

The Sleeping Dragon 
Vol. 1 of 
The Guardians  
of the Flame

by
Joel Rosenberg


For Felicia













reformatted by Brrazo 01/2004


Acknowledgments

I want to thank the people who helped me through this: 
Allan Schmidt, who gave me the crazy idea in the first 
place and helped to make the gaming aspects work; Cara 
Herman, who gave much needed encouragement as I 
struggled through the first draft; Harry F. Leonard, who 
annoyed the hell out of me by quibbling endlessly over 
minor flaws until I saw the light and corrected them, 
much to the betterment of the story, if not my disposition; 
Robert Lee Thurston and Judith Heald, who gave me 
good criticism and better friendship; Doug Kaufman, 
who put his money where his mouth was; Barry B. 
Longyear, whose advice always helps when I'm wise 
enough to take it; Kim Tchang, who told me to relax and 
write the damn thing; my agent, Cherry Weiner, whose 
help and support went beyond the call of duty; my editor, 
Sheila Gilbert, who not only knew a good thing when she 
saw it, but knew how to make it better; and the members 
of Haven: Deborah Atherton Davis, Mary Kittredge, 
Mark J. McGarry, and Kevin O'Donnell, Jr., who gave 
this book the line-by-line, word-by-word examination 
and dissection that a first novelist so desperately needs.
And, most particularly, I'd like to thank Robert 
Anson Heinlein, whose work has been both example and 
inspiration, for Thorby, Colonel Baslim, Oscar Gordon, 
and so much more.



The great problems of life... are always related to the 
primordial images of the collective unconscious....
The unconscious is not just evil by nature, it is also 
the source of the highest good: not only dark but also 
light, not only bestial, semihuman, and demonic, but 
superhuman, spiritual, and, in the classical sense of the 
word, "divine. "
 — Carl Gustave Jung

...for every human being there is a diversity of 
existences... the single existence is itself an illusion....
 — Saul Bellow

It seems to me that there might well be the equivalent, 
with regard to the collective unconscious, of the concept 
in physics of "critical mass. " Are we approaching it? 
Quite possibly —  consider the resurgence of 
spiritualism, in all its guises, and don't neglect the 
function of the fantasy role-playing games. The 
characters, the situations... all seem to touch something 
that is basic and fundamental.
But where would the locus of crisis be? And how can 
it be exploited? The Elder Edda, The Song of the Harper, 
The Book of the Dead, even The Great Hymn to the Aten 
offer only hints, suggestions, intimations.
Perhaps the best approach would be neither induction 
nor deduction, but, rather, empirical experimentation. 
Perhaps...
 — Arthur Simpson Deighton




DRAMATIS PERSONAE
 
Karl Cullinane/Barak 
dilettante and acting major/warrior 
Andrea Andropolous/Lotana 
English major/novice wizard 
James Michael Finnegan/Ahira Bandylegs 
computer sciences major/dwarf warrior 
Doria Perlstein/Doria of the Healing Hand 
domestic arts major/master cleric 
Walter Slovotsky/Hakim Singh 
agricultural sciences major/journeyman thief 
Jason Parker/Einar Lightfingers 
history major/master thief 
Louis Riccetti/Aristobulus 
civil engineering major/master wizard 
Arthur Simpson Deighton, Ph.D. 
Associate Professor of Philosophy, 
gamemaster 
Wen'l of Lundescarne 
peasant and freefarmer 
Frann of Pandathaway 
innkeeper 
Lordling Alahn Lund 
heir to the throne of Lundeyll 
Marik, Arno 
men-at-arms 
Avair Ganness 
captain and owner of the Ganness' Pride  
Airvhan ip Melhrood 
customs official 
Challa 
man-at-arms 
Callutius 
Junior Librarian of the Great Library of 
Pandathaway 
Oreen 
Specializing Librarian of the Great Library 
of Pandathaway 
Ellegon 
a young dragon 
Tommallo 
owner of the Inn of Quiet Repose 
Khoralt ip Therranj 
Winesellers Delegate to the Pandathaway 
Guilds' Council, Games official 
Ohlmin 
master slaver 
Blenryth 
master wizard 
The Dragon at the Gate  
The Matriarch of the Society of the Healing Hand  
 


Part One:
The Student Union





CHAPTER ONE:
The Players

Karl Cullinane reached out his fork and speared the 
last stick of asparagus from the stainless-steel 
serving plate in the middle of the table, not 
bothering to set the asparagus on his own plate 
before taking a bite, It was cold and mushy, almost 
tasteless; he swallowed quickly
"Karl, you're a pig. A skinny one, granted, but a 
pig." Andrea Andropolous' smile took most of the 
sting out of her words, pitched low enough so that 
nobody else in the crowded cafeteria would have 
been able to hear her over the clatter of dishes and 
the chatter of a hundred or so students.
Karl put it down to a natural gentleness. Hell, 
she'd been able to make him like it — almost — 
when she'd turned him down. Usually, the let's-just-
be-friends routine drove him into a silent, stomach-
churning rage.
"I gotta rush, Andy-Andy. There's a game 
tonight." He took another bit, added a mouthful of 
lukewarm black coffee, and swallowed quickly. "If 
I'm late, sure as hell they'll start without me, put 
Barak out to pasture for the night."
"You mean that they'll put him out to stud." She 
chuckled, revealing a mouthful of even, white teeth.
Karl liked her laugh, her smile. He had always 
thought that the notion of somebody brightening a 
room with a smile was just a fantasy. Until he had 
met Andy-Andy, that is. Not that he had anything 
against fantasy, quite the — 
"It's bullshit, Karl," she said, smiling sweetly 
"Just an absurd male power fantasy." She reached 
out and stroked his skinny forearm with a long, dark 
finger. Was it tanned, or not? Andy-Andy always 
seemed to find something better to do during 
afternoon tanning hours than loll in the sun like 
some well-oiled, roasting slug. Probably the olive 
tone of her skin was natural coloration. Maybe not. 
Of course, there was a way to tell. Trouble was, Karl 
had never had the chance to check her for bikini 
marks.
Damn. "No, it's just a game. A way to spend a 
little time, have a little fun."
"A little fun?" She arched an eyebrow. "You call 
pretending to chop up a pixie, rape a virgin or three, 
slice an ogre — you call that fun?" Quirking a smile, 
she sat back in her chair, crossing her arms almost 
defensively over her blue velour pullover. Which 
was amply filled out, but not tight. Karl liked that; 
Andy-Andy was more than a little pretty, but not an 
exhibitionist.
"First of all" — he tapped his index finger on the 
table, forcing himself to pay attention to the 
conversation — "you're missing the point. 
Pretending isn't the same thing as really doing it. I 
mean — take last week's session, for instance. Barak 
strangled an elf, chopped a half-orc in two — hey, 
now the critter's really two halves of an orc. Or 
should that be 'quarter-orces'? Never mind, the point 
is that he took three points of damage. One's a light 
wound, two's more serious, going up to five, which 
is certainly lethal. Three's the equivalent of getting 
sliced up pretty bad." He reached for his shirt's top 
button. "Care to check for scars?"
"Some other time." She tossed her head, sending 
shoulder-length black hair whipping around her face. 
"Maybe." A strand came to rest on her slightly too 
long, slightly bent nose. She blew it off. "Then 
again, maybe not,"
"Teaser."
"That's only half the word, Karl. You don't have 
to use that bullshit with me."
"In my neighborhood, mother was only half a 
word." That might sound good, but it wasn't true: 
Karl was a product of middle-class suburbia. "And 
besides, I was... kind of pointedly told to watch my 
language around — women." If you consider having 
your mouth liberally washed out with Lifebuoy to be 
a pointed telling. Which it was, after a fashion. "But 
to get back to the point, it's all just a fantasy, a game. 
No harm; no damage. Anyway, Barak isn't that sort 
of character — he'll violate a law, but he's no rapist." 
That was true, but omitted a new character Doc 
Deighton had helped him roll up, one Lucius of 
Pandathaway. Lucius was not a nice person. Not at 
all. "The trouble with you is that you feel perfectly 
free to judge something you haven't tried. How 
many times since the start of the semester have I 
invited you — ten? Twenty?"
She shook her head. "I don't have to jump out a 
window to decide that I'm not going to like it."
"Irrelevant. If you try role-playing and you don't 
like it, you quit. Period. No scars — not even on 
your psyche. Which is part of the fun." He shrugged. 
"Besides, it's probably beneficial. You get to work 
out some aggressions without hurting anybody. Not 
yourself, not anybody else."
"Stop trying to sound like a psych major. You're 
supposed to be studying to be an actor, these days."
"I used to be a psych major — "
" — and a poli sci major. Plus American lit, 
engineering, philosophy, sociology — am I missing 
something?"
"Prelaw. And two weeks of premed, back when I 
was a freshman. What's your point?"
"You're a dilettante, Karl. This role-playing stuff 
is just another one of your temporary obsessions. 
Remember last year, when it was bridge? You spent 
a whole semester nattering about Stayman 
conventions and South American Texas transfers, 
whatever the hell they are — ''
"South African Texas, not South American." He 
dipped two fingers into his shirt pocket and pulled 
out a cigarette, then lit it with his shiny new Zippo. 
Karl let the flame flare for a moment before 
snapping the cover shut. He figured that he might as 
well enjoy it while he could; he'd lose it soon. Karl 
could never seem to keep track of things; the Zippo 
was the third lighter he'd bought that semester. "I 
still play bridge," he said, exhaling a cloud of 
smoke. "It's just that this is more fun — particularly 
with this group. Sometimes..." He let his voice trail 
off.
"Yes?"
"Sometimes, when you get the mechanics of the 
game out of the way — rolling the dice, keeping 
track of what you're carrying — it's almost like 
you're there." He lifted his head and smiled. "And 
that's something. How often do you think I'm going 
to get the chance to, say, rescue a princess or slay a 
dragon?" He glanced down at his wrist. 6:48. Karl 
pushed himself to his feet. "Well, I've got to run, if 
I'm not going to be late. See you later?"
Andy-Andy's brow furrowed. "How late are you 
going to be? Getting back, I mean."
"Mmmm, probably be back before midnight. If 
you want to meet me in the lounge, I'll help you go 
over Deerslayer, if that's what you mean. It's a rotten 
book, though — I've got a Twain piece on it that 
pretty much — "
"No." She shook her head. "I'm caught up with 
that, but I do have a quiz in astronomy tomorrow. If 
you're sure we can be back by twelve, I'll come 
along, give it a try. If the invitation's still open." She 
stood, taking her bulky yellow ski jacket from the 
back of her chair and slipping it on.
"You know it is."
She sighed. "Yes, I do." Andy-Andy shook her 
head slowly. "Which is part of the problem. Never 
mind; let's get going, shall we?"

