That'll have to do. How do I " 


There is a problem. "What problem?" 


The crack opens onto the river. Unless your friends are all excellent 
swimmers, it would seem necessary to have a boat positioned below the 
crack. There is no boat there, 


"I see." 


There is another alternative. "And that is?" 


The rulers of this House have long kept a boat secreted in a cavern 
beneath the northern face of this castle. This cavern can only be 
reached through a concealed passageway, which can be entered only 
through the royal apartments, the throne room, and several other 
strategic locations within these walls. These entry ways are evidently 
closely guarded secrets, since the spiders who make the passage then-
home have not been disturbed in years, "But you know the secret?" 


This House watched while the cavern was carved! the castle snarled. 


"Very well." Pelmen nodded. "But how do I get Serphi-mera out of the 
dungeon and up to one of these entry points in order to escape?" 


That is a problem you must solve. While this House might permit the 
theft of another captive, you cannot expect it to suggest how such 
might be done! 


Pelmen nodded and spent the rest of the afternoon grilling the castle 
about possible escape routes and planning possible scenarios for their 
grand attempt. The castle was intrigued by this fool's errand. So 
intrigued, in fact, that it paid no attention to a brief encounter that 
took place between Joss and the Queen as Ligne left the dungeon. It 
never heard the General mutter, "Now?" 



Nor did it hear Ligne swiftly reply, "Not yet" 


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 


With Violence and Guile 


THE LAZY OCCUPANTS of Pahd's fortress took little notice of Flayh, 
except to observe that he seemed unduly industrious, and to suggest 
that he take life a little easier. Flayh responded to each of these 
comments with a silent smile so false and threatening that no one had 
yet dared to address him twice. Chogi lan Pahd-el was the only one who 
engaged him in conversation. She, however, was certainly enough. The 
old girl pursued him through the castle like a bulldog short of wind 
and stubby of legs, but long on determination. He'd been forced to 
repeat a dozen spells due to Pahd's mother interrupting him at a 
critical juncture. It had happened again just a moment before, and he 
was contemplating what slimy denizen of the deep he'd like to change 
the woman into as he accompanied her up the royal tower's steps. 


The woman banged open the door without stopping to knock, and stalked 
to the foot of Pahd's bed. "Get up. We have a crisis." 


"What?" asked Sarie groggily, raising her head and gazing bleary-eyed 
at her mother-in-law. Then she looked at a nearby window. "It's still 
morning!" she scolded. "We never get up in the morning!" 


27S 


"We do when an army marches against us!" Chogi snapped, and suddenly 
Pahd's head popped up off the pillow. 


"Battle?" he asked hopefully. 


"It appears so." Chogi sighed. 


Flayh was shocked to see the King dance out of bed, skip across the 
fur-covered floor, and jerk a great sword out of a scabbard hanging on 
the wall. "Wonderful!" Pahd cried, as he thrusted and parried, quite 
oblivious to the flapping of his nightshirt. 


"Your joy may be premature," Chogi said soberly. 


"Why's that? Whom are we fighting?" 


"Mar-Yilot and her man." 


Pahd stopped dancing. "Oh." He looked at Flayh expectantly, and the 
former merchant suddenly discovered that Chogi and Sarie were gazing at 
him too. 


"Am I supposed to say something?" Flayh asked. 


Sarie's eyebrows raised with just a hint of disapproval. "Well you 
might offer us a bit of encouragement. After all, you are the court 
shaper." 


"I hadn't realized lending encouragement was part of my task," Flayh 
responded evenly. 



"What the girl is saying," Chogi explained apologetically, "is that 
since you are our shaper, and since Mar-Yilot is a wit cher woman, we 
would like to know how you intend to protect us." She folded her hands 
on her ample belly and waited for a reply, her eyes fixed demurely on 
the floor. 


"Oh, that." Flayh nodded, endeavoring to appear nonchalant in spite of 
the sudden pounding of his heart. But Flayh had not been a longtime 
success at merchandising without learning how to use shifting fortunes 
to his advantage. He beamed his false smile at them and said, "Don't 
be alarmed. I can assure you that I can provide total protection for 
you by nightfall." 


"Total protection?" Pahd asked. "From Mar-Yilot? That's a rather 
grandiose claim, considering the woman's past successes in shaper 
battles. Why, in the last war of confederation, the only wizard to 
control her was Pelmen the powerful, and that only by outwitting her. 
For raw strength in bending powers to her will, no one can match the 
woman." Pahd said this in awe-filled tones approaching hero-worship, 
and Sarie looked at him sharply. 


"That may be," Flayh murmured confidently. "But she has yet to meet 
with me or my knowledge." He laid his hand over the place where his 
spell-book was concealed in his tunic. "If you will permit me to work 
throughout the rest of this day " Here he looked at Chogi to add, " 
undisturbed " He looked back at Pahd. " by the time you take to your 
bed again this evening, this fortress, already formidable by all human 
standards, will be totally impervious to magic attacks as well." 


"Really? You can do all of that while I'm out of bed? That is 
fast." 


"But only if I'm undisturbed." 


Pahd nodded and pursed his lips. Then he looked at his mother, who was 
quite obviously preparing to pout. "Ah .. . mother? Weren't you 
planning to visit Aunt Razel sometime soon?" 


"Are you telling me to get out of this house?" Chogi challenged her 
son, her jaw jutting forward. 


"Why, no, mother." Pahd shrugged. "Just suggesting that " 


"I'll not interfere with you, Lord Flayh," she promised the power 
shaper in a voice thick with sarcasm. "Just see to it that you do your 
job and that we are protected." She banged her way back out the way 
she came in, heading for her own quarters to weep away her feelings of 
rejection. 


Pahd misinterpreted Flayh's look of scorn as an expression of concern. 
"Don't worry, my friend. She won't give up on you that easily." Pahd 
slipped his sword back into its holder and eyed his pillow. "Don't, ah 
don't let me keep you from your work .. ." he hinted. 


"I certainly won't. Good day, my Lord my Lady." Flayh bowed slightly, 
then left the tower, pulling out his grimoire as he went. 


Pahd started for the bed, then stopped, and sniffed the air. "You 
smell something funny?" 



"It's your mother's perfume," Sarie told him with a droll smile. 


"Ah." Pahd nodded, stretched, yawned, and scratched his side. "I 
guess that takes care of the crisis, so ... I think I'll take a little 
nap." 


"You do that." Sarie smiled sweetly. "Everything here is under 
control." 


And by nightfall, everything was under control. Flayh's. 


"I'm in charge here," Pezi yelled at the cook, "and unless you'd rather 
be working the docks in southern Chao-mo nous you'd better keep that in 
mind!" 


"I shall, Lord Pezi!" the cook roared back, ramming a wicked-tipped 
fork into the rump roast that lay on the cutting table before him. Pezi 
could hardly miss the implication. The cook was obviously wishing it 
were Pezi's. 


Pezi drew himself up to his full height, hitched his pants a futile 
gesture he repeated a hundred times daily and sauntered out the door of 
the kitchen into the courtyard. He immediately wished he hadn't. 


A sugar-clawsp hung there in the air, eying him menacingly. Its 
membranous wings were a-blur with motion, yet it held its position in 
his face, unyielding, offering no quarter. Sunlight glinted off its 
iridescent violet body, adding to the illusion of armor-plated 
invincibility. Never mind that it was only half an inch long Pezi was 
terrified of these things! He gulped and backed toward the kitchen 
door. The sugar-clawsp slowly followed him. 


Pezi stopped. He couldn't let a clawsp chase him back into the 
presence of the cook. He already faced enough difficulty in 
establishing his authority over this manor. He refused to add this 
indignity to the list of Pezi stories he knew was making the rounds. 
Yet the suger-clawsp just as adamantly refused to let him pass. When 
he stepped to the right, the tiny insect zipped over to meet him. When 
he stepped back to the left, it buzzed back to its original position. 


Pezi reviled himself silently. Why hadn't he left the kitchen through 
the hall? Why had he chosen this back door, where he knew sugar-claws 
ps would be swarming this time of year? Clawsps loved sugar and lived 
wherever it was readily available. They formed it into the inverted 
castles of silvery crystal that hung from the eaves above him. Kitchen 
help throughout the three lands encouraged these insects to swarm, as a 
convenient way of storing sugar supplies. Whenever more of the 
substance was needed for the table, some unfortunate servant was 
delegated to tear down a clawsp castle and grind it to powder. This 
miserable task usually fell to the servant currently in deepest 
disfavor, for invariably he would need to pluck a host of the tiny 
creatures out of their crystal courts first and when aroused, 
sugar-claws ps exuded an oily acid that produced nasty burns on human 
skin. Touching an angry sugar-clawsp could be compared to thrusting a 
hand into an open flame. And all clawsp seemed angry around Pezi. 
Perhaps they were instinctively aware that his great girth represented 
scores of demolished sugar palaces. Perhaps they were jealous, for it 
was evident that Pezi got all the sugar he wanted. For whatever 
reason, the fat merchant had never met a clawsp he didn't hate. 



A voice came from the kitchen. "I'm looking for the Lord Pezi have you 
seen him?" 


"Go right out that door " Pezi heard the cook reply. The fat 
merchant's face flushed as the cook continued with a snicker: "He's 
outside dancing with a clawsp." "Lord Pezi?" said the voice behind 
him. "I'm right here," he retorted, visibly impatient. "I ... can see 
that .. ." the voice replied. Pezi identified it as belonging to the 
chief watchman at the gate. 


"Well, get around here where I can see your face!" Pezi was not about 
to turn his back on the tiny violet creature. He'd tried that before, 
and more than one hostile sugar-clawsp had taken advantage of the huge 
target thus provided. As the watchman stepped cautiously into his 
field of vision, Pezi grabbed the man by the collar and swung him 
around as a shield. The clawsp buzzed angrily, but did not strike the 
guard. "Now what is it?" Pezi demanded, his eyes focused beyond the 
man's head. 


"I ... there's someone in the courtyard to see you " "Who is it?" 


"Tahli-Damen, the local lord of Uda in this region " "What!" Pezi 
yelped, suddenly focusing his eyes on the guard. "And you let him 
in!" 


"Of course, Lord Pezi. Why, he is a merchant " "Without asking me?" 
"You weren't in your office, Lord Pezi!" "You knew that it was time 
for my afternoon snack." '1 know that all afternoon is time for your 
afternoon snack " 


"Then why didn't you seek me out?" 


"He told me that he bore an emergency message specifically for the Lord 
Pezi. Besides, he's a merchant, and common courtesy demands that 
merchant houses admit any unaccompanied merchant who asks entry " 


Pezi snarled and shoved the guard backwards. The man screamed in pain 
and clapped the back of his neck, for the fat merchant had pushed him 
into the clawsp. Pezi didn't linger to hear the guard's angry curses. 
He waddled rapidly around the corner of the kitchen toward the 
courtyard and away from the clawsp. 


Tahli-Damen waited in the dusty court. Instead of the velvet and 
fish-satin robes his office entitled him to wear, he had donned the 
simple costume of a trading captain. His expression was almost 
penitent. 


Pezi jellied toward him, regarding the Udan merchant with puzzled 
suspicion. "What are you doing here?" he blustered. 


Tahli-Damen's reply astonished him. The man dropped to one knee and 
mumbled, "I've come to beg your forgiveness." 


"Hunh?" 


"I've had several days, Lord Pezi, to review my behavior at the 
conclave. I offer my apology, if I caused you and your uncle any 
discomfort." 


"What do you want?" Pezi's eyes narrowed to mere slits in his fleshy 



face. He was keen enough to know no merchant ever acted like this 
unless he wanted something. 


"Lord Pezi, you see right through me," Tahli-Damen confessed. "As 
you've guessed, I've come seeking a favor a rather .. . delicate favor 
.. ." Tahli-Damen lowered his voice and glanced around. Several 
occupants of the castle had stopped to watch this curious spectacle 
unfold, 


"You want privacy?" Pezi whispered. 


"When you learn my business, I'm sure you'll want privacy as well .. ." 
Tahli-Damen replied mysteriously. 


Pezi straightened up, his expression of consternation masking the 
gloating pride welling up inside his belly. He liked the idea of 
commanding the whole castle's attention, He enjoyed being addressed as 
Lord Pezi by his chief competition in Ngandib-Mar. And he exulted in 
the picture of this competitor kneeling at his feet in the dust. He 
wasn't in any hurry to move out of the public eye. 


"I don't have any secrets from my employees," Pezi said grandly, 
gesturing around at the large court. "If you have business, speak it 
plainly." Pezi propped his hand on his hips and splayed his feet wide 
apart. 


"As you choose, Lord Pezi, but I " Tahli-Damen looked up then and 
suddenly broke off. 


"What's the matter?" Pezi grunted. "Forget what you were going to 
say?" 


"No, my Lord," Tahli-Damen replied humbly. "It's just that I noticed a 
sugar-clawsp buzzing around your head " 


"On the other hand, my offices are cool and quite private," Pezi 
suggested earnestly, and he dragged Tahli-Damen to his feet. 


"You'll not regret this choice," Tahli-Damen said as Pezi hustled him 
into a dark hallway and away from the insistent violent pest. 


"I'm sure I won't," Pezi puffed, hurrying along the hall's cobbled 
floor. In the dark of the passageway, the fat merchant completely 
missed Tahli-Damen's gloating grin. 


Erri cleared his throat and pointed to a wall. "That one first, 
Dolna." 


The tugolith keeper nodded, and began explaining to his assistants 
where they would attach their chains to the walls of the temple. 
Nearby, a dozen tugoliths waited impatiently for the destruction 
process to begin. 


Erri had decided weeks ago that in order to eradicate all memory of the 
Dragonfaith from the minds of his people, this central symbol of the 
ancient religion had to be destroyed. It was a pity to tumble such a 
grand construction. But if symbols couldn't be changed, they had to be 
removed and this was one symbol he had no intention of the new sky 
faith adopting. Scores of initiates had urged him to reopen the 
delicately crafted cathedral and make it as central to the new faith as 



it had been to the ancient religion. But Erri resisted. "The Power 
cannot be contained in a house," the Prophet snapped when anyone 
suggested it. If this place had to come down in order to make that 
clear, then come down it would. Today. 


Erri felt a lingering sense of depression, however. He had been 
wakened in the night by horrible screaming only to find the screams had 
been in his dreams alone. Even so, he felt a malaise that couldn't be 
denied and that wouldn't go away in spite of the attention he gave to 
this project. He had been talking to the Power about it all morning. 
"Is Naquin in trouble?" the Prophet asked. 


"What's a Naquin?" asked a curious tugolith. Erri turned around to 
stare up at the horned monster. The tugo-lith's huge green eye, easily 
the size of small wagon wheel, gazed back at him curiously. 


"It's ... a man." Erri answered carefully. 
"I don't know a Naquin man," the gigantic beast explained. 
"I see. That's all right." Erri smiled in a soothing tone. 
"But you asked me," the puzzled tugolith pointed out. 
Erri looked at it. "Oh, about if Naquin was in trouble? I was talking 


to someone else, child. Don't worry about it." It was impossible to 
think of a tugolith as anything other than an enormous baby. The 
beasts thought at the level of human toddlers. 


"But if he's in trouble .. ." the beast began. 


"If he's in trouble, what, Chimolitha?" asked Dolna as he rejoined 
Erri. The Prophet felt great relief at the keeper's return. 
"Then .. . you'll be angry," Chimolitha explained. 
"I'm not angry at anyone, sweetheart," Dolna said. "Are you ready to 


pull down this building for me?" 


"Yes!" trumpeted Thuganlitha, an aggressive beast who liked nothing 
better than to bury its gigantic horn into something or someone. 
"I know you are, Thug. Riganlitha? Pulanlitha? Are you ready?" 
"I want to play," Riganlitha whined. 
"Why, this will be fun!" Dolna exclaimed, "You'll really like it!" 
"I like killing people," Thuganlitha interrupted. 
"I know that, Thuganlitha " 
"Are there any people inside?" the beast asked hopefully, 
"No," Dolna replied wearily. "None inside." 
Thuganlitha muttered a brief obscenity, shocking both its keeper and 


Erri. "Where'd it learn that?" Erri asked, wide-eyed. 
"Thuganlitha," Chimolitha chided. "You're not supposed to." 



28J 


"I don't care!" The aggressive monster sniggered. 


"Dolna, what does that word mean?" Pulanlitha asked. 


"Never mind!" the overseer shouted, and he looked apologetically at 
Erri. "I think I'd better get them in place right now or we could have 
a problem on our hands .. ." 


"Go to it," Erri told him, dismissing him with a wave. The Prophet 
turned to go back to his tiny cell, but was startled when a voice a 
tugolith voice called out to him. 


"Prophet?" 


The Prophet spun around, his eyes wide. The same green eye gazed down 
at him. "Ah .. . yes .. . Chimolitha?" he replied, hoping he had the 
right name. He did. 


"Is that Pelmen man all right?" 


Erri remembered then that this was one of the two beasts that had 
nearly torn Pelmen in two. His face softened. "Yes, child. The 
Pelmen man is all right." 


"Good," Chimolitha said with a kind of giggle. "I like him." 


"I like him too." Erri grinned, then he waved at the beast, and walked 
across the vast city square. As he reached the far side, well out of 
earshot of the tugoliths, he inclined his head to look at the fluffy 
clouds drifting high above him. "He is all right .. . isn't he?" Erri 
asked. Then he went inside, to await the same assurance from another 
source that he'd so easily afforded the tugolith. 


"I see," said Pezi, nodding in what he believed was a dignified manner. 
Tahli-Damen returned Pezi's sober expression, while in his mind 
stifling a guffaw. This task promised to be simpler than he'd ever 
imagined. Already he'd identified the corner where Pezi stored his 
precious pyramid. Though the office was dark, with only the flame of a 
single candle for light, the triangular contours of the bag behind the 
desk had broadcast its contents to Tahli-Damen's eyes. The only 
problems left to solve now were how to get Pezi to leave the room, and 
then how to get safely out of the keep. 


"It's quite clear," Tahli-Damen explained. "I think you can see the 
advantages. The actual trade is perfectly above-board, and if the 
other local houses are caught in the resulting squeeze, we can hardly 
consider it unfair. After all, we are the two most competitive houses 
in this mountainous nation." The young merchant leaned forward to 
place a hand on Pezi's balloonlike knee. "And think, Pezi think of the 
respect we'll win. These old codgers who've ruled the Council for ages 
they aren't prepared to cope with this new situation. They've spent 
all their lives saying yes sir' and 'no sir to the dragon what do they 
know about this modern world?" 


"You have a point." Pezi nodded wisely. 


"Your uncle. Where is he? Off someplace playing magician, that's 



what. And Jagd, my supervisor? AH he does is sit in the palace of 
Chaomonous playing table games. I tell you, Pezi, that pair is senile, 
they're long past their prime. And as you and I both know, the other 
ruling Elders are all fossils as well, so accustomed to copying either 
what Flayh does or what Jagd does that they've no minds of then1 own. 
They're ripe plums, ready for us to seize and swallow." 


Pezi smiled broadly. He liked the plum analogy. Pezi liked plums. 


"But it's essential that we move quickly before your uncle returns or 
Jagd regains his courage. Otherwise, we'll soon go back to being what 
we've always been abused slaves, standing in the shadows of two old 
men." 


"Ah .. . yes." Pezi nodded. "I can see that. But .. ." 


"But what, Pezi?" 


Tahli-Damen never heard Pezi's objection. There was a heavy pounding 
at the door. "Go away!" Pezi shouted. 


"A flyer, Lord Pezi," someone called from the corridor. "We just 
discovered it. I'm afraid it's been here all night. It's from Admon 
Faye." 


"Admon Faye!" Pezi stopped himself, looked at Tahli-Damen, then 
struggled to his feet and hustled over to the door. "Give!" he 
commanded, and he was handed a small scrap of paper that wanted to roll 
back into a cylinder. He scooted to the candle and unrolled the scrap 
to read it. He made a point of hiding the scribbled message from the 
eyes of Tahli-Damen, but might just as well have handed it to him in 
the first place, for all the good that did. Pezi moved his lips when 
he read, and Tahli-Damen simply read them. It was a terse message AM 
RIDING TONIGHT AD MON FAYE but it was enough to send Pezi into tail 


spinning confusion. "You ah you remain here." Pezi ordered, and he 
started from the room. Then he stopped. "No. Leave. You must 
leave." 
"But Pezi, what about our plans? Our future?" "Oh. The future." Pezi 

pondered for a moment. "Ah, stay where you are, I have to send a 
message to my uncle " 


"What's it about?" Tahli-Damen asked innocently. "The invasion of oh, 
never mind," Pezi covered hurriedly. "It's nothing of importance, 
believe me." Pezi rushed into the corridor, the sudden beads of sweat 
popping out onto his head a clear indicator that the fat man was lying. 
An invasion by Admon Faye? Must be of the palace of Chaomonous, 
Tahli-Damen thought to himself. Jagd would certainly be pleased to 
have some advanced warning 


"On the other hand," Tahli-Damen said to himself, remembering his own 
words of a few moments before perhaps Jagd didn't need to be warned at 
all. Certainly, there would be no question who would head the family 
of Uda if Jagd were gone .. . 


Tahli-Damen dove under the desk and scooped up the bag. A quick check 
of its contents assured him it was the item he'd come to pilfer, then 
he was out into the corridor and running through the courtyard. "Your 
Lord Pezi needs you," he cried to the gatekeeper. "It's an 
emergency!" 



"Let him wait," the porter responded angrily. The back of the man's 
neck still burned from his contact with the sugar-clawsp. Then, 
without Tahli-Damen's even asking, the man opened the gate and let him 
out. It was really almost too easy. 


A single flame sat on the table before Flayh in the darkened room. He 
stared into it, breathed deeply, then chanted: "By the powers of the 
sea, by the powers on the wind, by all powers that may be, let this 
castle's life begin!" His volume built quickly through the brief rhyme 
that formed the linking spell of all the work he'd done. Then he 
waited in silence, watching intently as the smoke curled up from the 
candle listening. At last it came: 


Awake! the High Fortress of Ngandib snarled, and wind whistled through 
its corridors. Doors slammed and age beams cracked, bells rang, and 
the horses housed in the cave beneath the castle screamed in terror. It 
was late, and most of the palace-dwellers had long ago retired, but 
everyone woke up now. Even Pahd mod Pahd-el. 


"What in the " he began, then his voice left him as he gazed at the 
tall window. The room was dark, but moonlight streamed in, 
illuminating the terrifying inrush of wind that caused the long drapes 
to stream out from the wall and up toward the ceiling. 


"Pahd," Sarie whispered, "do you think .. ." 


"Yes, my love," Pahd murmured, hugging her trembling body close to his 
own. "I think our shaper has made good his promise." 


"It scares me," Sarie whimpered. 


Pahd licked his lips and didn't reply. There wasn't a warrior in the 
world who could cause him concern. But this scared him witless. 


"Stop!" Flayh commanded. 


Why? the castle sneered, and Flayh's own window blew open with a 
bang. 


Undaunted, he chanted again: "By the powers of the wind, by the powers 
of the sea, by my powers you begin, all your powers rest in me!" 


The High Fortress laughed aloud. Flayh was ready for that Without a 
word he altered shape and his magic transformation turned the laughter 
of the Fortress into a long howl of pain. Flayh did not hurry to 
resume his human form. When at last he did, it was Flayh who was 
laughing and not the Fortress. 


Who? the High Fortress asked him. 


"I am your master," Flayh said quietly, and he blew out the candle. For 
the rest of the long night, Flayh sat in his black room smiling. 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 


From Troupe to Troops 


THE ONRUSHING SLAVERS did not stop with the coming of daylight. They 
just left the main road and spent the entire day in the saddle. No 



words were exchanged, not even during the infrequent pauses in their 
journey. This trip had a very different flavor from Bronwynn's 
exhilarating ride through the Great South Fir. Raucous laughter had 
been replaced by muffled grunts. Wild careening over bushes and brush 
had given way to disciplined, orderly riding, the kind one would expect 
from a crack equestrian brigade. Every slaver present knew he had 
entered the territory of a deadly enemy. No one was foolish enough to 
take the Golden Throng of Chaomonous lightly especially not when he 
considered the reputation of Lord Joss. Several of the slavers had 
spent time as Joss' captives and had shared sobering stories of his 
cruelty. It was in deference to Joss* skill as a tactician that the 
troop divided at midday. While the bulk of the riders forded the river 
twenty miles north of the capital, sixty of the finest horsemen 
continued southward. They were to make a carefully planned raid on the 
city*s northwestern suburbs. Admon Faye felt confident that the raid 
would draw Joss out of the castle and cover his larger contingent's 
entry into the city sewers. 


After twenty-seven hours of nearly nonstop riding, the larger unit of 
the house of Faye abandoned their exhausted horses at the northeast 
edge of Chaomonous. In minutes all were underground, Bronwynn 
included. She plugged her nose with cotton against the fetid odor and 
took her appointed place in a low, lean boat. An hour later, just a 
few minutes after midnight, they were all assembled in a subterranean 
cavern beneath the warehouse of one of Admon Faye's many "business 
associates" one who knew how to keep his mouth shut. 


Several lamps guttered in the close, foul cave, casting a flickering 
light on Admon Faye's face as he stood to address them: 


"Here we sleep. Five hours no more. We're within a few hundred yards 
of OUT target, so keep silent and get some rest. You'll be awakened by 
squads and ferried across to the point of entry at the base of the 
fortress. Once inside, wait in the cavern until all have assembled." 


"Only one boat at a time?" a boatman asked. He knew the answer, but 
wanted to be sure everyone else did too. 


"As planned," Admon Faye grunted. "One boat the guards won't take 
notice of. Fifteen boats at once would insure us all of a grave at the 
bottom of the river." Admon Faye searched the faces of his fellow 
cutthroats, seeking any signs of undue nervousness that might indicate 
duplicity. He found none. His eyes lingered on the face of Bronwynn. 
Angry? Bored? Or just sleepy and cross? Whatever, it was clear from 
her grim look that she was far from happy. The slaver dismissed it. He 
didn't expect her to be. 


"We wait in the corridors below the house until after its occupants 
have had breakfast. Breakfast within the walls is a feast as we shall 
all discover, when our little Bronwynn is the Queen," he added with a 
wicked grin. "After the meal, the guards will be stuffed and sleepy 
from then- long night of defending the suburbs totally unprepared for 
our invasion. We'll have diminished their number still further, I 
hope. I've scheduled a second raid on the western side of the city at 
a little after dawn, and Joss should be reacting to squelch it just 
about the time we attack. Sleepy, full, lulled by the false security 
of knowing where the enemy is, Ligne's guards will be raw meat for our 
cutting." Admon 


Faye paused and allowed himself a satisfied smile. "It's a good plan," 



he affirmed. "There's not a thing that can stop us." 


Bronwynn stared absently beyond the slaver at the garbage and clung 
drifting atop the surface of the waterway. It somehow seemed the only 
appropriate backdrop to this entire episode. 


A few hours later, the boat was pushed away, off to deliver its first 
load. Bronwynn fingered the hilt of her dagger and waited her turn. 


The night had come and the occupants of the Imperial House had long 
been still, when Pelmen suddenly awoke, his body drenched with sweat. 
He raised himself off the cot and felt the steam rising off the floor. 
He reached out in the pitch darkness to touch the wall he knew was 
there and snatched his hand away from the hot stone. "You're 
steaming!" he gasped. 


Seething, actually, the Imperial House growled from its bowels. 


"Angry?" Pelmen whispered. 


Infuriated! the House thundered, and the steam continued to rise. 


"Why? And where's this steam coming from?" 


While you've been slumbering, an army of thieves and robbers has 
crawled through the crack in these foundations! the Imperial House 
roared. As to where the steam is coming from, you will find the water 
is rising in the caverns. 


-"Water?" Pelmen asked. The cryptic sprang immediately to mind: 
"Deal gently with the House that speaks, lest it make the waters rise." 
"Are you causing the water level to rise?" 
Certainly. In the same way in which this House cooked the fish. 


"You have to stop!" Pelmen shouted, and he leaped from his cot. He 
jumped back onto it immediately, however. The floor singed his feet. 
He quickly found his sandals and strapped them on, even as the castle 
snarled back: 


Why should this House wait! Do you expect the Imperial House of 
Chaomonous to permit an invasion from without? Why do you think this 
castle was summoned to life in the first place? It was to protect this 
castle's occupants against vermin like this. 


Pelmen crawled into his garments as he asked, "How many are there?" 


Less than a hundred. No! More of the scum seep in at this very 
moment! The Imperial House seethed in fury. "Who leads them?" 


This House knows few human faces "Is it the man who took Bronwynn from 
your dungeon!" Pelmen asked. The House was silent for a moment. 


It is that very rodent. 


"Admon Faye," The power shaper nodded; he stood in the middle of the 
room and tried to clear his head to make plans. Obviously this was the 
other plot Serphiraera had envisioned one of two doomed to fail. 
Dismissing for a moment this reminder that his own scheme was similarly 
destined, he appealed to the House to recognize the outcome of its 



heated solution to the problem. "I take it you're planning to cook 
these invaders out of your tunnels in the same way that you boiled the 
fish." 


You guess rightly. 


"But these tunnels connect to the lower dungeons. Won't that boil the 
Lady Serphimera as well?" 


It will, as well as several of those in the upper dungeon. But a House 
cannot consider individual lives when its entire populace is threatened 
from without. 


"May I suggest an alternative?" 


You're free to speak. 


"Let my friends and myself drive these attackers from your lower 
galleries." It was the only idea that came to mind. But he had to do 
something. 


The steaming stopped briefly, and a puff of laughter whistled down the 
hallways outside. 


That appears a ludicrous suggestion. "Not so ludicrous if you 
recognize that we will need your help to do it." 


This House needs no power shaper assistance to rid itself of robbers 
and blackguards. It shall do to this Admon Faye what it should have 
done the first time what it would have done, had these lower galleries 
been under control! 


"Very well." Pelmen nodded, feigning disinterest. "But the House does 
seem to need my help in ridding itself of a certain magic splinter of 
crystal." He folded his arms upon his chest, and shrugged. "If the 
woman in the dungeon is unnecessariiy boiled, I see no reason why I 
should rid you of the pyramid." 


Pelmen waited through the cascade of curses that tumbled upon him, 
following his threat. When the House was finally calm again, it 
asked: 


What do you plan to do? 


"Is that an agreement to help me do this my way?" 


Get on with it! A hundred and twenty now wait in the lower 
galleries. 


"Fine. I'll need a detailed plan of those corridors in your belly." 


Belly? huffed the castle. Rather, foundations. 


"You call it what you like. Just give it to me." Pelmen bolted out 
the door of his cell and raced toward Yona Par-mi's room. To his 
surprise, Parmi met him in the hall. 


"Yona! What are you doing up!" 


"The whole castle is up, it seems. First there was a general alarm to 



the palace guard some kind of sneak attack on the north of the city 
then this strange steam. I was on my way to wake you. Were you coming 
to wake me?" 


"I was." 


"Are you finally going to ask for some help?" the round-faced player 
asked with a touch of amused pride. 


Pelmen thought for a moment. Was he being fair? Was it Just for him 
to ask his friends to risk their lives to save a Lady they didn't know? 
"I ... wonder if it's fair to involve you " 


"Would you let me be the judge of that?" Yona snapped. 


"This is a dangerous task " 


"Wonderful." Parmi nodded. "You want me to circulate the signal to 
gather?" 


Pelmen sighed. There was more involved here than just the salvation of 
Serphimefa. Admon Faye could well have brought Broiiwynn in with him. 
If the rightful Queen was boiled as well .. . "Yes," he grunted 
suddenly, and once . again Parmi saw in Pelmen's eyes that strange 
fire that had illumined them backstage in Pleclypsa. Without another 
word from Pelmen, Yona Parmi scampered away. 


"Now," Pelmen mumbled, "to get myself into the infirmary without being 
seen .. ." 


"Ohh!" Danyilyn moaned, rolling and tossing on her thick mattress. 
"Ohh!" she wailed louder, hearing the approach of sandals flapping on 
the stone floor beyond her open door. 


"I'm coming, I'm coming," snarled the Lord of Herbs impatiently as he 
turned the corner and entered the room. The man looked terrible deep, 
dark bags sagged under his eyes, and his gray hairs pointed in every 
direction but down. The stubble that lined his bony chin added to his 
generally unkempt appearance. "I suppose you think you're sick as 
well," he growled, and he ran a hand through his unruly mane as 
Danyilyn groaned again. "You're the third one in this past hour, 
Everytime I get back to my infirmary door, there's someone else 
standing there, ready to tell me of another case. What's the problem 
with you actors. You eat something rotten?" 


Danyilyn shook her head, then rolled her eyes dramatically and grabbed 
her stomach. "Ohhh!" she moaned. 


"Trouble is, not a thing I can do about it, and it's the fault of one 
of your fellows!" The old man stretched his lengthy neck and scratched 
behind his ears. "After I got back from my first call this morning, I 
found someone had swiped all my balder berry juicel How can I treat a 
sick stomach without balderbeny juice!" 


Danyilyn shrugged and rolled her eyes again quite thankful that Parmi 
had successfully made off with that particular concoction. Balderberry 
juice was an extremely potent purgative that tasted horrible. "I'll 
... I'll be ... all right .. ." the actress gagged. 


"Very well." The herbalist nodded, suddenly becoming aware of the 



young woman's curves. His bedside manner abruptly improved, and he sat 
next to her and felt her forehead. "You don't seem fevered," he 
murmured, growing a little fevered himself. "Perhaps it's just a mild 
case, but one can never be sure. I'd suggest a thorough examination, 
in order to " 


"Maybe we could do that .. . tomorrow?" Danyilyn asked coyly, and the 
old man's heart palpitated. She was far and away more lovely than the 
merchant's daughter he usually dated. 


"Right. Certainly. Tomorrow. Try to rest, and come and See me in the 
morning. That is " He interrupted himself. 


*m come and see you. Night-night!" he called, and he floated out of 
the room, now fully awake and already planning the morning's 
activities. 


Danyilyn groaned again as he left the room. She waited until she could 
no longer hear his footsteps, then hopped off her bed and danced to the 
doorway. "Parmi's surely found Gerrig by this time," she muttered 
sourly, then she tiptoed into the hallway to follow him. She kept well 
out of 


sight until he had reached the infirmary door again. She heard his 
groan, then sighed with relief as she heard Gerrig direct him to the 
room of yet another "sick" actor. Gerrig had arrived they were all 
finally gathered. She hugged the wall as the grumbling Lord of Herbs 
shuffled past her. She smiled with satisfaction as she imagined the 
old roue's reactions when he found her room empty in the morning. 
Served him right. He would find his present trip up the stairs 
frustrating, too Gerrig had sent him to Yona's empty room. Danyilyn 
darted into the infirmary, shot a dirty look at Gerrig, and slipped 
swiftly through the trapdoor. 


"We're all clear," she murmured waspishly. "Finally!" 


"Any trouble getting here?" Pelmen asked Gerrig as the bulky actor 
lowered himself through the infirmary floor into the presence of the 
others. 


"I told you," Danyilyn snapped, "the only trouble was finding where he 
was sleeping tonight." 


"Silence!" Pelmen ordered, and the actors and actresses clustered 
around him obeyed without a question. 


"No trouble," Gerrig whispered after a moment. 


"Good. We're all here then, safely." 


"And you're going to get us out now?" Gerrig grinned. 


"Not exactly. Jamnard, Magrol close off the doorway." 


A-pair of younger players moved quickly to seal off the portal, hiding 
once more this nether stairway from the infirmary, Pelmen waited until 
the task was done, then explained: "I have information that somewhere 
down with us in this maze of passageways is a small army preparing to 
take control of this castle." 



"And we're going to join them?" Gerrig asked incredulously. 


"No. We're going to drive them out," 


There was a long, high-tension pause. Pelmen could hear several of the 
troupe gasping. Then Gerrig made a move for the door. 


"Gerrig. We all agreed to do this together " Yona murmured. 


"And now I've decided to leave, alone!" the big man replied, trying to 
free his shoulders from Parmi's surprisingly strong grip. 


"Do you want out of this castle alive?" Pelmen snapped fiercely, and 
Gerrig stopped struggling, 


"Of course I do. But is what you're suggesting any way to do that?" 


"Perhaps not," Pelmen admitted. "But if that army succeeds, I can't 
guarantee you'll live through the day." 


"I'll take my chances. I'm going back to bed." 


"As you choose. Parmi, let him go. For the rest of you remember how 
disgusted you all were with my play praising Ligne? It's possible that 
the rightful Queen of this land is among this silent army of invasion. 
If so, she comes as a puppet a slave of Admon Faye." Pelmen waited 
until the anxious mutterings faded. "I'll not explain all the reasons, 
but if we can chase this force from these dark caverns, we'll do them a 
favor, as well as ourselves. Don't feel ashamed if you chose to follow 
Gerrig back upstairs. After all " Pelmen glanced at Gerrig's back. " 
you're only play actors. You've trained yourselves to imitate heroes 
on stage, not to be heroes in the pitch-black face of fear. I don't 
blame you. Turn back." 