James Michael Finnegan was the first player to 
get to Room 109 in the Student Union. It was a 
matter partly of habit, but mainly of pride. The 
others, well, they'd wait for him, sure. Only for him, 
dammit.
They wouldn't wait for him because he was now 
the most accomplished player in the group. Davy 
Davidson had been the best in the group until he'd 
dropped out last year, and nobody would wait for 
Davy and his character, Erik of the Three Bezants, 
on the not too infrequent occasions that he'd arrive 
late.
James Michael shifted uncomfortably in his chair, 
his hands limp in his lap.
No, they wouldn't wait for him because he was a 
nice person to be around, with a dry sense of humor 
and an always friendly smile. That monomaniac 
flake Karl Cullinane cracked better jokes; that hick 
jock Walter Slovotsky always seemed to have a grin 
pasted on his face — and everybody always liked 
being around Doria. But if one of them showed up 
late, it was well-too-bad-it-seems-your-character-is-
down-with-a-cold-tonight, Just last week, Doria had 
fluttered in breathless, just five minutes after they'd 
started, and even Riccetti had ignored her implied 
promises and threats; Doc Deighton had just turned 
a very cold eye her way and suggested that lateness 
was an implicitly hostile act.
He spun his chair in a tight circle and swore 
softly under his breath.
It wasn't all that bad, not always. The one time 
he'd had to wait for the Special Student Services 
truck (all the way muttering a spell to change the 
driver into a toad, a particularly small, unusually 
ugly toad — with one eye) and had been wheeled 
into the elevator late, coming out on the first floor 
late, his car-battery-powered chair zipping down the 
tiled hall and into Room 109 LATE — 
 — nobody had said anything. Except, "Hi, 
James," and "Nice to see you, James," and "Let's 
play, James."
The tolerance, the implied pity, was bad. Not 
playing would have been worse. Much worse.
All cripples fantasize, you see. They have to, just 
like normal people, although not always about the 
things normal people do.
And when you've spent your whole life with 
muscular dystrophy, you're really lucky, in a way. 
There's lots more things to dream about. Like being 
able to punch a computer keyboard at better than a 
scorching ten words per minute. Like sleeping in a 
top bunk. Like feeding yourself quickly, wolfing 
down food so you could run off somewhere. Like 
using a goddam bathroom without having someone 
else wipe you off.
Like not having to be so goddam cheerful all the 
time since because you're a feeb in a chair, people 
will let you get away with anything as long as you 
don't touch them.
But the game... ah, there it was. All at once. "I'll 
walk across the room, heft my axe, and chop at the 
ogre," you'd say, and everybody would react to it, 
just as though you'd really done it.
A miracle? Well, not quite. An addiction, yes.
James Michael lifted his right hand to the steering 
knob and wheeled himself over to the long table in 
the middle of the bright room, getting himself so 
close that his chin was directly over the edge of the 
battered mahogany surface. He reached into the 
denim bag on his lap, secured there by a long cloth 
loop around his neck, and pulled out a large plastic 
bag, bringing it up to the tabletop.
And the whole... wonder of it depended on this 
little bag, and the dice inside it. Standard six-sided 
dice for the attack tables. A twenty-sided die, 
generating a random number to compare to Ahira's 
intelligence, or endurance, or strength. And Ahira 
was strong, although not terribly wise, perhaps, and 
certainly not handy with anything except an axe or 
hammer.
And then there were the pyramidal four-sided 
dice, and the eight-sided ones to — but why bother 
thinking about the mechanics of it? They didn't 
matter, the rules were soon learned and subsumed, 
the way a normal person would learn to ride a 
bicycle by technique, and then forget the technique, 
to ride....
James Michael closed his eyes and dreamed of 
riding a bicycle, seeing the ground slip by smoothly 
beneath him. Sort of like riding in a car, but being 
there, and — 
"James!"
His eyes snapped open like twin shutters. Doria 
Perlstein stood over him, concern creasing her too 
round, too smooth face, her short blond hair only 
making her seem chubbier
"James, are you okay?"
"I'm fine." He smiled up at her, making a special 
effort to keep the traitor muscles of the right side of 
his face under control. Doria... tried, that was it. The 
little dwarf in the chair revolted her and scared her, 
as though his disability could rub off. But she tried 
to hide it.
He brought his hands down into his lap, out of 
sight. No shame, just a reflexive kindness, although 
he really wanted to reach out and shake her. I'm not 
contagious. "I'm just fine. It's been a busy week; I 
guess I was just dozing off."
She dropped into a chair, visibly considered the 
possibility that it would seem to him to be too tar 
away, took a half second to fight with her own fear 
of James Michael Finnegan, and compromised by 
wiggling herself a scant inch closer.
Someday, he thought, I'm going to tell her that 
she doesn't have to sit next to me, if she's so uptight. 
Then again, maybe this is better for her than sitting 
across the table from me; it's natural for her to 
avoid my eyes, this way.
She forced a smile, drumming crimson fingernails 
against the tabletop. "I see I'm early this time."
"I'm glad you're here. We ran into a fairly heavy-
duty goblin last time; could have used a cleric."
"How bad''"
"Both Barak and Ahira took quite a bit of 
damage. He got three points; I got away with just 
two."
"Wait a minute — where was Sandy?"
"Dropped out. Which leaves you as the only 
cleric around. The team's topheavy with warriors."
"Ooo." She grimaced. "Sorry I was late last time." 
She tossed her head, brightening. "But don't worry. 
Soon as Doc works me back into the campaign, I'll 
heal both of you up."
James Michael smiled. "Make that 'heal Barak 
up.' Ahira's just fine."
She wrinkled her forehead. "How? I know Barak 
had some healing draughts in his bag — but Ahira 
— "
" — persuaded him to fork them over."
She toyed with the ruffles of her blouse. "What 
did you offer him? As though I didn't know." She 
raised a finger in mock accusation.
"Not bashing him with my axe."
"Sounds fair." She reached up and scratched the 
tip of her stubby nose. Slovotsky claimed it was 
artificial, James Michael had a standing bet that it 
was natural. Unfortunately, there was no way to find 
out. Doria ignored all questions on the subject. "But 
one of these times he's not going to stand for it, if 
you keep it up. Bully. He might — " She caught 
herself. "Never mind."
James Michael sighed. It was obvious why 
Cullinane didn't want to fight him, despite the way 
he'd been provoking the confrontation. If Ahira 
killed Barak, Cullinane would lose — and if Barak 
managed to win, James Michael would be, at least 
temporarily, out of the game. Cullinane wouldn't 
want to kick a cripple out of the game, would he? "I 
guess he recognized that it was more useful to the 
whole team to have Ahira up and healthy, what with 
us being underground, and all." A dwarf's natural 
habitat was in underground warrens, where his 
ability to see in the infrared gave him a clear 
advantage.
"That sounds like a bit too... sound reasoning for 
Barak. His IQ's not that high, is it?"
"Wisdom, Doria, wisdom. Barak is the wisest 
fighter around. Not a berserker, like Ahira." He 
formed his hands into clumsy fists, and pounded 
himself lightly on the chest. "Arg."
A new voice bellowed from the doorway. "You 
going berserk, again?" Walter Slovotsky swaggered 
into the room, smelling vaguely of Ivory, his hair 
damp. "Doria, James." He nodded, dropped his 
books to the floor, kicked his shoes off and in the 
general direction of a far corner, and perched 
himself tailor-fashion on the table. "How goes it?"
Of all the people on campus that he knew — hell, 
of all the people he knew, specifically including his 
parents — James Michael was most comfortable 
around Walter Slovotsky, Jealous, sure — but not 
unusually so; James didn't particularly want to Be a 
Football Hero. The thing was that the big man was 
so sure of himself, without being offensive about it. 
Whether he was stomping quarterbacks out on the 
field or spending extra time in the Ag Library, 
cramming for a final in Meat Science (a course that 
Slovotsky couldn't mention without chuckling), 
Slovotsky seemed certain that the universe centered 
on him, and that all was well with the universe.
A massive hand reached out and chucked Doria 
under the chin. "And where the hell were you last 
Friday, m'love?"
"Thursday." She shoved his hand away. "And you 
know damn well where I wasn't; you were the one 
yelling 'Come on time if you want to play,' weren't 
you
"No, I meant Friday, I thought you were going to 
come over, spend the night."
"Shh." She started to jerk a thumb toward James 
Michael, stopped herself. "I don't think — "
"Precisely. You don't think." He turned to James, 
running blunt fingers through his damp black hair. 
"Jimmy me boy, would it be any surprise to you to 
learn that Doria and I sleep together, every now and 
then?"
"Walter!"
"No, not really," James Michael said. Doria's pale 
skin went from light pink through various shades of 
red before settling on a nice, hot crimson. He looked 
her in the eye, suppressing an urge to reach out and 
pat her arm. "Not that he ever said anything about it. 
I'm pretty good at reading people for a..." — an 
impish impulse made him pause — "computer 
sciences major."
Walter's broad face went somber. "Exactly. 
Beautiful, I don't tell on ladies. Wouldn't mention it 
in front of Cullinane, say — he's an explosion, 
looking for a place to happen. Trouble with you 
Jewish girls is that your desire to do it is in inverse 
proportion to your willingness to talk about it."
Doria's skin had gone back to its normal shade, 
which made her glare at Slovotsky a trifle less 
comical. "Another one of Slovotsky's Laws?"
"Actually" — he cocked his head to one side — 
"I think that I got that one from one of my many 
roommates — Bernstein-the-rabbi, I think."
Many roommates was a fair statement of fact, 
James Michael thought. Not a whole lot of people 
liked spending their nights mainly on the couch in 
the lounge.
Slovotsky brightened. "But I don't mind stealing 
it. Make it Slovotsky's Law Number Twenty-three, 
right after 'Never date a woman with a brother 
named Nunzio.'" He bounced to his feet. "I'm going 
for coffee. Either of you need anything from the 
snack bar?"
"Shoes," James Michael supplied.
"Sorry, they don't serve them there. A burger 
close enough?" He patted the hip pocket of his jeans. 
"On me. Had a nice bet we wouldn't beat the spread 
on Yale."
"No, you've got to wear shoes."
Slovotsky looked down at his blue-sock-clad feet, 
then blanked his face. "James, when you're six-foot-
one-and-a-fraction, weighing in at two-twenty-three, 
nobody tells you you've got wear shoes." His eyes 
glazed over. "Walter not un-der-stand. Per-son half 
his size telling him he not come in? Walter must 
have mis-un-der-stood." He shrugged, a bit sadly. 
"You wouldn't believe how easily people believe 
that if you're big, you've gotta be dumb. And violent. 
Now, do you want anything?"
Doria shrugged. "Coffee sounds fine."
"James?"
"Herb tea. Red Zinger, if they've got it. With 
plenty of sugar." He mimicked Slovotsky's big-and-
dumb voice. "Ahira need to keep strength up.''
"That's the ticket." Walter paused in the doorway. 
"But if it takes me more than a couple of minutes, 
don't let them start without me. Assuming that the 
rest get here on time."
"I wouldn't dream of it." Doria's voice held a 
definite chill.