No one moved. Though Gerrig stood with his hands resting on the door 
back up to the infirmary, he didn't thrust it open. 


"On occasion, though," Pelmen continued with a peculiar lilt to his 
words, "a chance arises and I think such moments come quite 
unexpectedly to most a chance to be a hero, instead of playing one. The 
chance to do something worthy of the playwright's immortalization." 


Silence greeted his words. Gerrig broke it. "I remember that speech 
well," he muttered. 


"I thought you would," Pelmen replied softly. "It was your line, after 
all, from Shadows of a Night at Sea." He waited for a moment, then 
asked, "Are you coming?" Genig looked at him and frowned. "I'm 
scared," he breathed. 


So am I." Pelmen chuckled. "Exciting though, isn't it?" "You said an 
army," Danyilyn whispered. "There's only a handful of us." 


"Yes, but we've got a big friend." Pelmen smiled back. "Maybe two," 
he added to Yona Parmi. "You don't make any sense," she grumbled. 
"Since when has he ever made sense?" Yona Parmi asked her. 


"We don't have any weapons," Gerrig said. His voice had changed in 
texture and tone it was deeper, more mellow. The gravity of this 
situation had caused him to slip without realizing into stage speech. 



"There's an armory through the side door of the infirmary only fifteen 
feet away." 


"But what if there are soldiers there?" Danyilyn asked nervously. 


: Pelmen held up a hand for silence and cocked his head "to listen. "No 
soldiers right now," he said; then he smiled and added, "Believe me." 
He waved at the two young players who had closed the trapdoor, and they 
opened it up again and climbed through. 


i, While they were gone, Danyilyn tugged anxiously on ; Pelmen's arm 
and asked, "What if these adversaries are just around the corner? We're 
helpless " 


Pelmen hushed her again. "They're still on the far end of the 
castle." 


"How do you know?" she demanded. She was cross and wanted to be sure 
he noticed. "You'll see." 


Jamnard and Magrol hustled quickly back down the stairs, their arms 
laden with odd armor pieces and assorted weapons. These were 
distributed quickly around the small circle. 


"Just a shield, thank you," Yona Parmi said, "and 


"f_ those." He pointed to a pair of armored shoes, and swiftly took 
them from MagroFs hands. By the time he had fitted them onto his feet, 
the door was once more in place, and the other players were armed and 
ready to move. 


"Stay near me," Pelmen ordered. "I'd rather not lose any of you." He 
took their single candle and led them down the passageway toward the 
cistern. 


"Feel as nervous as opening night " Gerrig began, and someone shushed 
him. Then there was silence, broken only by the clink-clink-clink of 
Yona Parmi's metal boots. 


CHAPTER NINETEEN 


Bloodshed and Bathwater 


"IT'S TIME," Admon Faye murmured, and he moved out, leading a long 
train of fierce, dangerous-looking men and one frowning Princess. He'd 
ordered them to leave their swords sheathed to prevent the noisy 
scraping and clanging that would naturally result from carrying drawn 
weapons through a narrow, dark tunnel. As always, he travelled without 
a light, relying on his memory of the twisting maze. 


He was in no way prepared for an ambush. 


"Now!" someone grunted, and something whispered past the slaver's 
face. He knew the sound of a blade cutting air far too well to 
hesitate. He threw himself to the side and jerked his own weapon free. 
Before he could swing it, though, he was sent crashing to the ground, 
crying out in pain. Something had slammed into his shin! 


"Ambush!" someone behind him cried, and a thunder of scrapes and 



clatters echoed through the tunnel as the House of Faye armed itself 
for battle. 


"Oww!" Admon Faye roared a second time, and someone nearby chuckled: 


"I got him again." 


"Get back!" another voice warned sharply, so the ugly slaver thrust 
his sword savagely at the voice, venting his rage with a full-throated 
scream. 


None of the survivors could ever adequately describe what took place 
after that. Like enraged cats sewn into a sack, the frustrated 
combatants struggled to fight each other, but found themselves battling 
the cavern instead. Scores of swords were broken on the walls. 
Knuckles were scraped raw. Faces were trodden underfoot. Some people 
screamed, while others seemed at times to laugh. The entire situation 
lent itself to description in expletives the black darkness turned blue 
with curses: muttered, grunted, hollered, screamed, spat and sighed. 


One of the maidservants preparing breakfast heard something strange as 
she passed by the cistern and reported it to the cook. 


"Just boatmen, arguing with one another over some trifle. Fishing 
rights, probably. Set the table." 


The cook served a baked pig that morning. 


Ligne missed the actors at breakfast. "Where's the fool?" she asked 
airily. "Where's the rest of your tedious players?" 


"They've b-b-been working hard lately. Let them s-sleep," Rosha said 
as he downed a helping of steaming ribs. His acting was improving. The 
Queen didn't realize just how anxious their mass absence made him feel.


 Had he been left behind? 


"They've been working you too hard as well," Ligne snarled. 


"Why, n-no, m-m-my Lady, it's only that it t-t-takes practice to d-d-do 
a play well." 


"You've not been rehearsing," the Queen spat. "Your speech isn't a bit 
improved for all your practice." 


"Yes, but the p-p-play " 


"The play had better be ready today," Ligne announced, and she twisted 
in her seat to look him in the eye as she added, "Since it's going to 
be performed tomorrow night, as part of our wedding celebration." She 
saw Rosha's eyes widen. The young man choked down the piece of pork 
he'd been chewing. 


"Wedding?" Kherda broke in, leaning out over the table to try to look 
at Ligne's face. "Why is it that I have not been informed of this?" 


"Because I just now made up my mind," Ligne shrugged. "That is 
satisfactory with you, Rosha, is it not? Your friends are ready to 
perform?" 


Rosha nodded, but his swarthy complexion seemed unusually waxy. "Y-yes, 



my Lady." 


"But this is highly irregular," Kherda protested, "to plan a royal 
wedding while the city is under attack!" 


"Ah, but Joss has assured me that Admon Faye will be apprehended before 
noon. Tomorrow at dinner I will have a celebration of my victories, 
Kherda. All of them." She looked pointedly at the Prime Minister, 
then rose from the table. "I'll be in my bath," she announced. "Send 
Joss to me as soon as he arrives. And Rosha," she added, "I'll see you 
later." Then she turned to climb the grand spiral to her apartments. 


The gallery abruptly emptied before them, as Admon Faye's crew finally 
responded to their leader's screams for retreat and got moving in the 
right direction. 


"Follow them!" Gerrig shouted, flourishing his sword. Though he'd 
often brandished blades coated with imitation blood, this weapon wore a 
patina of the real substance. They had experienced real battle and 
Genig had found that he liked it. 


"Let them go," Pelmen ordered, and his tiny troupe stopped their 
pursuit. 


"But we've got them on the run," Gerrig protested. 


"Quiet," Pelmen snapped, and he cocked his ears to listen. 


They've gone around to the left-hand gallery. Back up twenty yards and 
to your right. You'll cut them off. 


"Did we lose anyone?" Pelmen demanded briskly. The troupe took a 
quick roll call in the dark. 


"No," Danyilyn answered, "though we've got some cuts and scrapes mostly 
from each other." 


"There do seem to be a number of bodies scattered around, though," 
Jamnard said, and Pelmen nodded. 


"I expected that. Most of them killed by their own mates. They're 
trying to get around behind us back that way." As the power shaper 
herded his charges backward to their new position, he couldn't shove 
from his mind the implications of the past few moments. Could one of 
those bodies be that of a young woman? For the first time in many 
weeks, he missed the gentle life of the monastic and the morning had 
barely begun. 


Only a few minutes separated the clashes, but the second skirmish had a 
far different flavor from the first. Slavers were accustomed to this 
type of warfare, though they were normally the ambushers, not the 
ambushed. This time they were ready and, when the fray was finally 
rejoined, fewer swords scraped the walls and more rang on steel. Pelmen 
and Gerrig, though untouched by enemy metal, were driven steadily 
backward by waves of fresh warriors. As one pair tired, Admon Faye 
sent another pair past them. Soon the two players could no longer 
effectively return their attackers blows, and Pelmen shouted, "Break 
off!" The actors behind him quickly vacated the corridor, and it was 
Admon Faye's turn to hold his troops back from pursuit. 



"Slowly!" he shouted to the men on the point. "There's no telling how 
many warriors Joss has scattered through this cavern, and this retreat 
may only be a lure into further ambush." The pressure of this 
pitch-black struggle with what he assumed were superior forces had 
given him a horrible headache, but he shook it off and endeavored to 
plan his next move. They couldn't turn back there was only one boat. 
Of course, he thought, one was plenty for him. "Bronwynn!" he 
shouted. "Someone get Bronwynn up here to me!" 


After a minute of chaotic discussion, the news was finally passed back 
to him: 


"The Princess is no longer with us." 


"So you failed to apprehend him again?" Ligne asked as she soaped her 
beautiful arm with perfumed bubbles. 


"I cut his raiding party to half its size, my Lady. Admon Faye wasn't 
with them." 


"Joss, I'm very unhappy with this. I'm to be married tomorrow noon had 
you heard?" 


"The Prime Minister informed me." 


"And I want the mood to be lavish, cheery, and romantic. I won't be 
pleased if my party is interrupted by attacks on this castle. Soap my 
back," she ordered a maid, who swiftly obeyed. 


Joss ignored the Queen's bathing. It pleased the woman's vanity to 
summon him here and berate him from her scented tub. But her vanity 
was no greater than that of the King who preceded her, nor of Talith's 
father, who had ruled when Joss was but a page. The General expected 
quirky behavior from his monarchs. He tried not to let it interfere 
with security. 


"I apologize, my Lady, that I've not as yet caught the slaver. I do 
know that he's in the city, and my forces are combing the streets and 
sewers, searching for him." 


"You told me yesterday that my borders were secure," she snapped. 


"Yesterday, my Lady, they were," Joss replied patiently. 


"Yet today?" 


"Today I am securing them." 


A slave girl entered the bath chamber, bowing as she came, obviously 
uneasy with her role as the bearer of bad news. "My Lady, Lord Joss 
there's been another report of an attack west of the city " 


Joss was across the tiled floor and gone before Ligne could say another 
word. "I didn't dismiss you!" she shouted after him, then she whirled 
around to face the timid slave, sloshing water across the tiles. "You!" 
she ordered, pointing with a bar of soap. "Send in that strange 
character in the blue robe who arrived this morning, then go have 
yourself beaten for interrupting my bath!" 


"Yes, my Lady," the young slave mumbled, as she bowed herself backwards 



out of the presence of the queen. 
The tiny troupe had taken up a new position and waited breathlessly for 
the slowly advancing column of slavers to reach them again. Pelmen 


listened intently as the Imperial House kept him posted on their 
approach. 
Twenty yards from you now, but around several sharp turns. 
"Can't you do anything?" Pelmen asked. 
"What?" Gerrig answered, puzzled. Pelmen laid a finger across the 


brawny man's bearded lips to still him, as the House replied: 
Such as? 
"I'm open to any suggestion." 
"Maybe we could " the perplexed Gerrig began, but 
JOJ 
Pelmen again covered his mouth. He jerked Pelmen's hand away. "Why 


ask for suggestions if you " 
"Hush!" Pelmen ordered. "I'm talking to someone else." 
"Oh," Gerrig replied. He shrugged elaborately and made a face at the 


darkness. 
No suggestions come to mind. 
"Well, friends," Pelmen sighed, "perhaps we should quit doing what 


we're not good at and try doing what we do well." For the next few 


minutes he murmured quiet instructions. 
"How did we get in front of this line?" Pinter asked Tibb tremulously. 
He suddenly had serious doubts about being an outlaw. 


"I just want to know how we get to the back of it again," his comrade 
replied. 


"Move ahead," someone behind them called, and Pinter called back: 
"Why don't you? We'd be happy to let you .. ." But those behind them 
just pushed them forward, ever forward into the dark. They marched 
tentatively, stepping, stepping 


"At them! At them now!" cried a voice from very nearby on their left, 
and another voice, that of a woman, shrilled from their right: 


"I command you, Joss! Kill every last one of them!" 
There was a blood-curdling screech from directly ahead, and the sound 
of metal-shod feet sprinting toward them. 


"Back!" Pinter cried out in terror. "Tibb, go back!" 
"Oww!" Tibb screamed, and Pinter heard his fellow clank to the 
ground. 



"Are you hit? Are you hit?" Pinter yelled hysterically. 


"Somebody just kicked me in the shins!" 


"Somebody wha Oww!" Pinter hollered, as his own shins became 
targets. 


"Bring up the reserves! Finish them off!" shouted the woman, and Tibb 
heard as someone far down the corridor relayed the message on. 


"There are hundreds down here with us!" he gasped. 


They could hear swords whizzing before their faces, and one whispered 
across Pinter's hand. He swung that fist blindly at his attacker then 
stopped, puzzled, for somehow the sword it had held was gone. It took 
a moment for him to realize that he'd lost the hand as well. He 
screamed in shock. The passageway once again rang with the chaotic 
clamor of a rout. 


Naquin hid his eyes from this woman who seemed intent on exposing her 
body to him. Nothing in his experience in the temple of the dragon had 
prepared him for this. Never had he seen a woman so brazen nor so 
beautiful. 


"What's the matter, my friend?" Ligne teased. "Haven't you ever seen 
a woman before?" 


"I ... I come in the name of the Prophet " Naquin began for the third 
time, and for the third time Ligne refused to allow him to get the 
words out. 


"Don't you want to look at me, holy man? Come on, show me your eyes. 
Are they the same rich blue as your lovely robe?" 


"Please, my Lady!" Naquin sighed. "I am unused to such treatment. 
Since I left Lamath I've been tied and . threatened, lectured by a 
child and booted in the backside, trampled under horses' hooves and 
chased by a hundred dogs. I ask only that you let me perform my task 
and return to my Prophet." 


"Ah yes. Your Prophet I'm curious about this Prophet of yours. What 
kind of man is he?" 


"The Prophet? Why he's the greatest of men! A careful leader, with a 
vision for our nation unequaled in the long history of Lamath! Through 
his programs of " 


"Enough of programs," Ligne snapped. "You sound like my Prime 
Minister." She slipped back into the water, covering herself with 
bubbles. Her eyes fixed intently on Na-quin's face, she asked, "Do you 
know Pelmen?" 


"Pelmen?" Naquin blurted, almost dropping his covering band. "Why 
would you ask such a thing?" 


"Why, I thought he was the highly praised Prophet of Lamath." Ligne 
smiled knowingly. "You mean he's no longer your leader?" 


"He never was!" Naquin barked. "The man's nothing but an imposter, a 



power shaper who uses his guile to entrap and confuse others. power shaper who uses his guile to entrap and confuse others. 
him from our land." 
Ligne had been smiling until she heard the word power-shaper. "You 

mean you believe this Pelmen can actually alter events by magic?" 


"Of course not," Naquin snapped. "He's a trickster, that's all." 


"Ah." Ligne smiled. "Something of a fool, one might say?" 


"Fool?" Naquin echoed uncertainly. 


"You spoke of your task. What is it?" 


"To find the Lady Serphimera, and retrieve her to La-math." 


"Retrieve her?" Ligne smiled. "Like a dog retrieves a bird?" 


"That is my charge." 


Ligne raised a carefully sculpted eyebrow. "I'd wondered if Serphimera 
might be the cause of your coming. She wears a robe just like 
yours." 


"My Lady, unless she has recanted, she wears a habit of midnight mine 
is the color of noon. Do you know where she is?" 


"I'd intended for her to join my wedding celebration tomorrow. Perhaps 
you'll be willing to escort her?" 


"You mean she's here?" Naquin asked excitedly. He suddenly realized 
he'd dropped his hand. He clapped both hands over his eyes again and 
squeezed them tightly. 


"You peeked." Ligne giggled. "Tell me. How does the beauty of your 
Serphimera compare to that of the most powerful woman in the world?" 


The fleeing slavers found their way back to their point of entry by 
following a trail of slippery blood and groaning bodies. Each faced 
the same dilemma when he finally thrust his head through the crack into 
the sunshine there were no boats. Admon Faye had abandoned them. One 
by one, they all came to the same, inevitable decision. One by one, 
they dove into the river. 


Many drowned. A few were hauled aboard passing boats. The strongest 
swimmers survived the river's tortuous currents and made their way to 
shore. But no one died by the arrows of the guards above them. The 
soldiers of the Imperial House who hadn't seen them arrive never saw 
them leave, either. As panic-stricken slavers dropped into 


30* 


the water far below them, the soldiers talked of gambling and traded 
jokes. 


One slaver who had made it to the crack turned back to find his friend. 
"Pinter?" Tibb said softly. The corridor was now as silent as a tomb. 
It had become that for many. "Pinter?" he said again. He thought he 
heard a sobbing some yards away, and crawled over bodies toward the 
sound. "Pinter?" he asked again. 



"I lost my hand." Pinter sniffed; then he sobbed again. 


Tibb felt helpless to answer. He struggled around to sit by his 
friend, leaning against the cool stone wall. 


"It isn't fair." Pinter wept, and Tibb reached out to squeeze his 
friend's thigh reassuringly. 


"We're alive," he suggested meekly. He thought that was worth 
something, at least. He slipped an arm around Pinter^ shoulder and 
held onto the man for a few moments, then he cleared the lump from his 
throat and spoke. "I've been back to where we came in, so I know the 
way out. Well just sit here until you feel better. All day, if we 
need to." 


Pinter sniffed. "We'll get left behind," he said, his voice 
cracking. 


"Just rest," Tibb soothed. "Just rest." He patted his friend's 
shoulder until Pinter was calm again. "When you're better, we'll go. 
I'll help you." Then he cleared his throat again, and added, "We'll 
have to swim, though. It seems there was only the one boat and Admon 
Faye took it" 


Pinter nodded, and his head lolled over on Tibb's thick chest. "It 
isn't fair. I only wanted to be someone, Tibb. To | be an outlaw. 
With Admon Faye .. ." 


"Shh, Pinter. You are. You are, lad." 


"I am?" Pinter asked weakly. 


"Of course you are. Why, they'll sing about us in the pubs back home 
about Pinter and Tibb, of the House of Faye. I can hear it now, as 
pretty Gerlywa draws the ale, Maknor the tenor is singing of you. He 
sings of Pinter the long, and his side-man Tibb, who dwelt in the lair 
of the twi-beast. He's singing .. . you know what he's singing, 
Pinter? He's singing about how you .. . Pinter?" His friend did not 
respond. Tibb leaned his head down against Pinter's chest, listening 
for the sounds of life. They were gone. He laid Pinter's body 
carefully against the cave wall, wiped the wetness from his face with 
his sleeve, and murmured solemnly, "They'll sing of you, lad. They 
will. And when they sing, they'll sing of how you lost your hand for 
nothing and of the man who let you die." Tibb crawled to his feet, and 
gritted his teeth against the tears. Then he gasped, and formed a fist 
before him in the darkness. "And as long as I keep this hand, and can 
hold a blade Admon Faye, beware of Tibb the twisted!" 


He gave his friend a child's kiss, then left him in this dark tunnel, 
and crawled away toward the crack and daylight. 


A much-sobered acting troupe collapsed in the corridor beneath the 
infirmary and waited for Pelmen to give the all clear. They'd been 
through a battle and looked it, but the stains on their garments would 
quickly wash out. It would take years to clean the stains the carnage 
had left on their minds. It had turned into a morning of desperate 
madness, and they'd left at least one of their number behind. Jamnard 
was dead. 



Pelmen still spoke to the strange ally that had won the battle for 
them. They ignored him, each fighting a battle inside with the 
inexplicable loss of a friend. All would be relieved to return from 
the inky nightmare to what was for them the real world the stage. 


"Are they gone?" Pelmen whispered. 


A few stragglers remain. 


"Then we did it." The Powershaper sighed in exhaustion. 


Not quite, the Imperial House responded accusingly. "What do you 
mean?" 


It appears you let one of these rodents slip past you! 


CHAPTER TWENTY 


k o 


The Falcon and the Hound 


CAR LAD NAPPED against the door. The long night had been very strange, 
and while he'd not been dragged off to battle, he had been temporarily 
assigned to the front gate. He was f. sleepy. 


"Wake up!" Ligne screeched in his ear. At the same 


;" time she stamped on his toes, and between stamping and 


>, shrieking he did just that. "Open this door," the perfumed 


! beauty ordered, and he hastened to obey, sniffing her sultry aroma as 
she passed and good-naturedly cursing Ros has luck. "Hello, darling!" 
Ligne sang, and she leaped onto Ros-has bed and crawled atop his chest. 
The warrior grunted in shock as he awoke to her lips pressing onto his 
and her arms locking around his neck. He grabbed her and wrestled, 
rocking left and then right trying to dislodge her. Finally he broke 
her grip with a powerful heave and rolled off one side of the bed as 
she tumbled off the other side. Her head popped back up quickly, and 
she glared at him. "Why do you keep rejecting me?" she demanded. 
"Why, we, t-t-t-tomorrow is our " "Yes. Our wedding. And you will be 
my lover, Rosha. I will no longer tolerate this simple-minded 
resistance." 


"B-but I've n-not " 


"You have. But you'll not anymore." She scrambled to her feet and 
circled the bed toward him, her eyes locked into his. "We are going to 
settle this right " 


Rosha got sick. He did it with an artistry that would have amazed even 
his teacher. And the ploy certainly succeeded. Ligne stopped where 
she was, then backed to the far side of the room. "You're sick!" she 
shrilled, and Rosha nodded. "Why didn't you tell me you were sick." 


"I tried." Rosha shrugged. 


"And I just took a bath," the Queen moaned. Then she glared at him 
again. "I'm going back to bathe again. You go to the infirmary." 



"On my way," the young warrior assented, and he hustled out the door. 
He was halfway down the hall before Carlad woke up enough to pursue 
him. 


A few minutes later he was begging the Lord of Herbs for some word of 
his friends. "I tell you, I don't know where they are," the harried 
chemist screeched. "I know they were all sick, that's all, and that I 
had no medicine to give them. And then, when I made a call this 
morning on the little woman with the ample figure, she was gone. 
They're all gone. And if you want my opinion, we're well rid of the 
nuisances," he added nastily. He was most unhappy about being stood 
up. 


Rosha nodded, postive that he knew where the troupe was now or at any 
rate, where they'd gone. He forced himself not to glance over at the 
low cot that hid the door into the tunnels below. Obviously, Yona 
Parmi had passed the word to gather, and the plan had succeeded in 
drawing the herbalist out of his infirmary long enough for them all to 
make entry. Rosha had certainly expected to be included in that 
summons. Had Pelmen and the others abandoned him to Ligne? 


Rosha took deep breaths as Parmi had taught him to do, seeking to 
control his anxiety. Pelmen wouldn't abandon him. Logically, there 
was no way they could have passed the word to him, since Ligne now 
posted a pair of guards outside his apartments on a permanent basis, in 
addition to assigning Carlad to dog his heels wherever he went in the 
castle. Carlad presently stood napping just outside the door of the 
infirmary. 


lv Rosha shook his curly head to rid himself of these distracting fears 
and tried to think clearly. If they were in the tiassage below, as he 
believed they must be, they couldn't A$afely get out while the 
pharmacist remained in the room. 


a wondered if he could assist them .. . wM-my apologies for 
b-b-bothering you," Rosha said, sh-sure that it wasn-nothing just a bit 
of undigested 't JM>reakf ast." 


|v; "Humph," the gaunt man grunted, and he turned back to his pestle 
and his bottles of herbs. 


i%; "I imagine you are s-s-summoned often in the m-m-mddle of the 
n-night .. ." 


l . "Too often," the Lord of Herbs snorted. "Especially last ;? 
flight" 
'.) ,"; "M-must get very little s-s-sleep .. ." fA: -. "Too little." 


WS' "P-perhaps you sh-sh-should take off this morning, and f|e-cat eh a 
nap " 


-; "And leave my post?" the man exploded self-righteously. ^Never!" 
He turned back to his mixing bowl.. l "What are you m-making? A love 
p-p-potion?" /V The Lord of Herbs spun around and backed up against 
JMs table, aghast. "Wh-wh-what a ridiculous notion!" he bouted. 
"Ah-ah-ah of course not." Once more the blood filled his old cheeks, 
and they radiated warmth. A love potion was exactly what he was 
making, and once this intruder left him alone, he planned to steal away 

slip it, somehow, to a merchant's lovely daughter. Not he actually 
believed it would work, of course .. . ji?Ah-ah-ah why do you ask?" he 
demanded. 


"You really ought to d-do something about that s-Rosha goaded. Then he 
turned on his heel and ^jrtalked out of the room. He decided if he 
couldn't push the ^chemist out of the infirmary, he would summon him 
from .._. ^_ Carlad fell into step behind him as he climbed the spiral 
vw!;Sstairs to return to his apartment. As he passed the door of !|the 
throne room he glanced in, just to check if the troupe ;Jnight have 
somehow eluded his search and gathered here. It was empty but for the 
brocade-swathed dais and the Ornately carved throne. Rosha blanched, 
then, for he saw Something had been added a smaller throne, carved ex-y 
like Ligne's, now sat on the floor to the right of her platform. Rosha 
knew who the chair was intended for, and his sudden nausea truly 
warranted his calling the doctor. He continued down the hall to his 
new apartment, thankful at least that Ligne had moved him out of his 
rooftop prison and down to this level. He was that much closer to the 
gate and freedom. 


As he passed alone through the double doors into his room and closed 
them on his weary guard, he was contrasting Ligne to his thoughtful, 
sensitive Bronwynn, Then something slammed into his back. 


Bronwynn had grown up inside this castle. While she'd known nothing of 
the nether tunnels until Admon Faye had revealed them to her, once she 
was through the infirmary floor and into the House proper she was loose 
on her home territory. She'd explored these halls as a child, had 
stuck her turned-up nose into every corner and closet. She'd learned 
thereby all the secrets to moving into and out of the hidden 
passageways that laced through the upper levels. Fortuitously, she 
escaped the infirmary without being seen. Mere seconds later, she was 
safely hidden in the walls. 


She brushed cobwebs aside as she walked. Evidently, Ligne had either 
not discovered all of these narrow aisles, or else she used them 
infrequently. Either way, Bronwynn thought grimly, they would prove 
the wanton imposter's downfall. Whether Admon Faye and the others 
survived the battle below her feet or not, Bronwynn was resolved to 
dispatch Queen Ligne by nightfall after she'd dealt with Rosha, of 
course. She made that vengeance her first order of business. 
Methodically, she searched the rooms of the castle for him, quite 
unnoticed behind the drapes and panels. 


She'd already determined that he could most easily be killed in his bed 
which she assumed would be in Ligne's own apartments. She climbed a 
dark ladder, barely a foot and a half wide, to peer through a crack 
into the royal apartments on the second floor. 


She watched as a trio of maidservants made up Ligne's vast bed. She 
bit her tongue in rage, to think that the usurper of her throne now 
slept here, in her parent's room. She choked back hot tears as she 
remembered crawling up into very bed between them, when common sounds 
made by the night drove her, frightened, from her own. 


strained to hear the words of these servants, but the porn was vast, 
and the sound didn't carry through the %WliBs. She shifted position, 
circling through the darkness to 


; j| tiny portal closer to the women, arriving in time only to ice them 



leave. One half-heard comment was enough, how 


QjfWt. As they left the room, the senior of the three said |$lky would 
need to do a complete cleaning the next morn-c'ffafr when the new young 
master moved in. ^ It was fortunate for Bronwynn that the ladies made 
their tit then, for she couldn't contain her boiling temper, and y 
occupant of the room could have heard her vent her ^ ftage on the 
walls. Once she'd controlled herself, she concluded that Rosha must 
either be in one of the guest rooms left side the royal suite, or else 
In the rooftop room where her ,{$|8ttter had himself placed Ligne. She 
shuffled sideways ilftound the perimeter of the wall to check the guest 
rooms. 


|f . The first room she reached puzzled her. The cracks and that 
would normally permit her to look into it had been filled or masked. 
She thought for a moment, re-ering the trick to getting into this 
particular apart-and twisted a carved knob. A panel swung open, and 
stepped into the room of Jagd of Uda. Fortu-, he wasn't home. She 
knew instantly to whom it be-, by the scarlet and purple cloaks that 
draped from the walls. Bronwynn smirked. Jagd had ever been the type. 
In this environment he did well to be. Bronwynn slipped back into her 
hiding place and closed it panel behind her. She squeezed around 
another corner, ting her way by the dim light that filtered through 
tiny cks from the rooms on either side of this aisle. She a second 
guest room and found her vision unob-Ijrtructed. Once again, it was 
unoccupied at the moment. fpBhe recognized nothing that gave any hint 
of the one to it belonged. A quick pull on a hidden latch, and 
|llronwynn danced lightly inside, moving quietly to the set. She found 
it filled with new clothes, imaginatively fled and richly colored. She 
held up a tunic to measure size of the shoulders and felt a fierce 
satisfaction. icse were Rosha's new clothes, specially tailored for 
the isort of the Queen. At the moment, this was where the mudgecurdle 
was living. Well, here he would die as well. Bronwynn swiftly hung 
the garment back onto its hook, slipped her dagger from its sheath, and 
backed into the closet. She only had to wait a few moments. 


The blow should have killed him. It didn't. The summer before, when 
Rosha first left his father's manor in the company of Bronwynn and 
Pelmen, Dorlyth mod Karis had given his son the chain-mail shirt he had 
worn himself throughout his adventures. Now, that shirt saved his 
son's life. It turned the dagger, though Rosha's covering garment was 
sheared into tatters, and Bronwynn cursed her own poor memory for not 
having planned a better stroke. 


Rosha didn't think. He simply grabbed his assailant by the arm and 
tossed her across the room. Only after he'd launched her past his head 
did he realize who she was, "Bronwynn!" he grunted. More emotions 
were summed in that one grunt than in any phrase the young man had ever 
uttered before. 


"Did you call me?" Carlad shouted from the hall. 


"No!" Rosha called back, stepping over to hold the doors should the 
man attempt to investigate. "N-nothing. G-g-go back to what you were 
doing." 


Bronwynn had by that time rolled to her feet and, seeing his back 
turned, charged him again. Rosha heard her coming and sidestepped her 
at the last moment. The blade of her weapon thudded heavily into the 
wood of the door jamb. The young warrior knocked the girl's hand away 



from its haft before she could jerk it free, picked her up, and once 
again tossed her across the room. This time, however, he made sure to 
aim her for the bed. 


"Are you sure everything's all right?" Carlad shouted again, and Rosha 
opened one of the doors and stuck his head into the hall. His sleepy 
guard looked rather perplexed. Rosha gave him a friendly smile. "No 
p-p-problem," he said cheerfully, and he waved. Then he slammed the 
door shut and whirled in time to see Bron-wynn's foot heading for his 
forehead. He ducked, and it thumped noisily on the wall behind him. He 
caught her on the way down. She clawed for his face as he carried her 
once more to the bed and dropped her there. 


The pounding on his door grew more animated, and 


J13 


Rosha rushed to swing it open. "What do you want?" he demanded 
angrily. 


"Is there someone in there with you?" Carlad squinted suspiciously, 
craning his head to peer around Rosha's large bulk. 


"If there is, whose fault would it b-b-be?" Rosha responded. 


"Ah .. ." The guard didn't know quite what to answer, and Rosha rushed 
on: 


"There's n-no one in here b-but me, as you well kn-know! Now leave 
m-me alone, or I'll tell your sergeant about your acting career!" 


He slammed the door and turned to face Bronwynn once again. He'd heard 
her scuttle across the floor behind him and knew she was working to 
free the knife from the wall, Once again he grabbed her, this time less 
gently, and hurled her at the bed with a grunt. She bounced over it 
onto the floor. By the time she could recover, he was standing over 
her, her knife in his hand and a savage frown darkening his features. 


"Well, go ahead," she flared. "Stab me with it." ; "What's the matter 
with you?" he demanded. 


"You might as well. I'm sure the Queen will reward you richly though 
of course, since you have her, what other reward could you want?" 


"Would you keep your voice down " 


"Why should I? You'll give me to her anyway " 


"Shut up!" he spat, slamming his free hand over her mouth. He tossed 
the dagger aside and grabbed the back of 


; her head with his other hand and held her quiet while she 


did everything in her power to make noise. She beat at his >?. head, 
kicked his legs, rolled from side to side, and tried to I bite through 
his hand. Through it all, Rosha held onto her, 


:' absorbing the blows without blinking, staring fiercely into ; her 
face. 



She couldn't keep it up forever. Finally she relaxed, and :-f he began 
in a heated whisper: "I get the impression you ; think I want to be 
here. I don't! You think I want that 


,: witch? All I can think about is you, yet you try to stick a knife 
in my b-b-b in me." He sighed in exasperation. "Why do you think I've 
got guards at my door? It's because I'm a prisoner here." 


All he could see of her face were her eyes. They suddenly watered 
over, and he decided to let her speak. 


"You're moving into her room tomorrow," she spat out, and he clamped 
his hand back in place and looked at the door. 


"Not if Pelmen and I can help it," he muttered. Her eyes widened. He 
lifted his hand. 


"Pelmen is here?" she asked. For the first time, she whispered. 


"He is. Disguised as a jester, and using the name Fallo-mar." Rosha 
frowned, as he remembered his friend's absence. "That is, I hope he's 
here. He went below the castle last night, and hasn't yet come up." 


Bronwynn's face clouded with concern. "But there's a battle below the 
castle going on right now. That's how I got in." 


"A battle? Who's battling whom?" 


"Isn't Joss down there " 


"No," Rosha blurted. "Joss is out chasing Admon Faye all over the 
countryside." 


"But Admon Faye's in the caverns " Bronwynn stopped, and stared at his 
long face. Rosha suddenly looked very tired. And once again, someone 
was pounding on the door. 


Rosha sighed. Then he stood up. "Hide," he told her, and Bronwynn 
quickly got within the wall again as Rosha stalked to the doorway. "Who 
is it?" he shouted. 


"Fallomar the fool, my Lord, come to entertain you and teach you fancy 
words if the time be appropriate?" 


Rosha swung the door open, his face beaming. "Under the circumstances, 
I c-can't think of a time that would be b-better. Carlad, let this 
fool past." Pelmen swept into the room, and Rosha winked at his guard 
and patted his cheek. "Remember .. . disturb us again and I'll tell 
him about the white face too .. ." 


As soon as Rosha closed the door behind him, Bronwynn burst from her 
hiding place and raced to embrace the clown. Pelmen hugged her to him, 
and both wept but quietly, each one keeping a cautious eye on the door. 
Bronwynn cried out of her months of loneliness and frustration, while 
Pelmen wept in thanksgiving for her safety. Rosha stood to one side, 
his arms folded across his chest, main 


31J 


taining a reserved smile, but wishing someone would include him in all 



the hugging. Soon Bronwynn turned and reached out to him, and Pelmen 
passed the girl to her young warrior. In a few moments she had 
completely reversed the poor opinions of these two she'd formed over 
the months of separation. The clandestine nature of Pelmen's arrival 
had totally convinced her of Rosha's sincerity, and if that hadn't, the 
bear lock he wrapped her in surely would have. In more than one way, 
Bronwynn finally felt she'd come home. 


"You don't seem surprised to see me," she whispered to Pelmen, wiping 
her cheeks with the back of a hand. 


"I knew you were on your way. My only worry was in getting here before 
you split this one's skull." He jerked his head at Rosha. 


"How did you know about that?" she asked, suddenly suspicious. 


"The House told me." 


Bronwynn stared at him. "What?" she finally asked. 


"This ancestral home of yours is alive, Bronwynn. And it has ways of 
communicating its thoughts. It watched you climb up through its walls, 
and gave me a running description of your attack on Rosha as I raced up 
here to stop you." Pelmen glanced at Rosha. "It's fortunate your 
weeks of inactivity haven't dulled your reflexes." 


"Reflexes had nothing to do with it. It was my father's mailed shirt." 
Rosha turned a hard look onto his still-puzzled Princess. "Why did you 
try to cut me open?" 


"They told me you'd gotten cozy with Ligne," Bronwynn snapped. Then 
she advanced a step on him, suddenly grim. "Have you?" 


"Not by choice," Pelmen interrupted, squeezing between them to prevent 
a renewal of hostilities. "Tell me who is they?" 


Bronwynn shrugged. "Admon Faye, Flayh, Jagd. All of them." 


"You've been with Admon Faye?" Rosha demanded. It Was his turn to be 
suspicious. 


"Not by her choice," Pelmen said evenly, turning to stare Rosha down. 
"Admon Faye helped her escape from this place '* 


"How do you know?" 


"Serphimera told me " 


"Serphimera!" Bronwynn blurted out. "Is that witch here?" 


"Why didn't you tell me you knew where Bronwynn was?" Rosha asked 
stonily. 


"Would you two please quiet down?" Pelmen ordered. When they were 
silent, he turned first to answer Bronwynn, then to Rosha. "Yes, she's 
here, but she's not a witch and I didn't tell you because I didn't 
think it would help matters any." 


"But if I'd known she was safe, I would have killed Joss days ago." 



"You call being with Admon Faye safety?" Pelmen frowned. "Besides, 
that's what I expected you'd do. You might have succeeded in killing 
him, but neither you nor Bronwynn would have been any better off." 