"Hey, Dr. Deighton, wait up." Jason Parker broke 
into a lope, letting Riccetti fall behind.
The thin, stoop-shouldered man stopped under a 
streetlight and turned, the harsh green casting his 
face into shadow. He wore a tan wool suit, amply 
decorated with burn marks from his ever-present 
bulldog briar pipe; the suit, like the pipe, the battered 
briefcase, and the man, had come a long way since 
new, the wrinkles having developed a life of their 
own, as though they would be resistant to even the 
stubbornest, most persistent dry cleaning.
"Good evening, Mr. Parker." The voice was out 
of place, it was a strong young tenor, the voice of a 
prepubescent boy, not a sixtyish philosophy 
professor. "And good evening to you, Mr. Riccetti,"  
he added, as Lou Riccetti panted up to join them 
under the streetlight. "I trust you're ready for the test 
tomorrow?"
Lou Riccetti shrugged, his round face covered 
with a light sheen of sweat. "I hope so, Doc. I've got 
the Apologia practically memorized, and this is my 
second go-round with Republic." 
Jason chuckled. It was a good bet that Lou would 
flunk again; he never seemed to be able to 
understand anything that didn't have a number 
attached. Engineering students — "Hey, no teaching 
tonight, Doc. You're gamemastermg tonight, not 
using your conclusions to prove your postulates." He 
took an impatient step toward the Student Union 
building.
Deighton took a few puffs on his pipe, then 
followed "You have that reversed, Mr. Parker " He 
blew a smoke ring, it shattered and drifted away in 
the light, cool breeze. "One uses one's postulates to 
prove one's conclusions, not the other way around."
Jason shrugged his bony shoulders and tucked his 
hands into the pockets of his fraying army jacket. 
"That's what you say. Seems to me you philosophers 
do both. Sort of bootstrap levitation." |
"A nice phrase, that. Not true, mind you, but a 
nice phrase." Deighton sighed deeply "But your 
major premise was correct. We are gaming tonight. 
Mr. Riccetti, I apologize if I seemed to be pressuring 
you about the test tomorrow."
"No problem, Doc." Riccetti cocked his head to 
one side. "Any clues about what we're going to run 
into after we get through the treasure room?"
"Ricky, don't ask." Jason tried to keep irritation 
out of his voice; he failed. "Either he won't tell us, in 
which case you're just wasting your breath, or he 
will — and that'd ruin the game. Let it flow, don't — 
"
" — force it. Okay, okay.  I was just asking."
"Actually, I can tell you something without 
spoiling anything." Deighton smiled crookedly 
around his pipestem. "But if you'd prefer to wait..."
"Go ahead." Jason was curious. Doc never gave 
anything away, except at the start of a campaign, of 
course, where the gamemaster would have to set the 
scene, give out a clue or two.
"We are beginning a new campaign tonight. From 
scratch."
"Wait one minute." Riccetti slapped his bookbag.  
"I've spent one hell of a lot of time turning 
Aristobulus into a K-Class wizard — I don't want to 
have to start again back in A-Class, with just one 
spell. Sleep, probably."
At least Ricky was keeping his wits. Of all the 
spells available to an A-Class wizard, the Sleep spell 
— technically, Herstell's Spell of Induced 
Somnolence — was the most useful. Once you had 
an enemy sleeping, he, she, it, or they were as good 
as dead if you wanted them to be.
"That was not what I meant, Mr. Riccetti.  We 
will be starting a new campaign, yes, but not with A-
Class characters. They wouldn't be likely to survive. 
You can run Aristobulus, it you like. The balance 
should be about right that way, as a matter of fact."
Jason ticked players and characters off on his 
fingers. "Let's see... Cullinane and James are going 
to run their warriors — I'm sure about that. I talked 
to Karl about it earlier. And James always runs 
Ahira, of course."
"Jase, I don't think he always does. Didn't he — "
"Nope. You should pay attention." It was obvious 
why the poor little guy always wanted to be a 
warrior, the game was the closest he was ever going 
to get to being like Slovotsky. It was kind of pitiful, 
the way James Michael tried to pretend he wasn't 
jealous of Walter — or, possibly more accurately, 
Walter and Doria. "Let's see... Doria s the only one 
who likes being a cleric — God  knows why — 
cleaning up after everybody else's fights. Slovotsky 
could play either as a wizard or a thief."
"Or a monk. I like Master Kwan."
"Too limited. Depending on the situation, we 
might need a thief, but a monk is a waste He can't 
advance fast enough, can't carry enough — most of 
the time, everybody else has to carry him."
Deighton's slate-gray eyes went vague. "Actually, 
I think you might well need a thief. Or two. For this 
campaign, a balanced team would be best. I think 
you'll find all of the archetypical situations in this 
one."
"Fine," Jason said, "we'll have him run Hakim. 
That gives us two warriors, one cleric, one wizard — 
take a bow, Ricky looks like  Aristobulus is going to 
be on  his own — and thief."
"Plus you, Jase."
"Right. Any suggestions, Doc? I really don't care 
what sort of character I get. Long as I get to do 
something."
"Hmmm... quite possibly a thief would be best."
"Or a thief/assassin? I've got Lendwyl ready to 
run."
"No, I doubt that you'll need to have anyone 
poisoned. You might want to choose someone more 
dexterous than Lendwyl."
"Jase, how about running Einar Lightfingers? 
You haven't run him for a while."
"He is kind of fun."
They walked up the stone steps of the Student 
Union, Riccetti bustling ahead to hold the door. 
"Give it a try, Jase.  Not that I'd turn my back on 
him, but Lightfingers is awful good at what he does, 
all things considered."
"You first, Doc — age before beauty. On the 
other hand, if he hurt his other arm, he'd be pretty 
much out of the picture." Jason shrugged. "But what 
the hell; I'll run him." As they crossed the yellow 
marble floor to the stairwell, Jason stopped. "But I 
don't like having just one wizard. What if Ari gets 
killed?"
Deighton shrugged. "You could find an R-Class 
cleric, and have him resurrected. Or, conceivably, 
help Doria of the Healing Hand rise to that height."
"Fat chance — I don't think I've every run into a 
cleric past N-class. And what is she now, J?"
"K, Ricky. As a cleric, she's one step farther 
along than Aristobulus is as a magic usurer."
"That's magic user."
Jason returned Riccetti's glare. "I meant exactly 
what I said. I didn't like the way you charged 
everybody a thousand gold — each — to charm the 
Eater."
Riccetti shrugged. "Wizard's got to make a living, 
just like anybody else. You'd rather I let him eat 
Doria?" He took the lead in the hall, their footsteps 
echoing hollowly on the tiles.
"No, but — "
"But nothing. Value is relative, first law of 
economics   At that point, Aristobulus'  value was 
pretty huge. I think you should have been happy to 
pay."
Deighton stroked his chin. "I think you are asking 
a bit too of Mr. Parker. Perhaps the... fee for your 
services was proper, certainly, adding gratitude to it 
does seem excessive."
"That the gamemaster talking, or you?"
"Just me. Just me — and here we are. If you 
would get the Door, please?"
Riccetti swung the door open; Jason ushered him 
and Deighton in before following.
"Seven thirty on the nose. Nice timing. Doc, 
Ricky, Jason," Walter Slovotsky said, from his usual 
spot on the table, where he sat like an improbably 
massive sprite.
"Hi, Hakim." Jason dropped his jacket in a 
corner, setting his books on top. He took a moment 
to check out the other players as he took his own 
seat across the table from Deighton, next to Doria. 
As usual, to Doria's left was James Michael, 
huddling in his wheelchair like a vulture waiting to 
pounce.
Next was Karl Cullinane. Jason shook his head, 
Karl was still trying to persuade his sparse growth of 
facial hair to become a beard. Actually, he might 
have been able to make it, if he wouldn't give up and 
shave after a few weeks — but that was the trouble 
With Karl. He never followed through with 
anything.
On the other hand, he thought, that might be a bit 
of a hasty judgment. From the way Karl was perched 
protectively close to the woman sitting next to him, 
it seemed that perhaps here was something he'd 
follow through with. She was a bit too, well, 
Mediterranean for Jason's taste, but Karl seemed to 
go for that type.
And another mystery solved.  Now we know why 
Karl's been ignoring Doria's come-on. His mind, 
such as it is, is elsewhere.
"Hakim?" Slovotsky interrupted his thoughts with 
a friendly bellow. "Something going on that I don't 
know about?" There was just a hint of threat in the 
question.
"Ask Doc. Ricky, toss me a cigarette."
Riccetti obediently pulled a box of Marlboros out 
of his faded blue workshirt and rolled one across the 
table.
"And a match?"
Without pausing in his hushed conversation with 
the woman next to him, Karl Cullinane pulled-out a 
shiny new Zippo and slid it across the table to him.
"Thanks, Karl. You going to introduce us all to 
your friend or do we have to wait until Doc issues us 
psi ratings?"
"Cute." Karl's face made the word a lie. "Andrea 
Andropolous, Jason Parker."
Jason nodded. As Andrea smiled in response, he 
decided reconsider his original appraisal. Nice.
"The one with the maps, charts, and calculator" 
— Karl jerked a thumb toward Riccetti — "is Luigi 
Riccetti."
"Lou." Riccetti didn't bother to look up.
"Doesn't matter; call him Ricky, just like 
everybody else. You've met the rest, except for Dr. 
Deighton, and — "
"By the process of elimination, she should be able 
to infer that I'm he, no?" Deighton set his briefcase 
on the table an opened it, careful as always to keep 
the open back toward the table, the contents hidden 
from view. "And, as everyone is here shall we 
begin?"
''Hold it, Doc," Karl objected. "We haven't rolled 
up character for Andy yet."
Deighton smiled indulgently. "That was what I 
meant b beginning, at least in part. Do you think you 
can help her with that — honestly, mind you — 
while paying attention to my briefing?'
"What briefing? We're still stuck in the treasure 
room, a whole bunch of dead critters and jewels 
lying around, Barak cut up pretty bad, and — "
"Actually, I am terminating this campaign. We 
start a new one tonight. From scratch." Deighton 
raised a palm. "All I ask is that you give it a try. If, 
say, after half the evening — even just a hour, 
perhaps? — the consensus is that the old one is more 
entertaining, we will resume where we left off." He 
tapped his briefcase with a gnarled forefinger. "But 
I've spent quite a bit of time on this new campaign. I 
expect — I am certain that it will appeal to you." 
Deighton smiled, momentarily appearing much 
younger than his sixty-odd years. "Quite certain."
Slovotsky shrugged. "Let's give it a try, then. 
James, that okay with you?"
"Fine."
The big man gave Jason a meaningful glance. 
"And now understand what you were up to before. 
I'm supposed to run a thief this time. Hakim Singh, 
just as a guess?"
"It would help balance the team." Jason puffed on 
his cigarette. "But it's up to you."
"What do you know that I don't know?"
"Quite a — "
"Gentlemen."' Deighton rapped the stem of his 
pipe on the able. "In answer to your question, Mr. 
Slovotsky, Mr. Parker knows nothing that a few 
minutes of listening to me won't teach you." He 
raised a bushy eyebrow. "If that's acceptable. Mr. 
Riccetti, if you will be kind enough to close the door 
and spin the dimmer switch down to low, we will 
begin." Deighton took deep breath.
"Now."