"It doesn't matter now, anyway," Bronwynn whispered. "I'll take you 
through the walls and you can kill him while I slaughter Ligne." Both 
of the men turned to stare at her. "I think it's a good plan," she 
added defensively. 


"Maybe for Admon Faye," said Pelmen. "Is that what he intended?" 


"I never really listened to what he intended." Bronwynn shrugged. "I 
was busy planning my own revenge." 
"I can't believe you really thought I " 
"That's what Jagd said." 
"When did you speak with Jagd?" Pelmen interrupted. "He's been inside 


this castle for weeks." 


"Flayh talked to him Flayh and Pezi. Through the little blue 
pyramids." 
"You were there? You heard that conversation?" 
"Sure." 
Which brings up an important point, said the Imperial House. 
"Yes. I hadn't forgotten." 
"Hunh?" Bronwynn asked. 
"Talking to the House," Pelmen explained. "I'll go and get it now. I 


assume there's a secret way into his room?" 
Ask the girl. She just visited it. 
"Were you in Jagd's room a few minutes ago?" 
"How did you " 
"I already told you. Can you take me there?" 
"Of course, but aren't we going to make some plan of attack first? I 


came into this castle to kill a Queen, not to stand around and talk to 


the walls," 
Rosha's nose wrinkled as he watched Bronwynn speak. Dressed as she was 
in close-fitting leather fighting clothes, she looked very little like 
the girl who'd bid him good-bye in Dragonsgate, less than a year 
before. Her language was harsher, less thoughtful. He wasn't sure he 
liked the change. In fact, he knew he didn't 


"There's no need for a blood bath," Pelmen said, "especially not when 
we could all end up its victims. Bronwynn, you want to murder Joss and 
Ligne. In spite of your secret panels I consider that no easy task. 
Joss is cut of the same cloth as our treacherous Admon Faye; what if he 
knows of those same secret panels and guards himself against them? Nor 



does the leopardess Ligne appear the type who would allow herself to be 
casually butchered in her bed. And should you manage to kill them 
both, what then? Before tomorrow night you'd discover half a dozen 
members of the court who deem themselves just as worthy to rule as you, 
Bronwynn and possibly, they'd have enough friends to make that 
happen." 


"Then what do you suggest?" Bronwynn demanded. "Patience?" The way 
she spat out the word indicated how little use she had for it 
herself. 


"I suggest we let the House help us. With its assistance we routed 
Admon Faye this morning " 


"You routed him?" 


"The castle says all but a few of the army we battled are dead or have 
escaped into the river. I know it could help us to destroy Ligne and 
her supporters as well." 


"Well, ask it then. I'm ready to get on with this." 


"Be patient, Bronwynn!" Rosha broke in. "There are more people 
involved than just the three of us." 


"Really?" she said, and she turned back to Pelmen. "Who?" 


"A group of old friends I used to perform with, who agreed to fight 
Admon Faye this morning out of loyalty to you. Who do you think 
attacked you in the darkness?" 


"You .. . you conquered Admon Faye with a troupe of players?" she 
asked, incredulous. 


They had some assistance, huSed the House. 


"The House just reminded you that we had its help, and that made all 
the difference. It will again, when the time comes to overthrow Ligne. 
Because of its help, we lost only one in the caverns this morning. I 
want the rest alive to see your coronation as well, Bronwynn. So yes 
be patient. If all goes well, we'll be out of here tonight, planning 
your triumphant return." 


And what about the pyramid? 


"I was getting to that. I made a deal with the House and I need to 
hold up my end of it now. Would you show me the way into Jagd's 
room?" 


Bronwynn nodded. "You'll need to be careful," she said. "He's covered 
the walls with his clothes you can't tell from the corridor if he's in 
there or not." 


"We'll let the House worry about that. Rosha, we'll be right back." 
Pelmen ducked then, and followed Bronwynn into the hidden corridor. 


Flayh sat in an armchair and struggled to relax. It was an impossible 
task. "Where are they?" he demanded of the pyramid that sat before 
him. 



Not here, replied the High Fortress of Ngandib. "I know that. I'm 
waiting for them to contact me through this pyramid." 


Must you? the Fortress grumbled. 


"Yes, I must," Flayh replied snappishly. "And you'd best accustom 
yourself to it, for I don't intend to stop using magic just because it 
gives you heartburn." 


Yes, master, said the palace. Far below Flayh's tower, in the slave 
quarters, a child suddenly got her finger caught in a slamming door and 
screamed for her mother. The Fortress smiled with satisfaction, 
wishing only that it dared do the same to Flayh. 


"Where are they?" the bald sorcerer roared, pounding an arm of his 
chair, "Pezi, if you've fouled up again " Flayh cut himself off. There 
was a flicker of brilliant blue inside the pyramid. The other two must 
be showing interest in theirs, Flayh thought, and he leaned forward to 
stare .. . 


"Wayleeth, be quiet," Tahli-Damen whispered, but his admiring Lady 
would not be silenced. 


"He did it so easily," she told their dinner guests. "Just walked in 
one afternoon, and walked out with it that night Just like that." She 
snapped her fingers, then turned to hug her blushing merchant's neck. 


"Please, Wayleeth," he admonished her softly. "This is supposed to be 
a secret don't press it .. ." Tahli-Damen's grin belied his words, 
however. He was proud of himself, and it was difficult to maintain his 
modesty when Wayleeth spoke nothing but the truth. 


"He just doesn't like for me to brag on him," she told their beaming 
guests. They were entertaining the local Lord of Myfa, a very small 
trading house that had hooked its fortunes to Uda so many years before 
that it was now considered little more than a satellite of the purple 
and scarlet. 


"That's attractive in a young leader," chuckled Maywar mod Maywar-el, 
"but you needn't be so modest, Tahli-Damen. Secrecy is important, and 
I know Jagd is probably insisting on it, but we're all friends here, 
after all. The news that you've gotten away with one of these precious 
pyramids is a secret not likely to keep long, in any case. I expect 
you'll be getting a formal protest from Flayh any time now." 


"I've been expecting one all day," Tahli-Damen nodded, sampling a 
pastry. "The fact that I haven't makes me wonder if Pezi's neglected 
to tell him." This comment drew a round of giggles. Pezi stories were 
not confined to the fat merchant's own house. He was gaming quite a 
reputation among al! the merchant families. 


"May I see the object?" Maywar asked. "I've heard so much about it 
from my brothers that I'm quite curious." 


"Weren't you at the conclave?" Wayleeth asked. 


"No, child," the older merchant responded. "A touch of emphysema kept 
me bedridden. But I would like to see it .. ." 


Tahli-Damen looked at his plate. "Jagd's orders were to keep it 



hidden," he mumbled. 


"Pah!" Maywar snorted, then he chuckled. "Jagd's never going to know 
unless you tell him. I certainly won't. Bring it out." 


"Yes, Tahli-Damen, please do," Wayleeth pleaded, and she looked across 
at Maywar's wife. "He hasn't even showed it to me yet. Come on, Jagd 
won't ever know." 


Indeed, he might not, Tahli-Damen was thinking to himself. Especially 
if this invasion of Flayh's had succeeded. Tahli-Damen trembled 
involuntarily with a mixture of guilt and thrill, 


"What's wrong, darling?" Wayleeth asked earnestly. She'd been alarmed 
by his strange behavior ever since his return from Pezi's castle. "Are 
you sick?" 


"No, not sick," he muttered. Abruptly he stood. "I'll go fetch it." 
He started for his room. 


His pace increased with each step he took toward the object. By the 
time he reached his inner chamber he was running, and he had to stop to 
catch his breath. Then, just as he had done time and again throughout 
that day, he fell to his knees and lifted the pyramid out of its place 
of hiding. He stripped its protective bag away and fondled it again, 
amazed that he actually possessed such a wondrous object. He sat on 
the bed and stared into it for a moment, wishing he hadn't promised to 
show it to the others. As he thought of excuses for not bringing it 
out after all, it came alive in his hands. He stared .. . 


It's under the bed. "And Jagd is .. ." 


On the roof with the birds. "You'll warn me " 


Yes. 


Pelmen turned to Bronwynn and put a finger to his lips, then nodded. 
She turned the knob that opened the panel to Jagd's room, and Pelmen 
slipped inside. He closed the hatch behind him, as they'd agreed, and 
knocked one of the purple cloaks from its peg to allow her to watch him 
while she remained hidden. Then he walked to the bed and knelt beside 
it. "Under here?" 


That's right. 


Pelmen leaned over and looked. There was the case. He tugged it out, 
unlatched it, and found the bag inside. He fetched it out quickly and 
opened it up to be sure it was the right thing. 


Don't! screamed the House, but it was too late. Pel-men stared into 
Flayh's face. 


"You!" Pelmen shouted in surprise. 


Without a moment's hesitation, Flayh squinted his eyes and chanted an 
incantation. It appeared to both Pelmen and Tahli-Damen that the bald 
wizard's eyes filled the crystal completely. Pelmen tossed up a hand 
to catch the blow and deflect it, but Tahli-Damen had no such power. 
The young merchant found his eyes locked into the magic crystal, 
helpless even to scream. 



Stop! roared the Imperial House of Chaomonous, in agony. Through its 
pain, it could hear the echo of its own scream in that of a distant 
palace: 


Agony! cried the High Fortress of Ngandib, but Flayh ignored its 
ravings. He muttered another incantation and peered into the faces of 
Tahli-Damen and a curiously powerful clown. 


"You fear me!" Flayh ordered, expecting instant submission from these 
two unexpected visitors. 


Tahli-Damen would have cried out, "Yes!" if he'd been able, but his 
vocal cords seemed frozen by an abject, all-consuming dread. The eyes 
that had locked onto his sucked dry the wellspring of his courage. 


"No!" Pelmen reacted, and he bent his energies to the struggle. 


Suddenly two pairs of eyes filled the object Tahli-Damen held, the 
second more terrible than the first. Both pierced completely through 
him. The young merchant felt sure he was bleeding from every orifice 
of his body, but he couldn't tear his eyes away to check. 


With the screams of his own castle echoing through his mind, Flayh 
shouted, "Who are you?" at the clownish eyes that filled his vision. 


"You know me, Flayh," Pelmen murmured quietly. To Flayh and 
Tahli-Damen, his words pierced like a shout. "Yield now, before I kill 
you both." 


Stop! Please! anguished the Imperial House of Chaomonous, and Pelmen 
was dimly aware of the renewed chorus of bells throughout the hallways, 
and of pounding feet outside in the corridor. He was helpless to stop 
the conflict now. He could only end it by winning it. 


Then Pelmen recoiled from the crystal, squinting in revulsion. The 
bared fangs of a savage dog seemed to lunge out of it for his face. 
Those jaws snapped on his neck, but his neck was suddenly gone, 
replaced by the widespread beak of a screaming falcon. The dog jerked 
away, terrified by the razorlike talons it saw diving for its eyes. 
Those claws hooked flesh, and sliced six long red gashes into the dog's 
muzzle. The beast howled. 


Tahli-Damen reeled. A dog had nearly severed his neck, only to be 
knocked aside by a falcon which slashed its face. Yet the merchant's 
eyes remained fixed on the surface of the glass. He was unaware of the 
cries of his woman, who called to him from the stairway. 


The Imperial House ground its stones together. It would have thrown 
itself asunder, had it been able, but the energy necessary to do so was 
aJl being focused through a tiny sliver of crystal in its heart. 
Powerless, it bellowed its agony. 


Bronwynn cowered in her hiding place. When the bells began through the 
castle she'd jerked away from her eyehole, feeling sure they had 
something to do with her. Someone had discovered her presence, and had 
called for a general search. Or was it that Admon Faye had returned 
and, with Pelmen occupied, had broken out of the lower level into the 
castle? As they continued, she stood up and looked into Jagd's room 
again. Her mouth fell open in shock Pelmen was a falcon. 



The dog disappeared as quickly as it came, and Flayh newly marked with 
six red stripes on his cheek breathed, "Pelmen!" 


Once again the clown peered up at him out of the crystal. "That's 
right, Flayh. Yield yourself and end this madness." 


Flayh grunted with effort, and Pelmen gasped and threw up his hands to 
shield his face. A ball of yellow flame hurtled up at him out of the 
pyramid. 


"Return," he cried, and the ball bounced off his hands and back into 
the object. Then, as he closed his eyes, it engulfed the pyramid in 
flames; under the pressure of both shapers, it exploded with a silent 
flash into a blazing ball ten times its original size. Then it was 
gone, and the pyramids suddenly went cold. 


Wayleeth dashed into her lover's room to find him lying on their bed, 
hugging the pyramid to him and weeping aloud. "Why, darling, what's 
the matter? Did something we say upset " She stopped. Tahli-Damen 
opened his eyes to Stare up at her, and she staggered away in horror. 
There were no pupils, no irises, no whiles just a solid background of 
pale, powder blue. 


"Wayleeth," he sobbed, as he gazed up toward her face. "Wayleeth? Are 
you there?" 


"Yes," she finally managed to choke out. "I'm standing right in front 
of you." 


"You .. . are?" He stared sightlessly into space a minute, then 
cleared his throat. "Wayleeth," he gasped. "Flayh's had his vengeance 
at last." 


"My darling," she sobbed, wrapping her arms around him to get away from 
the ghastly blue tint of his eyeballs. 


"I stole a vision-maker from a wizard .. , and the wizard stole my 
eyes." 


Flayh reeled away from the table, and lurched toward a drawer in one of 
his several desks. He jerked it open to pull out a mirror, and 
examined himself in it. The sight dragged a strangled moan from his 
lips. 


Across his cheeks were the six red gashes hideous, to be sure, but 
clearly not as disfiguring as the other new feature. He looked at the 
back of his hands, and groaned in understanding. He'd managed to get 
them to his face in time to prevent blindness, but the backs of them 
had been stained a light blue by the flash. He looked back at the 
mirror. Two hand prints had been tattooed onto his face. That skin 
protected by the shield of his hands was the same milky-white as the 
rest of his body. But that part exposed to the blast now wore the same 
light blue tint as his hands, all the way up to the top of his bald 
skull. 


No one can say you're not unique, said the High Fortress of Ngandib, 
and windy laughter whirled through the room. "Flayh gave it cause to 
regret that, long into the night. 



Bronwynn had ducked when Pelmen threw up his hands and had missed the 
flash. When she looked again, he was lying prone on the floor, 
unmoving. She gave the knob a savage twist and bolted out to look at 
him. Then she grabbed up the pyramid, stuffed it into its bag, and 
scram bled back to her corridor. A moment later she burst in on Rosha, 
who'd been waiting impatiently by the moveable panel. 


"Well?" he whispered. 
"Petmen's hurt," she snapped. "Come on." She tossed the pyramid onto 
the bed and dragged him back with her into Jagd's room. After several 


minutes of grunting and tugging, together they hoisted Pelmen onto 
Rosha's bed beside the object. 
"What happened?" Rosha begged, finally free to ask the question 


safely. 


"I don't know. I'm afraid it has something to do with Flayh. Can you 
get him back to his room?" 
"I'll summon Yona Parmi and the others they can." 
"Fine." she nodded. "Isn't this stuff on his face supposed to be a 


disguise?" she scrapped off a bit of his greasepaint. 
"Of course " 
"Better tell these friends of his to have him change it when he wakes 


up. Look," she said, holding up her finger to show him. "It's turned 
blue." 
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 
Curtain Call 
"SHH," Danyilyn whispered. "Go back to sleep." 
Pelmen groaned. His whole body arched. "I'm exhausted." 


"We know. That's why you need your sleep." 
He heard a muffled sound coming from the corner and sat up on his cot. 
"Who's that?" 


"Never mi " 
But Danyilyn couldn't stop him. A weak ball of soft orange flame 
blazed above the corner in question, revealing the struggling form of a 


bound and gagged Princess. He ignored Danyilyn's gasp of surprise as 
he murmured, "Bronwynn?" 
"You are a sorcerer!" the actress whispered. 
"Why is she tied up?" 
"Rosha told us to," Danyilyn said apologetically. "He said it was the 


only way to keep her from knifing Ligne before you woke up." 
"Rosha knows her well," Pelmen murmured, and he groaned. "What time is 
it?" 



"Early morning." 


Pelmen sat up and stared at her. "Morning!" 


"Just lie back and " 


32J 


"No time. We've got to get Serphimera out of the dungeon and then get 
all of us into the escape tunnel before the castle wakes. If the House 
the House!" Pelmen exclaimed suddenly, and he swiveled toward the 
walls and listened. 


"What are you " 


"Shh!" Pelmen strained to hear. 


Silence. 


"Imperial House?" he whispered. Silence was the only reply he 
received, 


"Anything wrong?" Danyilyn asked. 


"Maybe everything," Pelmen sighed, and he rolled off his cot. "Here 
help me put Bronwynn on the bed." 


"But " 


"She's going to have a long day tomorrow and she doesn't look very 
comfortable in that corner." 


"What about you? You need some sleep." 


"No time," he answered her from across the room. "I've got to figure 
us a new way out of here." 


Several hours later, as dawn coated the eastern face of the castle with 
the illusion of golden mail, Pelmen was still sitting in the corner. 
Danyilyn had long since returned to her own room, and the heavy 
breathing from the trussed girl on his cot assured him that Bronwynn 
finally slept. 


Did the castle sleep too? "Are you asleep?" he pleaded quietly for 
the fortieth time. "Or just keeping silent because you're angry? I've 
offered you every kind of apology I know I had no idea such a 
confrontation would take place. I realize it was agonizing for you it 
was agonizing for me as well, but I could only end it by winning it. My 
friend .. . you've known power shapers throughout your whole existence, 
many more than I. Surely you witnessed shaper battles, in the time 
before the dragon? Did you ever once see a shaper turn his back on the 
sorcerer who attacked him? If you did, I'll wager you witnessed his 
burial as well, and I have far too many people depending on me to let 
myself be taken without a fight!" He paused then, and listened. 


The Imperial House was as silent as the sunrise. 


"Or did I kill you," Pelmen sighed, rubbing a hand across his face and 
smearing further his blue-tinted grease paint "It could be. The powers 



unleashed between us would take an incredible toll on armies of men did 
our battle kill you as well? I guess it's possible since a 
power-shaper gave you life .. ." He waited, hoping to hear something a 
creaking in the wooden door, a sigh of tone a change of temperature in 
the room even bells would be welcome. 


But the Imperial House was as still as the dawn that kind of stillness 
so deep, so pervasive that it drags one into sleep. Pelmen finally 
yielded to it and dozed. He could do nothing else. 


', He was awakened by a fierce pounding on the door. He jumped to 
answer it and was met by Danyilyn and Yona Parmi. "Change your makeup 
now!" Danyilyn spat as she raced to the cot and slipped a knife-blade 
under Bron-wynn's bonds. 


"Hurry!" Yona Parmi added. "Ligne's dispatched soldiers to summon 
you. We've got to get her out of here." 


Danyilyn dragged the groggy Bronwynn to her feet as Pelmen scrubbed the 
old makeup from his face and clapped on a new layer of white. "What 
time is it?" - "Past breakfast," Yona mumbled as he helped Danyilyn 
walk the Princess to the door. "Where are you taking her?" 


"Genig says to put her in the play who's going to notice another 
ingenue? Hurry!" They were out the door and gone. 


Pelmen was still trying to clear his spinning head when the soldiers 
arrived. They slammed open the door without knocking. 


"Good morning," Fallomar said cheerily. "Did you bring me breakfast in 
bed?" 


"The Queen has summoned you, fool. Now." Pelmen made the journey 
through the halls and into the throne room without speaking again. 
There seemed little point in trying. These were not the relaxed guards 
who kept a casual watch from the castle's towers. They were hard-faced 
warriors probably the pick of Joss* own crack brigade. They showed 
little inclination toward joviality. 


When he was ushered into the throne room, he found it that much more 
difficult to smile. There, facing him, sat the Queen herself, along 
with Joss, Kherda, Jagd, and a host of other court lings whose names 
and offices all merged together in his mind. To Ligne's right, on a 
small version of her own throne, sat Rosha, his jaws locked and his 
lips forming a tight frown. But the most distressing sight of all was 
to Ligne's left. There stood Serphimera, bound in heavy chains, and 
standing beside her was a man Pelmen dimly remembered as Naquin, the 
High Priest of the old dragon faith a man who had long ago ordered his 
death. Pelmen assumed it was for that same purpose he'd been summoned 
this morning. 


Yet Fallomar the fool found a smile and jerked three balls from his 
pocket. "What will it be, my Lady? Juggling?" He tossed the balls 
into the air and juggled them until, at a nod from Joss, a warrior 
knocked them bouncing across the room. Fallomar grinned. "No 
juggling?" 


The Queen smiled back primly. "No juggling." 


There was a weighty silence. "Well?" FaHomar asked at last. 



"Are you ready to perform your wonderful play, Fallomar?" the Queen 
asked, 


"Certainly. Tonight you'll witness a performance that " 


"Not tonight," she interrupted. "Now." 


Pelmen glanced at Rosha. The young warrior gazed up at him, his eyes 
filled with despair. 


"Now?" 


"The rest of your troupe is all assembled, but they informed me that 
you were sick last night. They wondered whether you had recovered 
enough to perform this morning." Ligne smiled a bright, wicked grin 
and husked, "Evidently, you are!" 


"My Lady, the entertainment would be better if played tonight " 


"I have other entertainment scheduled for tonight, clown." At this, 
Ligne looked down at Rosha, and stroked the back of the young man's 
neck. To his credit, Rosha didn't stiffen under the caress. 


"Why, if the others are in place, certainly I am ready," beamed 
Fallomar. He glanced casually at Serphimera's face. The distress 
evident there disturbed him, but at least Ligne hadn't ordered his 
immediate execution. Perhaps she still hadn't recognized him. The 
play was two hours long there might yet be time for Bronwynn and Rosha, 
at least, to escape. 


"I hear the role you play was modeled after King Talith. Is that 
true?" 


"Most correct, my Lady." Fallomar smiled. 


"I made a fool out of him perhaps you remember?" Ligne gazed into his 
eyes. 


Fallomar gazed back. "I certainly do that's why we play him as a 
fool." 


"Appropriate," Ligne said meaningfully. "Take them to prepare." 


Rosha and Pelmen were marched down to the great hall by the same squad 
that had fetched Pelmen from his room. There was no chance for 
conversation, but he could tell from the young swordsman's dull 
expression that Rosha had already surrendered the fight. What had 
transpired through the night? Had some slip finally revealed them all 
to Ligne? As they turned into the great hall and climbed the steps 
onto the stage, the soldiers began dispersing to the tower doors. The 
other actors, their faces creased by worry, clustered around him. 


"What are we going to do?" Gerrig whispered. 


"Where is Bronwynn?" Pelmen demanded, and someone ushered the Princess 
to him through the crowd. In sharp contrast to her outfit of an hour 
ago, she was now swathed in yards of lace, and her hair was tied up in 
bows. They'd layered on the greasepaint until her skin looked like 
porcelain in fact, almost as white as his own. She looked every inch 



the dainty, innocent ingenue. She shattered that illusion as soon as 
she opened her mouth: 


"Why didn't you let me stick her when I had the chance?" she spat. 


He ignored her. "Rosha and Bronwynn," he began crisply, "since you 
really have little to do in the early part of the play, maybe we can 
get you out of here. When the act begins, make for that door behind 
you and into the kitchen. There are no soldiers blocking it yet and 
perhaps they won't. Once there, jump feet first into the cistern. It 
connects with the underground passages, and Bronwynn can lead you 
out." 


"What about us!" Gerrig pleaded. 


"I have a long soliloquy at the close of this first act I'll make it 
longer. Much longer." 


"And we take the same route?" DanyUyn asked. 


"I can't swim," Gerrig murmured, 


"Don't worry," Yona Parmi whispered, looking at Gerrig's belly, "you'll 
float." 


"What about you?" Danyilyn asked. 


"What about me?" Pelmen snapped. "I'm a power shaper aren't I?" 
Danyilyn nodded. Suddenly they were all slamming their hands over 
their ears, as trumpets blared above them on the grand spiral. Any 
further conversation was impossible in the wake of that deafening 
noise, which grew louder as the heralds descended the stairs. They 
were followed by the ladies of the court, who smiled courageously in 
the face of then1 own pain. Each resolutely refused to cover her ears, 
though it was obvious that all would have liked to. 


As the the heralds reached the stage, the castle's other inhabitants 
began pouring into the great hall through the guarded doors. Pelmen 
was cheered by the sight of the cook and his helpers that signaled that 
the kitchen might be empty and the getaway a real possibility. He 
glanced over at Yona Parmi and saw that the man watched him grimly. 
Pelmen smiled encouragement, but Yona Parmi's expression didn't change. 
He hadn't been fooled by Pel-men's grand speech to Danyilyn about power 
shaping In their many late night discussions, Pelmen had told him much 
about shaping the powers. If Yona remembered nothing else, he'd 
learned at least that shaping demanded energy and he knew Pelmen was 
too exhausted for the task. Less than a day before, Pelmen had 
wrestled a rival sorcerer in a perilous contest of power and that on 
top of a morning-long battle of more conventional character. Pel-men 
couldn't defend himself against this horde of soldiers, and he knew it. 
Evidently, so did Yona. Pelmen shrugged then, slightly, and Yona 
nodded and looked away. They would all have to make the best of it. 
"House," Pelmen muttered, "are you there?" 


If the House had given an answer, it would have been lost in the 
renewal of the fanfare. Pelmen continued to hope .. . 


The Prime Minister made his entrance then, followed by a pair of 
servants bearing the Queen's throne between them. They walked across 
the stage and down onto the floor, placing Ligne's chair in the center 



of the front row. Then there was another trumpet announcement, and 
Ligne made her own entrance on the arm of Jagd of Uda. The assembled 
throng stood to welcome her and, in keeping with custom, began 
clapping. Pelmen joined the applause, searching out Bronwynn to see 
what she would do. She'd had the same idea, and their eyes met. Pelmen 
glanced down at her hands, and she finally lifted them to her waist and 
patted them together. Her eyes, however, never left ! his. She gazed 
at him accusingly. 


When Ligne was seated in her place, the trumpeters quit blowing, and 
scrambled for their own seats. A flurry of bench scraping and coughing 
ensued, until all had found places. Then the audience was silent. 


"Are you there?" Pelmen asked softly. 


The House was silent. 


Ligne enjoyed the stillness for a moment, then she clapped her hands 
together twice. "Let it begin," she commanded. She leaned back in her 
seat to watch. 


The play opened with a conversation between a merchant, played by 
Gerrig, and a scholar, played by Yona "Parmi, plotting the overthrow of 
the clown King. The parts were loosely modeled on Jagd and Kherda, and 
Pelmen watched these men carefully for their reactions. They gazed at 
the stage with identical expressions of disinterest, and it soon became 
clear that they failed to recognize themselves in these characters. 
Ligne did, however, and it was she who began the laughter. So lightly 
did she take it all that Pelmen grew steadily more convinced. Of 
course she could enjoy it, for she was firmly in control. Pelmen 
shifted his eyes to look at Serphimera. As she stared at the floor 
between her feet, he recalled the message she had passed him in Ligne's 
presence. Two plots against the Queen and both would fail. Once 
again, she'd proven right, but it seemed to bring her little 
satisfaction. The kidnap scene was quickly over, and Pelmen made his 
entrance, shouting in character: 


"What? No Princess? Search the roof! Search the hallsl Search the 
dungeon! Search the wallsl 


Search every room within this house 


Except my mistress' room, 


For I'll be searching her myself 


That is, I mean, her room, this afternoon." 


He heard a cackle from the front row. Ligne, at least, seemed to be 
enjoying it 


"Through here," Rosha murmured, and Bronwynn rushed past him into the 
kitchen, 


"Come on," she said as she grabbed him by the hand and they raced 
toward the cistern. 


They quickly skidded to a stop. 


"Going somewhere?" asked Lord Joss. He had perched his foot on the 



lip of the cistern and was casually sipping a cup of water. The 
warriors clustered around him did not appear so relaxed. Their pikes 
were leveled at the young pair, menacing them as the guards moved to 
encircle them. 


"We .. . n-needed a c-c-cup of water," Rosha stammered. 


"Easily handled. I have a whole basin full right here, that I was 
fetching for the Queen. You, young lady would you be good enough to 
carry it in for me?" 


"But what of the King? He'll know, for sure," said Yona. 


"The King? Clown King? Why the fool is pure as driven snow." Gerrig 
gestured to his face, drawing a laugh. "You say he'll know? Then are 
you the clown! For it's noised around, through all the " Gerrig 
suddenly broke off. Pel-men, who had been following the scene 
attentively, traced Gerrig's gaze to the source of the interruption and 
his heart stopped. Bronwynn, carrying an ornate basin, had just come 
back in the rear door of the stage, followed by a crestfallen Rosha and 
General Joss. As they crossed the stage to a stairway and down onto 
the floor, Bronwynn kept her eyes humbly lowered. But after she'd 
stooped to place the bowl before the Queen, she made a telltale grab 
for her hip, and Lord Joss leaped on top of her, knocking her to the 
floor. The first few rows screamed in shock, and some of them jumped 
to their feet, but Ligne kept her seat, beaming happily up at Pelmen. 
Rosha jumped on Joss* 


back in turn, but guards swarmed everywhere by that time, and he and 
Bronwynn were both swiftly subdued. The crowd came alive with animated 
expressions of disbelief and amazement, and Ligne was obliged to nod at 
the trumpeters. Their piercing blasts stunned the audience into quiet, 
and Ligne smiled at the players. 


"Go on," she said. "Finish it." 


"We ... ah ... we ..." Gerrig gazed across the stage at Pelmen. His 
expression was far from kind. 


"We can hardly finish it, with two of our players bound like that," 
Pelmen said. "Release them, and we'll continue." It was fruitless, he 
realized, but it seemed Ligne had decided to play out this 
cat-and-mouse game to the bitter end. 


"Release them? Why, this girl just tried to kill me! And as for the 
lad, well ... I have plans for him later. I don't want him to injure 
himself." She smiled fondly at Rosha, who jerked toward her in rage. 
"Ah, Rosha, you can't imagine how I've missed that side of you," Ligne 
looked back at the stage. "You can't go on? A shame. I did so want 
to see it I know. Why not let me play a part?" 


"What part do you choose, my Lady? The stage is yours." Pelmen bowed 
as he spoke. 


"It is mine, isn't it?" Ligne gloated, and she mounted the steps to 
look him in the eye. "Why don't I play myself?" 


"Type-casting, to be sure," Pelmen responded. He wondered how much 
energy he could muster, and glanced over to watch Bronwynn struggle 
against Joss. A great sadness swept through him. Struggle that's all 



the girl had been allowed to do for months. It wasn't just. Pelmen 
thought of the Power, and murmured, "Are you seeing this?" 


"What?" Ligne asked. The audience listened in rapt silence. 


"Nothing, my Lady. I take it you want to play the scene where the 
mistress kills the King. I'm ready." 


"Oh, not kills," Ligne smiled. "I didn't kill Talith. Didn't need to, 
he accomplished that all by himself. No, I only made a fool of him. 
Kherda, the bowl of water." 


The Prime Minister rocked up to his feet and scooped up the basin off 
the floor. As he bent, his eyes swept across those of Princess 
Bronwynn , .. 


"Kherda! Now!" Ligne waited until Kherda brought the bowl of water to 
her. "I made a fool of Talith," she said to Pelmen then. "I intend to 
unmake a fool of you." Pelmen stood in his place as Ligne dipped a 
cJoth in the basin and washed the white grease paint from his face, 


"The first Prophet!" exclaimed Naquin, and he twisted around to 
Serphimera. "Look, it's that Prophet who caused us both such misery." 
Serphimera didn't respond. 


"She knows, Naquin," said the Queen, walking downstage toward him. 
"She's known for days. And last night at dinner when you berated 
Pelmen in her presence, so did I." Ligne turned to face Pelmen, a 
sneer curling her pretty lips. "Oh, you managed quite well, Pelmen. I 
honor your talent for deception you had me fooled completely. But your 
little Priestess there is a revealer of secrets, not a hider of them. 
She'd told me before of her intense feelings for you, be they love or 
hate. She couldn't hide those feelings from me. Not from me!" the 
Queen finished with a dramatic flourish of her hand. 


"You missed your calling, Ligne," Pelmen said quietly. You should have 
been an actress." 


"Should have been? I am an actress. Mustn't every regent be a player 
of sorts? As your little play makes clear, the halls of state are no 
place for the guileless innocent." Ligne smirked. "And that's what 
you've surrounded yourself with, Pelmen. Innocents. Fools." Ligne 
turned to Joss and shouted, "Take them!" The armed warriors didn't 
wait for their commander to pass along the order. They scrambled onto 
the stage immediately, and soon every player in the troupe was trussed 
as soundly as Bronwynn. During the interval, Ligne strolled gracefully 
off the dais and resumed her throne. The captives were then led to 
stand facing her along the apron of the platform. Obviously, she'd 
choreographed her triumph quite carefully. 


"Now then." She smiled. "What's next? Pelmen, don't we get some kind 
of speech from you?" 


"To what effect, my Lady?" 


"Why, I assumed you would attempt to arouse the rabble against me. 
Wasn't that your plan, your reason for ingratiating yourself with each 
of my servants?" 


"There was no plan, my Lady, save to escape from you 



"No plan. Oh, come now." 
"It's true. I only wanted to protect my friends and loved ones." 
"Then how did this little Princess get back inside my castle?" Ligne 


jumped up, crossed to Bronwynn, and grabbed the girl's chin. 
Pelmen had hoped Bronwynn might go unrecognized under her makeup, but 


he was disappointed even in this. "She was brought into this house by 
the same man who took her out. Admon Faye." 
"Ah yes." Ligne nodded. "And where is that ugly slaver?" 
"I've no idea." 
"Don't lie to me. You know exactly where he is. You've been working 


together with bun." 
"You're mistaken, my Lady." 
"You deny that you plotted my downfall together?" 
"I would plan nothing with Admon Faye, my Lady. Not even an enterprise 


as necessary as your demise." 
"You watch your tongue!" 
"You asked I responded." 
"You want me to kill you here?" 
"It matters little to me where I die, my Lady, if you've determined 


already that I shall." 


"I thought I might give you a chance to decide that." Ligne smiled. 
Then she laughed at Pelmen's puzzled look. 
"I don't know what you mean." 
"Perhaps a little wager is in order." 
"A wager?" 
"On a game of Drax. If you win, you may take this rubbish heap of an 


acting troupe with you. If you lose, I kill each of you personally " 
"Done!" Pelmen snapped, without a moment's hesitation. 
"Pelmen," Gerrig began, but the power shaper cut him off. 
"Gerrig, it's clearly the only alternative and it's surprisingly fair." 


He looked back to Ligne. "I thank you, my Lady, for the opportunity 


you offer." 
"You seem so eager, Pelmen. How is that, after six straight losses 
against me?" 


"You may find I play quite differently when my life depends on it. As 
is customary in accepting the life-death challenge, I offer you choice 



of red or. blue." 


"Red or blue?" Ligne asked in mocking innocence. "Not green as 
well?" 


Pelmen's eyes narrowed. "Such a challenge traditionally means the 
green will be played by the dummy." More needless words, Pelmen 
thought. He was indeed an innocent to think Ligne would challenge 
fairly! It was clear, now, what she intended. 


"And I have just such a dummy in mind. Kherda, my Prime Minister." 


Her words touched off a wave of quiet protest among the crowd, for 
Pelmen had been quite correct in assuming she'd offered him a challenge 
to Green Dummy. Kherda was stung, not only by Ligne's insult, but by 
her injustice as well. He shuffled to his feet. "My Lady! Is this 
fair?" 


"To term you a dummy? Certainly it's fair." 


"To issue such a challenge. Tradition clearly calls for " 


"This miserable actor came into my house to steal my throne! I've 
offered him the opportunity to free himself and his friends, and he's 
accepted the wager." 


"Yes, but " 


"Kherda be silent!" Ligne commanded, and the old man gulped and closed 
his mouth. "You, of all people, should know that your Queen never 
plays Green Dummy." Ligne spun gracefully to face Pelmen. "Or do you 
back down?" Her blue eyes mocked him. 


"That would be a breach of etiquette, my Lady," Pelmen replied 
tonelessly, "and we certainly can't have that Shall we play?" 


Ligne clapped her hands in delight. "Oh, let's do!" 


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 


Razor 


THE PLAYERS WERE HELD ONSTAGE by a circle of guards while the Queen 
preceded them up the stairway. They watched helplessly as Rosha was 
dragged up the grand spiral after her, kicking and jerking all the way. 
Serphimera, too, was led up the stairs, followed by Naquin. The 
pitiful skyfaither looked puzzled. Though he'd lived his entire life 
in the presence of political power, never had he witnessed such 
eccentric behavior as that he'd been exposed to in this court. 


Pelmen watched them out of sight, then glanced at Yona Parmi. "What do 
you think?" 


"What can I think?" Yona mumbled, shrugging. "Winning at Drax is hard 
enough when all three are battling each other. Two against one is 
impossible." 


"Why doesn't she just kill us and get it over with?" Dan-yilyn 
muttered. 