CHAPTER TWO:
The Game

The chess board is the world, the pieces are the 
phenomena of the universe, the rules of the game are 
what we call the laws of Nature. The player on the 
other side is hidden from us. We know that his play 
is always fair, just and patient. But we also know, to 
our cost, that he never overlooks a mistake, or 
makes the smallest allowance for ignorance.
 — Thomas Henry Huxley

While Deighton began to speak in low, mysterious 
tones, Karl Cullinane borrowed five four-sided dice 
from James Michael, then slid a well-chewed pencil 
and a sheet of paper in front of Andy-Andy.
She picked up one of the dice. "Funny-looking 
little pyramid. But how do you get the numbers to 
come up on top?"
"You don't. Look at it a bit closer." Instead of 
being stamped in the center of the faces, the 
numbers, zero through three, were along the edges; 
when the die was thrown, the player would read the 
upright number, the one closest to the table. "But I 
want to keep half an ear on what Doc's saying, so 
we'll make this mechanical — I'll fill you in on the 
background later. Okay?"
"Fine. But bear with me if I'm slow."
He couldn't let that pass without turning to look 
her straight in the eye, letting a tight grin creep 
across his face. She didn't have the grace to blush.
"This campaign," Deighton intoned, his face lit 
demonically by the light of the flashlight in his 
opened briefcase, "is the Quest for the Gate Between 
Worlds...."
"Now write this down on the paper: ST, S, I, W, 
MD, WP, E, and C."
"...find yourselves on a hilltop, overlooking a vast 
walls city, and — "
"Doc?" Karl half-raised a hand, then brought it 
down.
"Yes?" Deighton snapped.
"Sorry for interrupting, but I've got to know: How 
do you want me to generate her character? And what 
level? This sounds like a pretty heavy-duty 
campaign; you're not sending in A-Class character, 
are you?"
"Good point." Deighton nodded a quick apology. 
"Try... three rolls for each characteristic, and set 
Miss Andropolous up as a C-Class whatever. If her 
Intelligence is high enough, try for a wizard; the 
company is a trifle light in that department — "
"Wait a minute!" Riccetti's head snapped up. "I 
— "
" — despite the great skills and talents of 
Aristobulus. Now, if I may proceed..."
Andy-Andy tilted her head close to his. 
"Intelligence? If he's suggesting — "
"No, he was talking about your character's 
intelligence. But let's roll Strength, first." He 
gestured at the five dice. "Go ahead."
Andy-Andy shrugged, took the dice, and roiled 
them gently. "Three, three, one, and two zeros — 
how's that?"
"Not too good; strictly average, in fact. The top 
possible score's fifteen. Try again; twice more, in 
fact. I think we can better a seven."
The next roll brought a total of five, the one after, 
a nine "That's not too bad, but it's not too good; your 
character's barely above average Strength. Speed 
next. It's related to Strength we throw out all rolls, 
that aren't within two points of your Strength score 
of nine."
Her first roll was five zeros. "Doesn't count," Karl 
said, "Three more tries."
In the three tries, she couldn't do better than eight 
"So you've got average Speed. Roll for Intelligence, 
now."
Her best score out of three rolls was the best 
score. "A full fifteen, and that's good. Means you 
can be a wizard — like being a magician, except for 
real."
"Almost."
"Right."
Deighton droned on, "...to the north, you see a 
great body of water stretching out to the horizon. It 
could be an inland sea, but the wind blowing across 
it brings no smell of salt; you suspect that it is a lake, 
instead..."
"Roll for Wisdom."
"Wisdom? What's the difference between that and 
Intelligence?"
"Edith Bunker."
"What?" She flinched as the others glared as 
though in chorus. "What?" she whispered.
"I said, 'Edith Bunker' — from All in the family? 
Not too bright, but wise as all hell. Or to take a 
counterexample, Richard Nixon. Get it?"
"Fine."
Three rolls gave her a ten. "That's not too bad," 
he said. "Manual Dexterity is next."
"As opposed to electric dexterity?" She arched an 
eyebrow.
"As opposed to Weapon Proficiency — wizards 
can be dexterous as hell, but not with weapons. It 
comes with the territory.
Roll."
"...beside your party is a collection of large 
wooden boxes. Except for weapons and personal 
effects, they are the only equipment you have with 
you..."
The best she could do was five. "Too bad. Guess 
I'm clumsy, eh?"
"And cold." He smiled. "Now, Weapon 
Proficiency."
Her first roll was a total of twelve. "Which is a 
waste of some good numbers," Karl said. "The best 
WP a wizard can have is five, which is what we'll 
give you. Now try Endurance."
"...you have no sure recollection of how you got 
to this hillside, and the only possibility that suggests 
itself is too incredible to be taken seriously..."
"Hmm, a thirteen." She lifted her head. "Which 
means I'm hardy as hell, right?"
"Close. One more to go."
"What's the C stand for?"
"Charisma. Roll."
Her first roll was a perfect five threes. "Which 
figures," he mumbled.
Andy-Andy just smiled back.
"...and now," Deighton straightened himself, "all 
that remains is for you to decide who you are, and 
what to do next."
"Not quite. Doc." Karl tapped Andy-Andy's sheet. 
"Still got to work out her spells, decide on a 
character."
"Quite right. Miss Andropolous, if you'll step 
over here, you and I can work that out. Mr. 
Cullinane tends to be a bit too... generous with 
spells, as I recall."
"Not fair," James Michael's voice held a decided 
edge. "I was there the time Karl rolled up Martin the 
Illusionist. Righteous rolls, all of them."
"As it may be." Deighton motioned Andy-Andy 
over to his side of the table. "And now, it is time for 
you to decide on your characters, weapons, and 
effects."