"What?" Gerrig snorted. "And forfeit her afternoon's pleasure?" 


"I'm sorry," Pelmen said quietly, and they all turned to look at him. 


"What for?" Yona asked him. "We all chose to come." 


"Gerrig didn't." 


"I did, too!" Gerrig blustered, and Pelmen looked up at him in 
disbelief. "Before you go thinking this is your fault, you just 
remember it was I who led the battle in the caverns. And I'd do it 
again this morning." 


"We're here," Danyilyn broke in, her temper flaring. "What concerns me 
is how we're going to get out. Pelmen, you're a power shaper Is there 
any " 


"What you don't realize is that he's exhausted," Yona Parmi 
interrupted. "There are limits to what a power shaper can do and he's 
reached his." 


Danyilyn looked back and forth between them. "That's it, then? It all 
depends on Drax?" 


Yona Parmi looked at Pelmen. "Maybe not" 


Pelmen read his mind. "The Power works through people, Yona. Perhaps 
there are limits even to what the Power can do." 


"Well," Danyilyn said glumly, "I hope you're on your game." 


"The Queen is ready for you now," announced a servant from the 
stairway. 


"I'll bet she is," Danyilyn snapped, and, herded by their guards, they 
all plodded up the stairs. 


Spectators crammed the game room full and spilled out both its doors in 
the hallways. The troupe's escort had to shove people aside to get the 
players through. Once inside, guards were no longer necessary, for the 
mob of court lings crushed back together in their wake, leaving no 
possible avenue of escape. The press of jabbering people, combined 
with the visual impact of their multicolored garments, served initially 
to disorient Pelmen, and he twisted around in confusion, looking for 
Ligne and the game table. The clamor prevented him from hearing 
Ligne's summons, and a servant was sent to grab his hand and fetch him 
into the open space in the center of the room. His appearance there 
served as a cue for the gathered host to hush. Pelmen happened to 
glance at his feet, then stared down at the intricate patterns that had 
been painted on the floor. He'd been in here only two days before, but 
the room had been altered considerably in that short space of time. 
This section had formerly been covered with mats, and had served as a 
kind of gymnasium for the practice of throws and falls and of fencing. 
A glance at the walls told him many of the practice swords still hung 
there, a fact that would probably do him no good, since he'd never be 
able to get to one. His eyes were drawn back to the floor. 


"What's all this?" he asked, as the Queen gave instructions to her 
guards to clear the throng back off of the design. 



"What does it look like, fool?" she replied. "You're standing on a 
giant Drax board. You think these people could witness my triumph if 
we played on that tiny table?" He recognized it as the crowd surged 
back out of the way and noted, too, that Ligne's throne had been 
positioned along the red flat. Rosha, a gag in his mouth, sat in the 
smaller throne next to her, struggling against the bonds that secured 
him to it. "I take it you're playing red," Pelmen murmured, his eyes 
on the lad. 


"You did offer me the choice," the queen sneered. Not only had she 
teamed herself with Kherda to outnumber him, she'd claimed the 
advantage of the first move. 


Pelmen turned to his left to look at Kherda. "And the 


Prime Minister is green." Kherda gazed back uncertainly. 


"Which leaves you with blue." Ligne smiled. "I thought that might 
please you, since you seem to have a certain affinity for the color." 
She turned her gaze in the direction of Serphimera, whose expression of 
dismay hadn't changed, 


"Where are the pieces?" he asked. 


Ligne grinned, and clapped her hands. Guards blazed a new path through 
the crowd, leading ten tired looking creatures into the open area. Half 
were clothed in robes of bright crimson, the other half in kelly green, 
and each wore strangely shaped headgear. One man of each color wore a 
tri-cornered hat, another pair wore tall, conical caps, and so on. It 
was clear they had been costumed to represent Drax pieces. "Intriguing, 
isn't it?" the queen purred. "I call it my living Drax set." 


"I must say, Ligne, you've stage-managed your triumph quite 
professionally," Pelmen murmured. 


"Why thank you, fool. It took me several days, but I did so want it 
all to be right." 


"But where are the blues?" Pelmen asked. "Kherda and I drew our 
pieces from the dungeon, but I thought it might be fun to assemble 
yours from the ranks of those dearest to you. Perhaps it will add 
dimension to your play to realize that every move you make risks the 
life of that piece." 


Pelmen gazed at her, his face as calm in defeat as if he had won. "How 
very fitting. For to you, it's all a game, isn't it? Your power, your 
crown just a game to while away your time." 


"And a splendid game it is." She smiled, her teeth flashing. "Pity 
Admon Faye couldn't be here to enjoy it with us. Robe Gerrig in blue," 
she ordered her servants, "and put the tri-corner on his head!" 


Pelmen glanced around the game room as he took stock of his own energy 
level. There were some things he could do he just couldn't guarantee 
the results. Shaping was dangerous in any case and weariness made it 
more so. Still, if he could make the act explosive enough, perhaps 
someone could get away. 


"The round-faced one," Ligne said, pointing at Yona Parmi. "Make him 
the column. And make this actress the disc," she continued, grabbing 



Danyilyn's wrist, "in appreciation of her miserable impersonation of 
me." 


"Of course it was miserable," Danyilyn snarled at her, fiery to the 
last. "I had such a miserable subject to imitate." 


Fire would be the most compelling, Pelmen thought. He could probably 
empty the hall in a moment. Of course, they'd all be consumed along 
with Ligne, but perhaps it was worth their lives, to rid the world of 
this dangerous Queen .. . 


Ligne paced across the floor toward Bronwynn and jerked the heavily 
bound Princess out onto the board. "I'd thought to make Naquin the 
cube " 


"I say," Naquin gasped. "I'm not with the man." 


" he is, after all, dressed in blue already and is block-headed enough. 
But since you've so kindly brought Bronwynn to me " She shoved the girl 
toward a servant. " we'll make her the cube instead." 


An explosion of wind? Pelmen reasoned. Blow out the ceiling and crush 
all the spectators. That was the trouble with magic it killed 
indiscriminately. 


"And of course, Serphimera." 


Pelmen whipped around to stare at her, "Serphimera?" he said aloud. 


"Certainly Serphimera," Ligne snarled. 


"She never threatened you." 


"She didn't forewarn me either. Put the star on her head," Ligne 
ordered. "She already has the blue robe." 


But Serphimera had told him she would walk out the gate unharmed. For 
the first time ali day, Pelmen brushed shoulders with hope. For if 
Serphimera was destined to live .. . "And I'm to understand that all of 
these will lose their lives if I fail to defeat you?" he asked. 


"That is the wager." Ligne sneered smugly. 


A year before, Serphimera had prophesied that Vicia-Heinox would rip a 
blue-clad figure in two. She'd been right. She'd been right about two 
plots against Ligne ending in failure. And Serphimera had seen herself 
leave this castle on foot through the front gate. 


Ligne made her first move, and flung the reference plank toward Pelmen. 
"Play the game, fool. That is, if you remember how." 


Just then it happened again. 


Pelmen always had difficulty expressing the experience in words, but he 
instantly knew what had happened. Erri would have understood 
completely, while Ligne might have laughed herself breathless at the 
very idea. Naquin might have comprehended, while Jagd would have 
dismissed it as the kind of delusion all Lamathians were subject to a 
simple result of their upbringing. 



But Pelmen knew what it was. His spirit soared with an elation born 
from far beyond human experience. At the critical instant, at the 
moment he'd started his last desperate act of shaping, he'd heard, 
"Wait." No one nearby had said it, and the House was as silent as 
ever. Yet it had come, and Pelmen felt again that curious mixture of 
elation and terror that had seized him so many times before. No longer 
was he the shaper he was being shaped, and his ultimate destiny, be it 
life or death, seemed trivial in the face of this rushing presence. 


Bronwynn saw it. Gagged as well as hobbled and cuffed, she could only 
smile with her eyes. But that she did. Her eyes radiated excitement. 
She recognized the face that Pelmen now wore and knew its strangely 
compelling nature came from beyond him. 


Serphimera saw it too, and it startled her. She had long denied the 
possibility of this happening to anyone outside her own circle. It 
seemed incredible she should be witnessing this transformation now but 
she did. And it thrilled her beyond words. 


Ligne regarded Pelmen's strained expression with a contemptuous sneer. 
"Are you going to move, fool?" 


Pelmen drew a deep breath and forced himself to stare at the gameboard. 
This was torture. He longed to surrender to the enormous warmth that 
engulfed him, to slough off responsibility for himself and his friends 
and soak in the Power's presence. Yet he could not. In the midst of 
this abundant joy, there was not necessarily any hope. The Power was 
shaping him, he knew but he knew as well that what he might choose 
might not be the choice of the Power. He fought only briefly to retain 
control, then acquiesced. "Very well," he muttered quietly to the One 
who had made him a Prophet. "I hope you know how to play this game." 
Then he made his first move. 


From the beginning, the pattern of play took on new and puzzling 
shapes. This game didn't follow any of the classic forms or if it did, 
no one could tell. The size of the board and the rocking and 
whispering of the pieces prevented any real perspective. As the three 
players wove in and out between their brightly attired armies, guiding 


living pieces across the board, Ligne's frustration level grew. She 
moved a disc ten feet across the floor, only to have it taken 
immediately by an unseen column concealed behind Pelmen's star. "I 
can't see what I'm doing," she shouted. 

"At the moment," Pelmen told her with considerable effort, "you appear 
to be losing." That wasn't quite true. They'd both lost two pieces to 
Kherda's three, and the game hung in the balance. Yet Pelmen had 
realized that he was playing far beyond his own capacity. He'd 
detached himself from the fearsome outcome of the exercise and watched 
his own play with objective admiration. It was a necessary mental 
adjustment, for the near future was too horrible to consider. Somehow, 
the Power helped him make it. 


"What's happening?" the spectators muttered to one another. But for 
all their confusion, it seemed most of them had a better grasp of the 
dynamics of this match than did the befuddled Prime Minister. 


"Kherda," Ligne screamed, "are you trying to make me lose? 


"No, my Lady," Kherda called back raggedly, and Pel-men almost felt 
sorry for the man. 



The reference plank changed hands a dozen times in rapid succession, 
noting a dazzling exchange of blitzing moves that left everyone a 
little dizzy. Then it stopped, and Kherda loudly announced, "Razor." 


The crowd gasped, then cheered. 


Pelmen frowned. It was uncanny the number of times this situation 
arose. So frequently did it happen, in fact, that the merchants had 
long since given this configuration its own name. Pelmen had lost 
Gerrig and Serphimera, and had three remaining pieces. Ligne, too, had 
three pieces left on the board. Kherda had lost all but one, but be 
had done so with the consummate skill of one who has practiced only to 
lose. His one piece now controlled the outcome of the game. He held 
the deciding position the Razor and the way it cut would determine the 
winner. 


Ligne chuckled. "Well, well." 


Kherda smiled at her. He could take Bronwynn on this move, and Ligne 
would then be free to take Danyilyn three to one to one, a victory for 
the Queen. Or he could take one of Ligne's pieces, and her succeeding 
move could not prevent Pelmen from seizing that same winning margin. 
The cry of "Razor" was normally the cue for a vigorous round of 
negotiations between players to begin. Often the player with a Razor 
walked off with more gold in his pocket than the winner himself. But 
Pelmen felt no desire to negotiate. He had lost. He only wondered 
why, this time, Serphimera had been wrong. 


"Go ahead," Ligne ordered. "Take her." 


Kherda looked Bronwynn straight in the eyes and took Ligne's piece 
instead! 


Queen Ligne stared. The act was so incomprehensible, she could think 
of nothing to say. Pelmen grunted in surprise, and stared as well. 
Unbelievably, he had won. He turned his head to gaze at Kherda, and 
found the man was looking at him. Whether or not he understood the 
import of the change in Pelmen's face, Kherda remembered the 
befriending of the fool and Ligne's back. Now, he'd repaid them 
both. 


"Kill them!" screamed Ligne. "Kill them all!" Before she finished 
the phrase, swords were whistling out of their sheaths and armed 
warriors were advancing on the players. 


Not only does she cheat, she's a welcher as well! bellowed the 
Imperial House suddenly, and the bells on the wall broke into a 
horrendous clamor. 


Pelmen threw back his head and laughed joyously. "I wondered when we'd 
finally hear from you." 


Joss did not pause an instant Already his sword was in the air, and he 
charged forward, intent on dispatching Bronwynn first, then the rest. 
Ligne's game had gone on far too long. It was time to restore some 
cold-steel discipline to this castle. "Hold, Joss!" cried someone on 
his right, and he whirled to see who challenged him. He stared down 
the blade of Rosha mod Dorlyth. 



"How did you Carlad!" Joss roared, as he watched the guard sprint for 
the wall to tear another sword from it. The lad's guard had proved 
himself a mudgecurdle! 


"Yes,. Carlad cut me free," Rosha shouted as he whirled the guard's 
blade into motion above his head and leaped between Joss and the knot 
of players. "And Queen Bronwynn will reward him for it." 


No welcher dwells within this House! trumpeted the castle, and the 
room started quaking. The House was angry and it finally found the 
energy to express its rage. 


Rosha kicked a sword from one warrior's fist and slammed shut the visor 
of another as the floor shuddered and then buckled. Soldiers and 
spectators alike tumbled to their knees, and the room filled with 
panicked screeching. People scrambled for the exits, jamming the 
hallways beyond the doors just as tightly as they'd jammed the game 
room. Many warriors dropped their weapons and raced to join them. 
Others, fearing their lords' reprisals worse than falling stones, 
staggered to their feet and struggled forward. The floor shifted 
again, and the walls shimmied, and still more guards chose to abandon 
the fight to join the flight. Those few who kept shoving forward 
through the scattering mob suddenly faced a dilemma. Ligne's piercing 
voice still rose above the roar, but once they got into the open space 
where the troupe clustered, they faced the whirling blade of Rosha mod 
Dorlyth. Steel clashed on steel only by accident, as warriors seeking 
to brake their charge came into 


34* 


range of his weapon. No one wanted to battle the brawny savage. 


None save Lord Joss himself. "Come then, young warrior," Joss called 
grimly. "We shall see if the Golden Throng might be avenged for the 
battle of Westmouth on the son of the Mari commander." 


"There is some vengeance I crave as well, Joss," Rosba snarled back. 
"Vengeance for a broken promise and a cowardly betrayal!" As the room 
rocked from side to side and the screeching became intolerable, the two 
warriors clashed together over the giant Drax board. 


Pelmen spent these chaotic minutes whispering reassurances and 
struggling with knotted ropes. "Relax," he soothed, "the House is 
angry at Ligne, not us." 


"Maybe so." Gerrig quaked in terror. "But are you sure it can control 
on whom it drops its walls? Look out!" A chandelier came crashing to 
the floor, crushing half a dozen unfortunate spectators. 


Pelmen turned his attention to the sword battle. Joss was letting the 
younger warrior do all the work, circling him warily and parrying each 
blow with a skill born of experience. Rosha attacked him doggedly, his 
face twisted by a fierce scowl. Their swords rang together twice 
before they tangled in one another's arms, and Joss quickly booted 
Rosha in the thigh and jabbed him under the breast with his elbow. 
Rosha hurtled backward, his chest unhurt but his leg suddenly cramping. 
He planted that leg to dodge the General's onslaught, but it couldn't 
hold his weight, and Rosha tumbled to the floor. Joss grinned and 
plunged his sword through the sprawling lad 



At least, he thought he did. But when he pulled back on his haft, he 
felt no resistance then he noticed his blade had liquefied. He stepped 
back in astonishment, then quickly tossed the useless pommel aside and 
dragged out his dagger. Before he could raise it above his head, its 
blade liquefied as well, and he staggered, staring at yet another 
useless haft. He glanced up then, and saw Pelmen standing ten feet 
away, his arms extended, his palms up. "Are .. . are you doing this?" 
Joss choked out. "Oh, not I," Pelmen said. "But it is being done." 
Joss threw up his hands and backed away. "How can a mortal withstand 
such powers?" he shouted. Then he knelt 


Tke Wizard in Wailing and bowed his head. "I'm ready to die," he 
called. Throughout his life, Joss had been a gloating victor. But 
somewhere through it all he had learned how to lose gracefully. 


Pelmen sighed. "That's the nice thing about miracles," he told 
Bronwynn and Serphimera, "They're so very spe-ciac." 


She's getting away, announced the Imperial House, and Pelmen jerked his 
head up to listen. "How?" he demanded. 


Through the walls. 


"Bronwynn, she's leaving through the walls!" 


"I know where she's going. Get me loose!" Pelmen nodded, and dropped 
to his knees to tear at her knots with his teeth. 


"Here," Rosha grunted, and he pushed Pelmen aside to slash through her 
bonds with Carlad's sword. Another quick slash and her hobbles were 
cut, and Bronwynn dashed to the wall to rip down a practice sword. 
Pelmen sprinted right behind her and grabbed off a pair of blades. 


"What about us?" Gerrig hollered. Right above them a chandelier 
identical to the one that had fallen swung wildly. Gerrig's eyes never 
left it. 


"You'll be all right," Pelmen called as he raced back and stooped to 
hack at Gerrig's bonds. Carlad quickly joined him, and soon the actor 
was free. "Here. Protect the rest of them." Pelmen shoved one of his 
swords into Gerrig's hands and took off after Bronwynn and Rosha, who 
had disappeared into a gaping hole in the wall. 


"There's a tiny dock on the northern face!" Bronwynn was calling as 
Pelmen started down a dangerously steep stairway in the dark. "She's 
headed for the escape craft" 


Actually, she's already in it, the castle corrected. 


"The House says she's there," Pelmen shouted as he stumbled. It was 
impossible to move quickly and cautiously at the same time. "Can we 
stop her?" 


"If we hurry " Bronwynn started to yell back. Then there was a heavy 
thud, and Bronwynn groaned. "She's bolted the door!" 


"Stand back!" Rosha bellowed. With the snort of an enraged bull he 
hurled his weight against the barrier and broke it down. The three of 
them tumbled over one another onto the wet dock in time to see Ligne's 
boat slipping out onto the river. 



"We've lost her," Pelmen sighed. Bronwynn moaned aloud, and Rosha 
slammed his heavy hand onto the dock in frustration. Pelmen sighed 
again, helpless to stop the woman's escape. He'd pushed his body to 
its limit. 


But the House wasn't finished. Just as Ligne's boat slipped out from 
under its walls, an overgrown pigeon relieved himself on the roof once 
more. 


Enough! the Imperial House thundered and in its rage gave its 
mightiest shudder yet. The iron aviary had never been bolted to the 
roof, and it began to rock on its base. The excited House shimmied 
once more .. . 