James Michael Finnegan held himself back from 
the arguments over who was going to do what. 
There was no question that he was going to be Ahira 
Bandylegs, a dwarf warrior of great Strength and 
Weapon Proficiency, average intelligence, Wisdom, 
and Charisma, low Speed — because of the three-
point penalty for his short dwarf's legs — but with 
an Endurance level that was just this side of magical. 
That was settled, for certain. On the other hand — 
"Dammit, I don't want to be the cleric this time." 
Doria thumped her hand on the table. "Let me run a 
warrior, a thief, a wizard — and get to do something. 
One of you be the cleric."
Cullinane shook his head. "Who? The only one of 
us with a reasonably high-level cleric is Walter. And 
as I recall, his cleric's only about a D-Class — we'll 
be better off with Walter as a thief." Cullinane 
shrugged. "It makes sense to do it that way."
Slovotsky shifted position uncomfortably, "I do 
have a cleric character." He licked his thumb and 
riffled through the character sheets in front of him. 
"Gin. But it's Rudolph — "
" — the Incompetent," Jason Parker finished, his 
voice taking on a whining tone that made James 
Michael itch. "Forget it. A D-Class cleric in a killer 
campaign? C'mon, Dore — stick with what you're 
best at."
Riccetti sucked air in through his teeth. "Why 
don't we let her decide for herself? If she's tired of 
being a cleric, if she wants to do something else, let 
her."
"Thanks, Ricky." Doria smiled a promise at him.
Now that was strange. Riccetti always followed 
Parker's lead, but...
Of course. James Michael nodded. The only 
character of a higher class than Riccetti's Aristobulus 
was Doria's cleric, and Riccetti wanted to be the 
most advanced character in the game.
Cullinane spun around. "You want to be the 
cleric?"
Riccetti sneered. "And have our only wizard be a 
C-Class novice? Don't be silly."
James Michael sighed. If this haggling went on 
much longer, it would threaten to cut heavily into 
playing time. And that would be intolerable. 
"Excuse me." Five pairs of eyes fastened on him. 
"Ricky, it seems to me that you're being kind of... 
generous. Usually, you're the one pushing for a 
balanced team. At least you were, until Doria went 
up to K-Class,"
"Yes, but..." Riccetti obviously couldn't think of a 
but.
"But nothing. The fact is that Doria of the 
Healing Hand is K-Class. Aristobulus is J-Class, one 
level lower. I'm sure, Ricky, that you'll put aside 
your jealousy. For the good of the group." He turned 
to Doria. "If you're willing to be the cleric, that is."
Suddenly, he was ashamed of himself. Not that 
he'd meant it that way, but Doria was taking it as a 
request from a cripple. And she wouldn't turn down 
a little feeb, would she? Please, Doria, say no. You 
wouldn't give in to anyone else on this. Treat me like 
everyone else, for once. Please?
She nodded. "I'll be the cleric — but I want to 
have a say in your characters. You choose mine, I 
get to veto yours if I don't like it. Agreed?"
"Agreed," James Michael sighed.
"Fine," Parker said. "Ricky and I were talking to 
Doc on the way in; he kind of agreed that it would 
be a good idea for Walter to run Hakim, if that's — "
"Yippee!" Walter leered at Doria. "This thief's 
going to steal your heart, he is." He riffled through 
his character sheets and selected one. "I like that 
greasy bastard. Please don't veto him, Doria-
beautiful, please?" He clasped his hands below his 
chin and ducked his head.
"Okay, okay." Doria turned to Parker. "And I 
suppose you've decided on a character already?"
Parker shrugged. "Einar Lightfingers, I guess — 
Doc suggested that we might want to have a couple 
of thieves along. Particularly if we're going to have 
to steal this Gate thing."
Cullinane's head snapped back from his almost 
constant staring at the new girl, who was still talking 
with Doc in the corner of the room. "Steal it? Do we 
know that it's portable? I was helping Andy roll up 
her character; must've missed something."
"No." James Michael made it final. "We don't 
know what it is, where it is, or how it does what it 
does — although I'm willing to bet I know what it 
does."
"Big fat hairy deal." Walter waved it away. 
"Getting to it, and then doing whatever the hell we're 
supposed to do after we get to it — "
" — is the problem." Parker tapped a pencil 
against the table. "But we're getting a bit ahead of 
ourselves. Doria hasn't okayed me as Lightfingcrs, 
James as Ahira, or Ricky as Aristobulus — you want 
to veto them, Dore?"
James Michael suppressed a scowl. Cute — by 
lumping his and Riccetti's characters in with James 
Michael's Ahira, Parker was making it more than a 
little awkward for Doria to exercise a veto.
Doria opened her mouth, closed it again. A quick 
glance at James Michael, then, "No. No veto."
"Fine." Parker slid a sheet of paper in front of him 
and picked up his pencil. "Now, on to weapons.... I 
don't see any problem for Lightfingers: shortsword, 
dagger, and a few throwing darts should do it." He 
looked over at Riccetti. "Unless you think I can get 
away with armor."
"Out of character. But how about tools?"
Parker lifted his head. "Doc? Do thief s tools 
come under the heading of personal effects?"
"Don't worry about it. I suspect rather strongly 
that you'll find all that you need in the wooden boxes 
next to your party, on the hillside." Deighton turned 
back to Andrea.
"Fine." Parker glared at his back. "Just fine."
James Michael tapped Slovotsky's leg. "Do you 
think I could arrange to borrow Hakim's plus-three 
battleaxe?"
"Nope." Walter didn't bother to take the sting out 
of the refusal. "Hakim doesn't lend anybody 
anything. You want to talk buying?"
"With Hakim? What would the price be? Two or 
three times whatever I could come up with?"
Doria laughed. "He's got you. Probably four. 
James, you'd better stick with your usual stuff; the 
battleaxe, crossbow, and..." she wrinkled her 
forehead.
"Flail. I like to go well armed."
"Flail," she agreed. "If you think you can carry 
all..."
Everyone was silent for a moment. Damm it, why 
can't you forget about it for one bloody second?
Walter raised himself and stretched. "Hakim, 
m'friends, will be carrying a scimitar, and two braces 
of throwing knives."
"Be more specific, please. How many knives in a 
brace?" James Michael kept his words as acid as 
possible, but couldn't help smiling his thanks.
"Two. Always two in a brace." Walter quirked a 
smile at Karl. "And if you're running Barak, I 
assume he still turns up his nose at anything except 
his two-handed broadsword?"
"Yup." Cullinane sat back. "Established character 
trait."
"Wait a minute." Doria sounded more calculating 
than peeved. "I'm thinking about changing my mind 
and vetoing Barak."
Karl snatched his lighter from the table, stuck a 
cigarette in his mouth, and lit it. "Make up your 
mind." He snapped the lighter closed. "I've been 
running Barak all semester, but if you've got an 
objection, let me know. You think I've got another 
character that'll be better for the team?"
"No, but..."
"Doria's within her rights, Karl," James Michael 
said. You stupid bastard. You treat her like a piece 
of furniture, then get offended when she insists on a 
bit of attention.
"Thank you, James. But go ahead, Karl, run 
Barak." She smiled ingratiatingly.
James Michael tried to keep his face straight, but 
brought his hands up to rub at his eyes in case he 
failed. All the dynamics of a kindergarten. Doria's 
still chasing after Cullinane. He's hooked on Andrea 
— badly, unless I miss my guess. And to make it 
worse, Parker has been shooting meaningful glances 
Andrea's way. and Cullinane's looking as though he 
wishes he had a real sword to run through barker's 
guts.
So Doria tries a quick I-don't-have-to-let-you-
but-I-will to get some attention. All of which means 
— 
Walter Slovotsky leaned over. "Looks to be an 
interesting evening, all things considered." He 
tapped his temple with a stubby finger that was 
almost the size of a hotdog. "Wal-ter may look 
dumb. Doesn't mean he is."
"Just what I was thinking, On both counts." 
James Michael raised his voice. "And since neither 
Aristobulus nor Doria carry weapons, I think we're 
all set. Except for picking a team leader, of course."
Parker sat smugly in his chair. Which wasn't 
totally unreasonable; he'd been doing an adequate 
job as team leader in the Draa Dungeon campaign, 
the adventure that Detghton had just terminated. But 
that was as a warrior, not a thief.
Walter reached out and laid a massive hand on 
James Michael's shoulder. "You think you're up to it, 
Jimmy me boy?"
"What?" Parker was stunned; Cullinane, Doria, 
and Riccetti smiled their approval in unison, as 
though they had rehearsed it. Even Riccetti? Hell, 
Ricky followed Parker around like an obedient 
spaniel.
"Makes sense," Riccetti said, drumming his 
impatience on the table with nail-bitten fingers. 
"Can't have a thief as team leader; nobody'll trust 
him farther than I could throw Walter." For Ricky, 
the game came first.
"Yes, but — "
"But nothing, Jase." Cullinane was enjoying this, 
perhaps a little too much. "James has been gaming 
longest here; he hasn't been team leader in quite a 
while. Give him a chance." His glance over toward 
Andrea took most of the pleasure out of hearing that. 
James Michael wished there hadn't been... 
superfluous reasons.
"Doria-beautiful, speak up." Walter slipped down 
from the table, stretching broadly. "If you're in 
agreement, then let's have Doc finish getting 
Andrea's character ready, and play." He rubbed his 
hands together in mock impatience.
"It's okay with me. Besides, there'll be plenty of 
time to argue — and fight — once we start playing." 
She turned to James Michael, and actually smiled as 
if she meant it. "You're on, Ahira."
"Fine." James Michael folded his hands in his lap. 
"Okay, everybody — character sheets to Doc. Start 
an encumbrance list."
"With what?" Parker was still chafing.
"With just your weapons and armor, so far. Once 
we open the boxes, you'll add to that. Doria of the 
Healing Hand?"
"Yes, Ahira?"
"I'll need to know your spells — that goes for 
you, too, Aristobulus."
Riccetti — no, Aristobulus; get into the spirit of it 
— nodded. "You want me to write them down for 
you?"
"Ahira doesn't carry sheets of paper. Orally, of 
course. You first."
"Okay." Riccetti closed his eyes. If James 
Michael could remember his spells, so could he.
Good.
"I'm carrying... Herstell's Spell of — "
"Just the short names."
"Make that Sleep, Lightning, Fire, Glow 
Temporarily, the two-way version of Charm, Injure, 
Preserve, Shatter Metal, and Dispel Magic. That's 
nine, isn't it?"
"Yes, And that's fine. Don't waste them, now." 
One of the rules of the game was that a wizard's 
spells were immediately forgotten when used. It was 
sort of like firing a gun; the gun could be reloaded, 
but a spent cartridge was gone. And it would take 
valuable time out of a campaign for a wizard to 
relearn his spells from his spell books. Often that 
time couldn't be spared. "Doria?"
She had to consult her notes. "I'll memorize them, 
Ahira.... Here they are: Heal Minor Wounds — I've 
got that one three times — Make Edible — "
"Handy. Good choice." Situations could come up 
where there wouldn't be food at hand. But with that 
spell, the company could survive for a long time on 
anything; she could even make cafeteria food edible.
"Thanks, Ja — Ahira.... Ah, and Warm, Glow, 
Heal Disease, the Gift of Tongues, Heal Serious 
Wounds, and — ta-da! — Locate. That last could be 
handy, no?"
"Very. But be careful. You'll have to know what 
the Gate is, roughly where it is... and we'll have to be 
reasonably close before you use it." He turned to 
Cullinane, smiling. "I know what your special skills 
are."
Karl Cullinane cracked a smile and stroked at the 
stubble that he no doubt thought of as a beard. 
"Arrgh."
"Arg, indeed. Hakim."
Walter Slovotsky bounced to attention and bowed 
from the waist, clasping his hands in front of him. 
"Thy servant, O short sahib."
"Don't waste the oil on me. You might need it 
later. — We're going to need a thief on this quest, 
probably."
"Yes, O Source of All Wisdom, but what is thy 
point?" His look of total innocence was perhaps a bit 
overdone.
"It would be a shame to have to execute you for 
stealing from members of the party." James Michael 
mimed hefting an axe. "A great loss "
"As it would be to thy servant." Walter felt at his 
neck. "So this unworthy one shall keep thy counsels 
in mind."
"See that you do." This was getting better all the 
time. "And Lightfingers."
Visibly, Parker considered giving him a hard 
time, not playing along. James Michael was 
counting on Parker's basic desire to play to 
overcome his irritation at not getting to be team 
leader for once. For a moment, opposed desires 
balanced. Finally, Parker shrugged and answered in 
a harsh whisper. "And what do you want?"
Good. "I want you to listen very closely to me, 
thief."
"I always listen closely. To humans, at least. Not 
to a filthy little dwarf."
"Barak? Do you think I should have to take this?"
"No. You want me to persuade him, Ahira?"
James Michael glanced over at Deighton, who 
was again standing in front of his open briefcase, his 
hands hidden inside. One of the things James 
Michael liked — a lot — about Doc Deighton's 
gamemastering was that Doc almost always chose to 
do the dice-rolling himself, freeing the players from 
as much of the mechanics of the game as was 
possible. It helped to maintain the illusion, the 
atmosphere.  "Will that be necessary, Einar 
Lightfingers? Barak would lop off your remaining 
hand if I asked him to." And Karl Cullinane would 
probably enjoy kicking Jason Parker out of the game 
by killing off Parker's character.
Lightfingers/Parker sighed. "What do you want 
me to do?"
"Good. And it's not what I want you to do, it's 
what I want you not to do. Understood?" He rapped 
on the table. "I know your habits; we won't have any 
of that nonsense in this company."
Pause. "Understood."
And we're off. He gave a slight nod at Deighton. 
"You have just awoken on a hillside," Deighton 
intoned, "a company of... six adventurers, seeking 
treasure and fame."
"Wait a minute," Aristobulus grated. "How did 
we get here? And I thought that there was — "
"Patience, please. Last night, you all slept in an 
inn, which was located in a village just south of the 
great walled city, D'tareth. You don't know how you 
got here." He stopped.
Doria picked up the hint. "Where the hell are 
we?"
"Yeah."
"What're we doing on this hilltop?"
"Last thing I knew, I was kicking the serving girl 
out of bed so I could get some sleep." That was from 
Slovotsky/Hakim; Ahira leaned back, closed his 
eyes, and smiled.
"From the top of this hill, you can see the dawn 
sun, rising over another walled city. It is not 
D'tareth; the walls of this city are of some wet-
looking gray stone."
"Forget the distance — what's close up?" Ahira 
understood Parker's impatience, but wished that he'd 
contain himself. They would learn, soon enough.
"Beside you on the hillside are half a dozen large 
wooden boxes. They are plain, almost cubical, each 
side roughly the height of a dwarf."
Eyes still closed, Ahira spoke up. "Nobody touch 
the boxes. We don't know what's in them."
"I'll dispel any spells."
"You're not thinking, Aristobulus," Ahira shot 
back. "First, if it's harmless, you're wasting a spell. 
Second, there could be, say, a magic carpet inside. 
You want to turn it into a throw rug?"
"But what can we do?"
"Hakim." He voiced it as a command.
"Here, sahib."
"You want to give the boxes a try? Careful, now," 
A deep chuckle. "So you want me to be the 
sacrificial meat? Very well. I walk over to the 
nearest of the boxes and run my fingertips lightly 
over its top surface."
Deighton: "You feel nothing unusual, although 
your..." As he paused, dice clattered. "Your 
suspicion is that there is a hidden catch."
"For some reason or other, I suspect that there is a 
hidden catch, Ahira. You want me to find it?"
Deighton: "From behind you, you hear a voice."
"Quick!" Ahira said. "Everybody, turn around. 
Barak, loose your sword — but don't draw it. 
Aristobulus, get ready to throw a spell — if anything 
funny happens, throw it."
"Which one?"
"Lightning." James Michael knew that the new 
voice would be Andrea's character, joining the 
group, but Ahira was a suspicious sort, who wouldn't 
know that, anyway. Best to be prepared.
"As you turn around, you see a young human 
woman, dressed in the gray robes of a user of 
magicks. Go ahead."
"I... I'm supposed to say..." Andrea was 
uncomfortable; James Michael resigned himself to 
having a hard time getting her into the spirit of 
things.
Hakim/Slovotsky's basso boomed, "Speak for 
yourself — are you possessed by a demon, wench?"
"Wench? Oh. No, I'm not possessed by a demon. 
I'm, uh, Lotana," she said, the accent firmly on the 
second syllable, "and," she added in a low 
monotone, "I'm going to get even with you for this, 
Karl Cullinane."
Never mind; get back into it.
"Greetings, little girl, would you like a piece of 
candy?"
"Barak," Ahira snapped out, "if Einar 
Lightfingers opens his mouth again, stick a sword 
through his lips."
"Delighted."
Bringing a new player — a new person into the 
company was always a touchy situation. Ahira didn't 
need Lightfingers complicating matters, not with a 
nov — a not terribly experienced magic user. 
"Lotana, we are a band of adventurers, seeking... 
something, although we don't quite know what, yet."
Deighton: "You have a vague, unexplainable 
feeling that what you are looking for is something 
called the Gate Between-Worlds."
"Although we all share a vague suspicion that 
we're looking for the Gate Between Worlds, 
whatever that is. Would you like to join us?"
"Sure. Uh, what were you going to do about those 
boxes on the hillside?"
Doria's voice was almost a whine. "Open them, 
silly."
"Okay, fine, I'll open them."
"No, don't — "
"As the first box was opened, you are 
overwhelmed by a rush of..."
James Michael couldn't hear the rest; a rush of 
sound like the roar of an impossibly loud, 
impossibly near jet buffeted his ears, acrid smoke 
invading his nostrils until he found himself on his 
knees in a coughing spasm, his tearing eyes jammed 
shut.
He bounced to his feet on the damp grass, 
reflexively reaching for the axe strapped to his chest, 
loosening the straps with two quick jerks and taking 
the axe in his gnarled, well-muscled hands.
Well-muscled hands?
He opened his eyes.
He was standing on the side of a grassy hill, a 
dwarf with an axe in his hands.
"Ohmygod."



PART TWO:
Lundeyll



CHAPTER THREE:
"It Isn't a Game Anymore"

I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I 
was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly 
dreaming I am a man.
 — Chang-tzu

"Jason, wake up," James Michael's voice rasped.
Jason Parker shrugged the hand from his 
shoulders reaching for the covers to pull them over 
his head. But the covers weren't there.
"Want me to try?" The voice was Karl 
Cullinane's, but changed: a deep, rich baritone.
"No, we'll do it. You go back to your little 
friend," Doria said. "Maybe she's over her crying jag 
by now."
Jason pried an eye open, squinting painfully in 
the bright sunlight Doria knelt on the grass next to 
him. But it wasn't Doria, not exactly. She was older, 
gaunt, the rounded features of her face having 
changed into the well-defined ones of a thirtyish 
woman. And her eyes were strange; nobody had 
yellow irises.
But Doria did. And that seemed... right, familiar.
"What the hell?" Jason jerked upright, now totally 
awake.
Maybe.
He was sitting on damp morning grass, wearing a 
musky-smelling leather jerkin and dew damp gray 
woolen leggings, an ivory-hilted shortsword in its 
scabbard at the right side of his waist, a sheathed 
dagger strapped to his chest beneath his jerkin.
He reached his right hand up to his face, to slap 
himself awake. This had all the makings of a bad 
bad dream.
He missed; air brushed his cheek. Missed? He 
looked down at his arm. Instead of a hand on the end 
of his withered, age-spotted right arm, there was 
nothing but a naked stump, covered with brown 
keloid scars.
My hand... The world went gray.
James Michael's voice came from behind. "Take 
it easy, Jason. Deep breaths. But you've got to get 
yourself together. You're next to the last — we still 
can't get Arist — Ricky to wake up."
He kept his eyes closed. A massive hand gripped 
the back of his neck, pulling him forward. 
Reflexively, he retrieved his dagger with his left 
hand, thrust it over his shoulder — 
And found his wrist caught in a bone-crushing 
grip. The dagger was wrenched out of his fingers, 
thudding on the ground beside him.
"Don't try that again."
"You just go easy on him, Ahira." There was a 
strength, a confidence in Doria's voice that Jason had 
never heard before. "It's going to be harder on him 
than it was on you." Gentle fingers stroked his face. 
"We'll just have to take this one step at a time."
"Maybe you're right, but I don't like it. 
Aristobulus is still — "
"Shh. One step at a time."
Jason opened his eyes. Somehow it was fitting 
that James Michael was a dwarf, a broad-shouldered 
creature with a huge, broken nose and a jutting jaw. 
But it was still James Michael's eyes that peered at 
him from beneath heavy brows.
"You're Ahira."
"That's right." The dwarf smiled, running a hand 
down the front of his gapped chainmail vest. "We're 
here, on the other side."
"Other side?"
Ahira shrugged. "Somehow or other... never 
mind, for now. But if I'm Ahira, who are you?"
Doria glared at the dwarf, then clasped Jason's 
good hand in her two. She was wearing a long, high-
necked robe, belted tightly around her waist. "Easy, 
now. Don't let him rush you."
Jason snatched his hand away and slapped at 
Doria's sleeve. It didn't even dent; it was like 
slapping a brick wall. "It works." In the game, Doria 
of the Healing Hand had a robe like that, a magical 
one.
She smiled reassuringly and waved her arm, the 
tightly woven cloth flapping. "It's just like in the 
game. Feels like a cotton robe from the inside, but 
from the outside it's like armor. Just like in the 
game." Her face sobered. "And all of us, we're our 
characters. Sort of."
"Which means that I'm Lightfingers." A small 
leather pouch dangled by a thong from her sash. He 
let his head loll forward as though he were fainting 
again, slipped his hand across her body while his 
head movement distracted her, and fingered open the 
pouch without disturbing the strap that attached it to 
her belt. He dipped two gnarled fingers in, lifted and 
palmed a coin, closed the pouch with a gentle tug, 
and tucked the coin into a pocket inside his sleeve 
with a practiced flip.
Elapsed time less than three seconds. It felt 
natural, as though he'd done it thousands of times 
before. But I've never stolen anything. It's — 
"A nice try, Jason." Ahira shook his head. "But I 
was watching for it. Give it back."
"Watching for what?" Doria's brow furrowed in 
exasperation. Now that was strange; she always 
deferred to the little cripple.
Oh. He isn't little anymore. Or crippled. Just 
short. The snotty bastard must be having the time of 
his life.
"He just picked your purse." The dwarf chuckled. 
"Give it back. Now."
"I don't know what you're talking about — and 
who are you to be giving orders, anyway?" He 
braced himself on his stump and slid his feet under 
him. It was the practiced routine of a thief when 
caught: First deny, then challenge, then run.
Ahira grabbed his sleeve and shook the coin out. 
Picking it up, he handed it to Doria. "Don't worry; 
I'm not going to give him a hard time. This once." 
He turned back to Jason. "But we're in enough 
trouble as it is; I don't want you adding to it. 
Understood. Lightfingers?"
"My name is Jason." But the name felt strange in 
his mouth. "And I want to go home."
The dwarf helped him to his feet. Standing, 
Ahira's head barely came up to his chest. Ahira 
picked up his battleaxe from the damp grass and 
tapped a well-chewed thumbnail against the blade, 
"Two things. In answer to your question, this says 
that I'm in charge here. Back home, the group chose 
me as team leader. That's the way it is; that's the way 
it's going to be.
"And second, we are going home." Ahira opened 
his mouth; shut it. He shook his head. "Just take it 
easy for a while, get your bearings. Doria, let's go 
see to the wizard."