Ligne, rowing with every shred of her remaining energy, could hear the 
tremor, and glanced up the face of her former home in time to see the 
aviary fail. She had the chance to scream once before the massive cage 
impacted on the water. Her tiny launch was shattered into splinters as 
the twisted structure buried itself in the ancient mulch of the 
riverbed. Ligne was buried with it. 


The three figures on the dock stared in shock as they watched the metal 
sink. Bronwynn and Rosha shouted in exultation, and Pelmen felt a slow 
smile of relief spread across his face. Then he heard behind him the 
castle's windy laughter, as the Imperial House chortled; 


How fitting, that the welching Queen should be buried under such a 
weighty dropping! 


CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 


The House Retires 


WITH A FEW SHARP COMMANDS, Bronwynn took charge of her realm. In 
bursts of staccato instructions she dispatched messages to the mayors 
of all her major cities, reconfirmed most of the petty court lings in 
their roles at court, and summoned the guards to bring her erstwhile 
enemies to the gardens to face her judgment. As she and Pelmen made 
their way through the floating dust up the debris-strewn spiral 
walkway, she suggested that Rosha might want to dispatch a flyer to 
Erri. "If there's going to be a wedding" she smiled confidently "I 
think we might want him to be present." 


"Since there will be," Rosha beamed back, "I'd better go summon him. I 
think I recall that my father wanted to be informed, too .. ." Then, 
dropping his studied nonchalance, Rosha bolted up the ramp with a shout 
of boyish exuberance. Bronwynn turned her head to look at Pelmen, her 
face a study in regal self-assurance. "How am I doing?" 


"Admirably." Pelmen nodded. "You've grown up a lot in these months of 
suffering." 


Her expression softened, then turned pensive. "Perhaps." 


"Something troubles you, though?" Pelmen asked hopefully. 


"Shouldn't it? I may have been through a lot since we met, but I don't 
think anything's prepared me to reconstruct a country." 



"Then you've taken the first step in being a success at it. You 
realize you need some help. Ligne never got that far." 


"You'll help me, won't you? Please, Pelmen, stay on as our Prime 
Minister!" 


He gazed at her fondly for a moment. "Thank you, my Lady. But no." 


"Why not? You know more about this than I do, and " 


"But there's one who knows far more about it than either of us. And 
today he saved our lives." 


Bronwynn wrinkled her nose. "Kherda? But he overthrew my father." 


"Which you've said yourself probably needed to happen. I'll not make 
the decision for you. You're the Queen." The two of them stepped out 
onto the lowest terrace of the garden. With the displacement of the 
aviary, the sunlight burned down brilliantly on the luscious green 
foliage, forcing them to stop and breathe the air. It seemed fresher, 
somehow, and Pelmen said so. 


Of course this House smells better! the castle snapped. The birds 
have flown. 


That wasn't wholly true, for many of the aviary's occupants remained. 
No longer caged, these stayed by choice, for this was the only home 
they had known in this northerly land. "Not all, evidently," Pelmen 
said. 


The others will leave with winter, the House said smugly. 


"And so will the plants." Pelmen nodded sadly. "But changes must 
come." 


"What are you two talking about?" Bronwynn asked. 


"Birds and change," Pelmen said quietly. Then he nodded over her 
shoulder. Kherda and Joss stood with several others, awaiting the news 
of their fate. Bronwynn looked at Kherda grimly, then motioned him to 
her. He cleared his throat nervously, then walked forward. "My Lady, 
I can ask for nothing save your mercy. While I know " 


"Kherda, can you give me some idea of what's happening in the 
provinces?" 


Kherda looked at her, puzzled, then rapidly responded, "Drought in the 
east, though perhaps the rising of the rivers signal some rains have 
finally come. Insects in the north have ravaged seed stocks, but we 
have enough in storage here in the city to replenish supplies, once the 
order is given to move them. It's been a poor year for farmers the 
dragon burn of course, and the battle at Westmouth but we're not facing 
a major famine, for the fields in the far south produced " 


"Can you prepare the orders to ship the necessary goods?" Bronwynn 
asked. 


"Certainly. They're in my office awaiting signature. Just let me " 
Kherda started out, but stopped and came back. "However it's not my 
office anymore is it?" 



"Who moved you?" 


Kherda's wide eyes grew wider. Then he scooped up his skirts and 
flapped out of the room, shouting, "I'll be back in a moment." 


Bronwynn glanced back distastefully at the remainder of the group, then 
settled her gaze on Joss. He was being diligently guarded by a 
fierce-eyed Gerrig whom he ignored completely. The warrior met 
Bronwynn's gaze passively. Bronwynn glanced back at Pelmen. 


"Yes?" he asked. "What of Joss?" 


"My recent experience as an almost murderess has convinced me that 
somehow I don't think a Queen should be one." 


"And?" Pelmen asked. 


"And I don't want to start my reign with a full dungeon." She gauged 
his reactions. "Joss has so much experience in affairs of state. Why 
not make him Ambassador to Lamath?" 


Pelmen raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Certainly a creative idea," 
he said appreciatively. 


"He's loyal to Chaomonous, we know that. And it would keep him in a 
position of responsibility which might prevent him from raising an army 
against me. He and Kherda would be separated That's important; those 
two have been fighting all my life " She stopped when she saw Pelmen 
smiling at her. "Besides," she smiled back, "if he spends time in 
Lamath, he might learn something. I did." 


Pelmen nodded, still smiling. "You're the Queen." 


Gerrig led the General to them and turned Joss around to face Bronwynn. 
"My Lady, would you have me dispatch him here?" Gerrig asked 
dramatically. 


"Gerrig, this isn't a play. You can put up your sword and leave us. 
But gather the troupe and meet me at the table tonight. I think you'll 
like the role I have picked out for you." 


"A new role!" Gerrig said brightly. He stalked out of the garden 
smiling grandly. Nothing pleased Gerrig more than a new role. 


"Now, Joss," Bronwynn began, "what shall I do with you?" 


"I ask no favors, my Lady. I chose wrongly. I'll accept my death as 
my due." 


"How about accepting appointment to the court of La-math instead? As 
my Ambassador?" The General blinked. Then his hard eyes softened. He 
remembered when this woman had been but a bright-eyed baby girl and 
she'd stolen his battle-hardened heart with a smile. "Joss," she 
continued quietly, "this past year has been a nightmare for all of us. 
Perhaps we could .. . wake up?" 


"I'll serve you faithfully," Joss said with a solemn frown, and 
Bronwynn knew he meant it. 



"Here's the (puff) documents." Kherda panted as he raced up to 


Bronwynn. "Ready for circulation." 
Bronwynn took the stylus he offered and quickly signed them, asking as 
she did, "What's happened to Jagd?" 


"I saw him leaving the castle. I can call him back if you " 
"Oh no," Bronwynn said, shaking her head. "I'm glad he's gone. I 


would, however, like to meet with the other local merchant lords 
tomorrow, as well as all the free traders you can assemble." 
"Freetraders?" Kherda frowned. 
"I expect to be increasing our dealings with Lamath very soon. Here." 


She handed the documents back to him and the Prune Minister wandered 
away, shaking his head and muttering about free traders Bronwynn 
winked at her mentor. "I believe I'm going to like this." 


Pelmen smiled, but his eyes were serious as he replied, "I hope so. I 
certainly hope so." 


5S2 
"The flyers are on their way," Rosha mod Dorlyth told them as he came 
down the spiraled terraces. 


"And the two of you have much to discuss. I'll let you be." Pelmen 
started for the doorway back into the halls. 
"You have some discussing to do, too?" Bronwynn guessed. 


"Perhaps." He nodded. Then he left them alone. 
He searched several floors before he finally had the presence of mind 
to ask the House where she was. 


In your cell, waiting for you. 


Pelmen raced to meet her. "Serphimera?" he asked as he opened the 
door. 
"I'm here," she called. 
"I know. The House told me." 
The woman looked at the walls. "Is there no place private?" she 


whispered. 
"There are some things it can't hear," he whispered back, and he leaned 


over and kissed her. She held him briefly, fiercely, then abruptly 
pulled herself away. He looked at her with surprise. 
"I suppose your two initiates will marry," she finally said. 
"They're planning that now. And what of us?" He asked the question 


tentatively. 
Serphimera's dark green eyes transfixed him. "Are you finished yet?" 



"Finished?" 


"With your tasks." 


Pehnen gazed at her. "I don't know." 


"I know. And you're not." 


"More visions?" Pelmen asked, a bit harshly. 


"You're not. Nor am I. And we both must care for those things 
first." 


"You're going to keep on telling of Lord Dragon?" Pel-men didn't mean 
to sound angry, but he did. 


Serphimera smiled forgiveness, bit her lip, and looked beyond his head. 
"Lord Dragon," she sighed. "I think, for a long time, the dragon has 
been more a symbol for me than anything else. The image is familiar it 
has a comforting power that's rooted in my childhood. But I've long 
since cast aside any relation between those soothing terms and the 
scaly monster you killed in Dragonsgate."* Pelmen stared at her, his 
mouth open. "And that one you serve? The Power? I serve that One, 
too." 


"But when " 


"When did I change?" Again Serphimera bit her lip and tried to express 
what she felt. "I don't know. Not when I saw the lizard die. 
Before." 


"Before! But just the other day you said " 


"Perhaps when I first saw the beast, and realized that the one I served 
was not there, in those huge heads. Or perhaps when I first met you on 
the road to Serphila, and called you a heretic while your eyes loved 
me." She looked back at him. "I couldn't admit it to myself until 
today. But the change has come." She sighed and scooted toward him. 
"Still, there are other changes yet to come other heartaches." She 
bent forward until her forehead rested in her hands. "I know" 


"And .. . what about us?" Pelmen whispered, longing to hear, but 
fearing her answer. She was silent. "Tell me what you know!" he 
demanded. 


"I know there are things we each must do, which may at any moment part 
us. Can we know anything beyond that?" She stood, and started for the 
door. He caught her by the hand. 


"We will talk again," he said firmly. 


Serphimera's emerald eyes dazzled him. He saw a longing there, an 
eagerness that thrilled him. Then she blinked her lashes, and suddenly 
the look was gone. "Perhaps," she said. Then she left the cell. 


Erri arrived a week later to a city festooned with drapes and garlands. 
With the assistance of Pelmen's old acting companions, whom Bronwynn 
had appointed as heads of various cultural ministries, the Prime 
Minister had hurriedly organized a national festival to celebrate both 
the coronation and the wedding of Queen Bronwynn lan Rosha. Chaomonous, 



sensing the dawning of a new age, awoke into a most colorful spring, as 
befitted a city long known as the Golden. The whole population turned 
out to watch the arrival of the Prophet from the north. 


If they wanted pomp, however, Erri disappointed them. He rode into 
town on a dark mare, flanked by Naquin, who had met him at Dragonsgate. 
And while he smiled and 


waved as much as was necessary to keep up appearances, his mind was 
engaged in explaining to Naquin firsthand the role Pelmen had played in 
the remaking of Lamath. Erri was followed by a long column of riders 
gowned uniformly in pale blue, but the parade did not have the 
precision of a military unit. Instead, riders kept slipping off their 
horses and joining themselves to the cheering crowd to walk along the 
parade route in conversation. Toward the middle of the procession a 
solemn-faced contingent of riders led four wagons, each wagon carrying 
a blue-draped coffin. Erri was bringing the bodies of those trampled 
by the slavers to rest here, in the capital city of the land he'd 
assigned them to evangelize. It seemed fitting. 


He and Naquin were laughing by the time they reached the gate of the 
Imperial House, and Erri's smiles grew broader as he greeted first 
Bronwynn, then Rosha, and finally Pelmen with bear hugs He shared some 
quiet words with Serphimera, who answered him shyly, then took her hand 
and slipped his other arm around Pelmen's shoulder as they turned to 
follow the new Queen into her palace. It was a joyful day. 


Rosha's joy was muted, however. He still hadn't heard from Dorlyth. 


Another week passed. They could wait no longer. Everything was ready 
in the city, and Erri needed to return home. Bronwynn and Rosha 
agreed, finally, that they had to go ahead. Even so, Rosha still made 
frequent trips to the roof, hoping for some word from Dorlyth. When it 
came time to clothe himself in the fancy garments Bronwynn had 
commissioned for this occasion, he sent Pelmen to the roof in his 
place. 


Now Pelmen leaned against the battlements, gazing sadly out at the road 
that wound down from the gate into the city. In his hand he clutched a 
crumpled parchment sheet 


This news is sad, but perhaps not unexpected, said the House. 


Pelmen agreed. "I just didn't expect the trouble to develop so 
quickly." 


Any power shaper skilled enough to breathe life into a castle must be a 
person of great ambition. And if the waking of the High Fortress of 
Ngandib is any indication, this Flayh you speak of will waste no time 
in taking what he chooses. 


Pelmen opened the parchment again and reread it 


SON BLESSINGS ON YOU! WOULD COME IF I COULD, BUT FLAYH CONTROLS PAHD 


AND WE HAVE NEW WARS OF CONFEDERATION. MUCH LOVE DORLYTH MEL ROSHA. 


The signature was significant It meant Dorlyth, father of Rosha, and 
was the salute a Man father gave when acknowledging his son's manhood. 
Pelmen smiled grimly at that. Dorlyth had always been the most 



mannerly of swordsmen. 


The news was more than sad. It was threatening. Wars of confederation 
again. "New magic wars," Pelmen breathed. 


Indeed they are that, the House agreed. Already this House is feeling 
the aftershocks of the shaping taking place in the Mar. 


"In what way?" Pelmen asked. 


Just a warmth, at present. If the battles move into this region, the 
pain will become intense as you must know. 


"I ... apologize again for what I inflicted on you " 


It is past, if not forgotten, said the House. Your apologies all of 
them have been accepted. But the one you battled is most insensitive 
to the pain he causes his own castle. The High Fortress may be a 
malevolent place, and poor company, but not even it deserves such 
misery. 


Pelmen sighed. "I can imagine how it feels " 


No, you can't, said the House. No one can no one but this House. And 
you are perhaps the only one who can do anything to aid it. You, and 
the Power, of course. 


"You believe what I've told you of the Power?" 


No need. This House has met the Power. It is to the Power that this 
House withdraws. 


"What do you mean?" 


Before the House could answer, Pelmen was grabbed by the elbow and spun 
around. "You have the news?" 


"Look at you!" the power shaper exclaimed, and he followed his own 
instructions. Rosha glistened in the light of the sun. His basic 
garments were shades of blue, Bron wynn's reminder to him of their time 
as Pelmen's initiates in the sky faith What sparkled was the trim. The 
entire costume was frosted with a glaze of diamonds set in gold. Rosha 
was frankly embarrassed by it. 


"The news!" he begged. "A messenger told me you had some." 


Pelmen frowned and handed Rosha the parchment. Then he leaned over the 
battlements again as the lad read it. Rosha soon leaned on the low 
wall beside him, and they stood together in silence for several 
minutes. 


"I'm sorry," Pelmen said finally. 


"He just couldn't make it, that's all." Rosha shrugged. He struggled 
to hide his concern. 


Pelmen put an arm around Rosha's shoulder. "I know what you're 
thinking, but it wouldn't do any good. You've got a bride waiting for 
you down below and your father can take care of himself." 



"You're going," Rosha muttered. 


"How do you know that?" 


"I know you." 


"Well. We'll talk about it. Right now Bronwynn's waiting, and I'm 
sure Erri is anxious to get this ceremony out of the way." 


"Right." Rosha nodded and started toward the gaping hole where the 
aviary once stood. "You coming?" 


"In a bit," Pelmen called back. Rosha nodded again and left the roof. 
"Now. What were you saying?" 


This House is withdrawing to be with the Power. "I don't 
understand." 


It is apparent that castles are not made to live. These stones, these 
walls, this House all of these have their own existence, quite apart 
from that of man. The hills, the river these don't aspire to copy man. 
Nor should this House. 


"But you're alive!" 


In imitation of human life, and not by choice. This House lives rather 
by human device and ambition. Yet men can move. This House cannot 
move. Men enjoy the company of others. This House has no company, 
save you and the High Fortress. But that castle has a cruel spirit and 
all the dangerous ambition of the very young among men. And you will 
soon be leaving, because of that Fortress. Men may live in happy 
ignorance of the magical forces being shaped around them. This House 
must endure the necessary pain such shaping creates without recourse. 
That pain makes these coming wars that much more frightening. For all 
these reasons, it seems better for the House for the life in this House 
to withdraw. "But where will you go?" 


Back to the Power. For it's from the Power that all life is shaped. 


"All?" Pelmen asked, thinking of the life now in the High Fortress and 
its evil genesis. 


All. Either by the Power ... or artificially, through. "Then I'll not 
speak with you again?" 


Only if the Power permits. The peace of this House be on you, Pelmen 
Dragonsbane. Attend your task. And your Lady. She slips away this 
very moment through the front gate. Perhaps you can catch her. 


"Serphimera?" Pelmen shouted. He raced to the battlements and looked 
down. Five floors below, he could see the flowing navy robes of the 
Priestess as she quickly made her way down the cobblestones toward the 
city. "Serphimera, wait!" he cried, and he vaulted on top of the 
parapet and leaped off. 


Maliff, the falconer, stepped out of his mews just in time to observe 
Pelmen disappear. "Here now!" he cried in horror. He raced to the 
wall and looked down to see the falling man spread the wings of a bird. 
It glided upwards, then down to settle on the shoulders of a blue-clad 
woman. Maliff stared for a minute, watching as woman and falcon 



disappeared among the throngs of shoppers in the market. Then he 
clucked his tongue. "Why didn't you just tell me you were a far con in 
the first pr ace You birds," he mumbled. "You've arways got to pray 
your rittre tricks." As Maliff ducked back into the cool darkness of 
his fafcon house, he was still chuckling. 


About the Author 


Robert Don Hughes was born in Ventura, California, the son of a Baptist 
pastor. He grew up in Long Beach, and was educated in Redlands, 
Riverside, and Mill Valley, gaining degrees in theater arts and 
divinity. That education continued and he finished a Ph.D. in 
Missions, Religions and Philosophy in Louisville, Kentucky. 


He has been a pastor, a playwright, a teacher, a filmmaker, and a 
missionary, and considers all those roles fulfilling. He has published 
several short plays, and presently teaches drama. He spent two years 
in Zambia, and while there was bitten by the Africa bug. His two 
passions are writing and football not necessarily in that order, 
especially in October. He is married to Gail, a beautiful South 
Alabama woman who loves rainbows, and fills his LIFE with them. 
Currently, he and Gail, with a beautiful baby daughter, are living in 
Africa where he is doing missionary work. 


Most of all, Bob likes people. The infinite variety of personalities 
and opinions makes life interesting. The sharing of self makes it 
worthwhile.