Karl Cullinane had often thought of holding 
Andy-Andy in his arms, but nowhere in his 
imaginings had she been crying. "Everything will be 
fine." He patted her clumsily on the back.
But these weren't his arms, this wasn't his body. 
Not quite. Karl was of average height, and skinny. 
Was. Now, he towered over her as he held her, 
careful not to squeeze her tightly; somehow, he 
knew that his grip could break a strong man's back.
After a while, her weeping died down. He let her 
go, then took a loose sleeve of her gray robe and 
wiped at her eyes. "Feeling better?"
"N-no. I'm scared. What happened?" She rubbed 
at her temples. "I... feel so strange — how do I know 
that I could turn invisible, or make you fall asleep, 
or charm — it's like there's something in my head, 
trying to get out."
Her mouth started to move; he clapped a hand 
over it. "Don't. Just listen to me, but don't say 
anything." Her eyes grew wide; she brought up her 
hands, vaguely pulling at his arm. "No. Nod if you 
understand me. and I'll lake my hand away."
Her head moved; he let his hand drop. "Don't do 
that again," she said, planting a palm against his 
chest, shoving.
He could have laughed, almost. But he took a step 
back. "Okay, but be careful what you say. You've 
got three spells in your head, and they're trying to 
get out."
"How do you know?"
He shrugged. I don't know. But I do. "It's... like 
I've got two minds. One is Barak; the other is me." 
That a wizard had to constantly rein in spells was 
something Barak would know. It had to be: Karl 
hadn't known it; it wasn't part of the game. He 
stooped slowly, and lifted his scabbarded sword 
from the grass. "Barak knows how to use this, not 
me." The sword was long, almost three-fifths his 
height. Without drawing it from its scabbard, he 
knew that it was single-edged like a Japanese katana, 
but straight, not curved; primarily a slashing 
weapon, it still could be used to thrust. "And why 
not to strap it to anything; it'd take too long to draw 
it." He gripped the cord-wound handle with his left 
hand almost at the pommel. To draw the sword, he 
would slip the scabbard away, add his right hand in 
its place on the grip, and strike. That was one of the 
rules: Get your sword into play, and worry about 
picking up the scabbard later.
It was important to keep the blade clean and dry; 
an image of his hands — his hands — cleaning the 
blade with a dead enemy's hair welled up, unbidden.
"But what happened?" She gestured at her robes, 
at him, at the boxes on the hillside. "We're in the 
place that Dr. Deighton described. Look."
He looked to the east. The early-morning sun sat 
over the far walls of the city below. Karl raised his 
hand to his forehead to shield his eyes. The walls 
were solid and wide; a few bowmen stood on the 
pathways girdling them. People, and horses drawing 
two-wheeled carts, swarmed in and out of the gate.
To the north, a vast expanse of dark water spread 
across the horizon, waves rippling in toward a rocky 
shore. Off in the distance a broad-beamed schooner 
glided slowly in toward the docks.
But there was more than Deighton had described; 
he hadn't mentioned the fishing village to the north, 
and Karl hadn't visualized it.
How did he know that it was a fishing village?
It was too complicated, too strange. He shook his 
head. "You're right. I don't know how, but somehow 
we're here." He stretched his arms, letting his 
shoulders strain against the seams of his leather 
jerkin, and drew in a deep breath. It was clean air, 
fresh and sweet with a tang of ozone; this world had 
never known the stink of the internal combustion 
engine. "But doesn't it feel fine?"
"For you." She was nearing tears again. "But how 
do I get home?"
"I don't know. And I didn't mean it that way — 
not that I wanted to stay here forever." It was one 
thing to play at being a warrior, but a fuzzy memory 
of his sword opening someone's belly like an 
overripe fruit... that didn't feel right, not to Karl 
Cullinane. But I'm not just Karl, not anymore. 
There's a lot of Barak in me, now. Then again, 
maybe that's not all bad. He and Andy-Andy used to 
be close to the same height, although when she wore 
heels she'd look down at him. Now he towered over 
her by a foot, or more. When he stood close to her, 
she had to crane her neck to look up at him. She 
wasn't changed, though, at least on the outside, 
except for the loose robes that had replaced her jeans 
and shirt.
And the fear in her eyes. That was new. "Karl, 
how are we going to — "
"I don't know," He shook his head. "But someh 
— "
"This a private conversation, or can anyone join?" 
Walter Slovotsky's voice boomed from behind him.
Karl spun around. He hadn't heard the big man — 
no, not big anymore; I'm half a head taller than he 
is. ''Don't do that."
"Don't do what?" Slovotsky smiled innocently. 
Except for Andy-Andy, he was the least changed of 
the group, at least physically. His skin had darkened 
a shade or two, his black hair was slightly straighter 
and a bit longer, and there were hints of epicanthic 
folds around his eyes, but that was all. Even his all-
is-right-with-the-world smile was intact.
"Don't sneak up on me. I don't like it."
Slovotsky shrugged, muscles playing under the 
bare skin of his chest. He was dressed as Hakim 
would be: shirtless, a blousy pair of pants belted 
lightly to his waist, the cuffs tucked into the lacing 
of his sandals. From the left side of his waist, a 
wickedly curved scimitar hung in a leather scabbard; 
from the right, a tangle of knives and straps. 
Slovotsky rubbed at his temples. "I guess I should 
apologize, or something. It's just that moving silently 
seems to come naturally to me. It's sort of like a new 
toy, Karl. Or should I call you Barak7"
"Karl." He forced a smile. "Barak would give you 
a clout on the head as a reminder."
"Good point. You had better call me Walter. 
Hakim would slip a knife between your ribs, for — " 
He stopped, puzzled, raising a palm. "Sorry. That 
wasn't me."
"I understand." Karl unclenched his hand from 
the hilt of his sword. "But the question is — "
"What the hell are we going to do?" There was a 
new strength in Andy-Andy's voice. Just a little.
Karl gave her a smile. "Right." She was adjusting. 
A few minutes before, she would have put the 
emphasis on do instead of hell.
"In theory, it's simple," Slovotsky said.
"Nonsense." She waved a hand at their 
surroundings. "Simple?"
"Everything's simple, actually." He held up a 
well-manicured finger. "First, you figure out what 
you want."
Karl didn't like the way Slovotsky's eyes roamed 
up and down her as he said that, but he let it pass.
"Second, you figure out what you have to do to 
get it." Another finger. "And three" — he added a 
third, tapping all three fingers against his other hand 
— "you do it. That's the way life works.'' He jerked a 
thumb toward the city below. "Somehow or other, 
we're in the world that Doc described, no?"
"Yes, but — "
"But nothing, Karl. That has to be our operating 
assumption, until and unless we find out differently. 
Which is unlikely. I mean, I've got skills I never had. 
Doria's got cleric spells trying to bust their way out 
of her head, you're a full foot taller than you should 
be, James is — "
"I get the point. But what does that do for us?"
"Simple, again. The name of the campaign Doc 
designed is, if you'll remember, the Quest for the 
Gate Between Worlds. How we got here, I don't 
know. But if we want to get back, then obviously 
we've got to find this Gate thing." He pointed at the 
six wooden boxes, just over fifty yards away. One of 
the boxes stood open and empty; the other five, 
smooth, dark, and seamless, closed. "I'm willing to 
bet that there's something inside that'll give us a 
clue. Or more than a clue."
Hushed voices whispered behind the cluster of 
boxes.
"They haven't woken Riccetti yet?"
"They're trying. Jimmy — make that Ahira; he 
likes it better —  Ahira thinks that we should have a 
fully conscious wizard on hand before we try to 
open any of the rest. And no offense, Lotana — ''
"Andrea."
"Andrea, then — no offense, but the way you fell 
apart, I wouldn't want to count on you to sniff out 
any spells on them. You think you could spot a 
Glyph of Shrouding?"
"I don't know what you're talking about — wait." 
Her hands flew to her temples, her fingers digging 
into her scalp. "It's strange. I know things that I don't 
know, if you understand what I mean."
Karl laid A gentle hand on her arm. "We all do."
She grabbed his hand, squeezing it with white-
knuckled fingers. "A glyph is like a magical charm, 
usually placed on a doorway or entrance. It can hurt 
anybody trying to get past it, unless it's tuned to 
leave them alone, or unless they break its spell," she 
said, her voice calm and businesslike. "Like the ones 
on the city." She jerked her hand toward the walled 
city, below. "Right?"
"What ones?" Karl and Walter said in unison.
She chuckled. "C'mon, don't play games with me 
— I don't need that."
Karl sighed and looked back toward the city. Just 
a walled city, no writing on it. "You see anything, 
Walter?"
"No " Slovotsky raised an eyebrow. "And that 
was a part of the game I always had trouble 
swallowing."
Karl nodded. "Me, too." He shrugged. "Well, 
another — "
"If you don't mind, I'd like to know what you're 
talking about. Please?"
"We can't see magical writing," he said. "To 
Walter and me, that's just a wall."
"Don't be silly, it's plain as..." She turned back. 
"Really?"
"Really. As Deighton said, unless you've got the 
genes for wizardry, all magical writing is totally 
transparent to you. What does it say?"
"I can see it, not read it. Besides, it isn't 
something that can be pronounced, but it would fry 
Aristobulus or me to a crisp if we got inside the 
city." She wrinkled her forehead. "Wait a minute. 
How did I — "
"Comes with the territory," Slovotsky said. 
"Looks like wizards aren't too popular there; 
probably cost the locals quite a bit to hire one to do 
the work." He smiled. "But it looks like there's a 
pony in the bottom of this shitbucket; want to check 
out the boxes for Glyphs?"
Karl frowned. "I thought you said Ahira wanted 
to wait."
"I'll check it out with him, first. But" — he 
clapped a hand to Andy-Andy's shoulder — "it looks 
like you've got what it takes."
Karl suppressed an urge to knock Slovotsky's 
hand away from her. "Why don't you go clear it with 
him, then?"
"Which was something else I wanted to talk to 
you about. You got any objection to him being in 
charge? Somebody's got to do it." Slovotsky's face 
was studiously blank.
Karl thought about it for a moment. In the game, 
he 'd a enjoyed his occasional chances to be the team 
leader. But this is for real. I may be good at the 
game, but this is for real. "No. No objection. As 
long as there're no PMDs, or anything like that."
"PMD?" Andrea asked. "What's that?"
Slovotsky grinned broadly "Stands for Polish 
Mine Detector." He covered his ears with both 
hands, and mimed stomping fearfully on the ground. 
'"Boom. Seriously, it's a technique for checking for 
traps. You send the lowest-class character on ahead. 
If there's no trap, there's no harm. And if there is, 
then you bring the player back into the game with a 
new character. It's kind of hard on the old character, 
but — "
She looked up at him. "You mean that it kills 
him. Or her."
"Right, but — "
"But we won't have any of that," Karl said. "Not 
as long as I'm around."
"I can speak for myself, Karl." She scowled at 
both of them. "And I'm not going to let myself be a 
guinea pig."
"Understood, Andrea." Slovotsky nodded and 
walked away.
"Karl, he seems so... sure of himself."
"That's Walter. Possibly Hakim, too." Which was 
one of the things he'd always envied about 
Slovotsky. Always so sure of himself, no matter 
what. And so comfortable around women.
Karl shook his head. Even around Andy-Andy he 
felt awkward, gawky. And she was a friend.
"What are you thinking?"
He returned her smile with interest. "Nothing 
much." This was ridiculous. Here he was, God knew 
where, more scared than he cared to admit, even to 
himself. And thinking about how good it had felt to 
hold her. "And you wouldn't believe it, anyway."
"Bets?"

"Well, what's the diagnosis?" Ahira asked.
"I think he's in shock." Kneeling over the limp 
form of Aristobulus, Doria looked up at him. 
"Shallow breathing, thready pulse." Her fingers 
dipped into the wizard's short gray hair. "And I think 
he might have hit his head on one of the boxes; 
there's a bit of a lump here." She bent over, 
examining his head more closely. "Although the skin 
isn't broken. Do you think there might be a blanket 
or two in one of these boxes? We should keep him 
warm."
"No."
"What do you mean, no? He could die."
Ahira repressed a smile; she wouldn't have 
understood. But that felt good; Doria would never 
have contradicted James Michael Finnegan, would 
never, ever have argued with a little cripple.
But I'm not a cripple anymore. He bounced on the 
balls of his feet, reveling in how good, how natural it 
felt. I'm Ahira Bandylegs, and I'm strong. Better 
than normal. "No, he won't die. Try your Healing 
spell, the one for minor wounds. I think this should 
count as a minor wound."
"But, James — "
"But nothing. You're a cleric, a healer. You've 
been complaining about spells buzzing around your 
head. Here's your chance to get rid of one. You'll 
have to pray for it, to get it back — but we'll have 
plenty of time for that later."
Her face paled.  "I — I don't know if — "
"I trust you. Doria of the Healing Hand. And so 
would Aristobulus. Do it. Now."
She nodded a reluctant agreement, and planted 
spread-fingered hands on the old man's chest. The 
polish was gone from her nails, just as the fear of 
him was gone from her manner. Perhaps, somewhere 
inside, Doria Perlstein was confused, frightened. But 
not the cleric.
"Easy," he whispered. "It's going to be easy. 
You've done this a thousand times."
Slowly, her eyes sagged shut, as her weight bore 
down on her arms, on Aristobulus chest. The old 
man looked to be in bad shape; his skin was ashen, 
his breathing barely perceptible.
Strange, liquid syllables issued from her barely 
parted lips, starting slowly, then becoming a torrent. 
Ahira could hear the words distinctly, tried to 
memorize them.
But he couldn't. Not a phrase, not a word, not a 
syllable. They vanished from his mind like a 
snowflake melting on a palm.
The volley of sound flowed into Aristobulus, his 
breathing becoming deeper, a tinge of pink replacing 
the fishbelly pallor of his face. The fingers of an 
outflung arm twitched, then curled, as his eyes 
snapped open.
Aristobulus sucked in air with a desperate gasp, 
and a stream of sound issued from his mouth, 
obscenely guttural and harsh.
And like a striking snake, a bolt of lightning 
crackled from the tips of his fingers, shattering the 
nearest of the boxes into a thousand charred, 
smoking pieces.
"You idiot!" Ahira reached out, grabbed the 
wizard's throat, setting broad thumbs against his 
windpipe
"Stop it! Stop it!" Doria's fists beat a rapid tattoo 
on his back.
Reluctantly, Ahira released Aristobulus, bouncing 
the old man's head against the grass.
The wizard's eyes were wide. "You told me, have 
the spell ready — you told me, Ahira." He rubbed at 
his head. "Ahira? Or are you James...?" He bit his 
lip.
Ahira spat in disgust and stood. "Take care of 
him, Doria. Just get him out of my sight." He raised 
his voice. "Barak, Hakim, Lightfingers, Lotana — 
get over here. Let's see if there's anything we can 
salvage out of this... mess."
"I... don't understand," the wizard whined. He 
began to cry, to weep like a frightened child.

After more than half an hour on their hands and 
knees, sorting through charred pieces of bone and 
horn, smashed vessels of glass and clay, Ahira called 
a halt.
"Anybody find anything salvageable?"
Barak shook his head, rubbing a sooty finger 
against a smudge on his nose, which only made it 
worse. "No, whatever was in here is gone." He lifted 
a jagged scrap of horn and scraped a clean spot with 
a thumbnail. "What do you think this was?"
Hakim shrugged. "A Joshua's Horn?"
Lightfingers swore softly under his breath. "And 
unless I miss my guess, these scraps of leather and 
parchment were spell books. Were. Unless there are 
duplicates in one of the others, we can kiss Lot — 
Andrea's and Art's relearning their spells goodbye." 
He pitched a shard at the wizard. "You stupid little 
shit."
This couldn't go on. Ahira agreed with 
Lightfingers — emphatically — but what was done 
was done. The problem was what to do now. He 
wasn't sure that he knew.
Never mind. The leader has to seem to know what 
he's doing. At least. "Shut up, Lightfingers. We go 
on from here. Lotana?"
"Andrea," she said, with a friendly nod. Good — 
at least somebody was on his side. "Yes, Ahira?"
"Do you think that you can check out the rest of 
the boxes for magic? Without touching them, I 
mean."
Hakim held up a hand. "I'd better check for 
mechanical traps."
"Fine. You two do that. And if it seems safe, have 
Barak open them."
Barak nodded slowly. "You don't think there's 
any trap."
No, I don't. But if there is, you're probably the 
most expendable. Without the spell books, we can't 
afford to risk either of the wizards And we've only 
got one cleric, and one two-handed thief. "I'm 
certain of it. I think that what's in the boxes is our 
supplies, or what's left of them. But be careful, 
anyway." He beckoned to Lightfingers. "Come here 
for a moment."
"What do you want?" the thief asked, walking 
over, stopping a few feet away.
Just about half a foot farther away than I could 
swing my axe. Which was good; at least it showed 
caution, if not respect. "We're going to need 
somebody to scout around, check out the city down 
there. The wizards are out, what with the glyphs 
Andrea sees on the walls. And I don't think Barak or 
I tend to be subtle enough. You think you're up to it? 
Jason." he added, deliberately. Not a whole lot was 
clear to Ahira, not yet. But one thing he was certain 
of was that he wanted to encourage the other's Jason-
part, not the Lightfingers persona.
Lightfingers stood silently for a moment, rubbing 
his stump against the point of his jaw. "Yes." He 
stopped himself in mid-nod. "You do want me to 
pick up more than information, of course."
"No. Just find out whatever you can. We're going 
to have to find this Gate thing. Whatever and 
wherever it is. Which means, among other things, 
that we'll have to find out where we are. And, Jason, 
you're too valuable to lose. Don't pick any pockets; 
don't try any swindles. We've got quite a few coins 
in our pouches; we need information a lot more than 
money."
"Yes?" Lightfingers tilted his head to one side. 
"And how much is one gold piece worth, here? It 
could buy half a town, if gold is scarce. But if not..."
"Then maybe we couldn't buy half a sandwich. If 
they have sandwiches here. Good point."
"It is, isn't it?" Lightfingers' hand came to rest on 
the hilt of his shortsword, perhaps accidentally.
But perhaps not. Ahira pretended not to notice. 
"You know, maybe I made a mistake. Declaring 
myself in charge, that is. You've always been a bit 
sharper than me. Maybe — "
"Don't be silly. You think Slovotsky or Cullinane 
and his little friend would follow me? A one-armed 
thief?"
The dwarf took a slow step forward and laid a 
hand on Lightfingers' arm. "Perhaps no. But if I am 
going to be in charge, I'll need your full support. Or I 
won't be able to do it. If you want — "
Lightfingers cut him off with a full-throated 
laugh. "James Michael, you little bastard. You're 
damn good at manipulating people, aren't you?" His 
smile was almost friendly.
Ahira shrugged. "You have to learn a lot of things 
when you spend your whole life in a wheelchair. 
Lots of things you can't do for yourself; you have to 
get other people to do them for you. In your case," 
he said, smiling, "all the technique in the world isn't 
going to do any good, is it?"
"Maybe, maybe not. For the time being, I'll 
follow your lead." He jerked a thumb at the city 
below. "You want me to leave now?"
Ahira hadn't thought about it. In the game, 
daytime was safer than night. But a thief was at his 
best in the dark. "Hmmm. How far away would you 
say that the city is?"
"Five miles, or close to it. You want another 
opinion?"
"No, I'm sure you're right." That sounded phony, 
even in his own ears. But the point, that he was 
going to trust Lightfingers, had gotten across; 
Lightfingers was smiling. "What do you think the 
chances are that they lock up the city at sundown?"
"If they don't, I'd be surprised. Why build a wall 
around a city if you don't lock up?"
"Right. So, time it so you get there just about an 
hour before sundown. Plan to spend the night inside. 
Find out whatever you can, then get back up here, 
first thing in the morning. Understood?"
"Fine." The thief nodded. "Which means — 
figure it'll take two hours to get down there — that I 
ought to leave, say, about three hours after noon. 
Sounds good?"
Noon was still a while off; the sun was at about a 
forty-five-degree angle. "Right. So get Hakim. We'll 
see if there're any blankets in those boxes. You two 
duck into the woods and get some sleep." It would 
be best for them to stay awake all night. In 
preindustrial cities, the night was a time of danger, 
when the only safe place to sleep would be behind 
locked, barred doors.
"Hakim?" Lightfingers glared down at him. 
"What do you mean?"
"He's going along." I may have to trust you a bit, 
Jason, but I'm not going to go overboard about it. 
"Two is better than one. Besides, I want you to keep 
an eye on him."
A snicker, "Don't play games with me. It's me 
that — "
"Ahira, Lightfingers — we found something." 
Andrea jumped up from in front of a now-open box, 
waving a sheaf of paper. "It's a letter. From Dr. 
Deighton "



CHAPTER FOUR:
"It Should be Relatively Easy"

There is no one who can return from there
To describe their nature, to describe their 
dissolution.
That he may still our desires.
Until we reach the place where they have gone.
--The Song of the Harper, Stanza Five

Jason threw his arms up in disgust. "I can't read that. 
What the hell language is it in?" It was frustrating. 
The letters on the page looked familiar, but strange. 
Clearly, they formed words. But not for him.
Andrea's brow wrinkled. "It's easy. Listen: 
'Tikrach amalo, ift recet quirto blosriet az..."
Dear friends, please accept my sincere 
apologies...
She raised her head. "Can't any of you read?"
Barak tugged at his beard. "No." He shook his 
head sadly, "l can understand it, but I'm not literate. 
Not in Erendra."
Erendra. Eren meant man, or human; dra was a 
shortened form of dravhen, mouth. Man-mouth: a 
language for humans. But how did he know that? 
No, Jason didn't know that — Lightfingers did. And 
that's who I am.
Ahira shrugged. "That makes sense, actually. 
Aristobulus, Doria — take a look. Bet you can read 
it."
They could. "It's easy," Doria said. "But you 
can't...?"
No, Hakim, Barak, Ahira, and Lighrfingers 
couldn't.
"Damn." Lightfingers rubbed his fingertips 
against his stump. It did make sense, of a sort. They 
all had the abilities of their characters, plus their 
memories of the other side. But no more than that. 
Barak, Lightfingers, Hakim, and Ahira weren't 
literate in the game; warriors and thieves didn't need 
to be. On the other hand, clerics and wizards had to 
be able to read.
He licked the tip of his index finger and wrote his 
other name in the dust on top of an unopened box. 
JASON. He could read that, at least. Thank God.
"Right." Ahira looked down at the letters, just a 
few inches below his eyes. "We haven't lost 
anything, but" — he smiled —  "alu n'atega nit damn 
ekta, pi agli." We haven't gained too damn much, 
either.
Interesting. Damn was the same word in both 
languages. And that suggested a possibility....
He looked at the others. Barak was the most 
bothered by it; the big man sat on the ground, his 
face buried in his hands. Or was it Barak that was 
bothered? Quite probably, illiteracy was more 
distressing to Karl.
Hakim stood easily, confidently. "Well, which of 
you magical folks is going to give me reading 
lessons? Damned if I'm not going to be able to 
read."
"That's the spirit." Ahira clapped him on the back. 
"But maybe we're not going to have to hang around 
here long enough for that to be a problem. Andrea, 
how about reading the letter? Out loud, for the sake 
of us" — he smiled — "disabled types."
Barak shook his head. "Why the hell didn't he just 
write it in English?"
Andrea, sitting with the letter on her lap, smiled 
reassuringly at him. "He did, I think, But the letter 
translated across, just as our bodies did. Either that, 
or he was trying to show off. An?"
The old man twined his fingers in his gray beard, 
"I don't know; it could work either way." He closed 
his eyes. "Which... depends on the complexity of the 
spell he used. And that depends on how magic 
works there." He opened his eyes and shrugged. 
"Which is something I can only guess at. Let me see 
the letter." He held out a hand. "I — "
"No." It was bad enough that he'd been robbed of 
his literacy, at least for all practical purposes. But 
Jason didn't want to become some sort of second-
class citizen. "No, you read it. Out loud. Give all of 
us a chance to understand it at the same time."
Ahira nodded. "Go ahead."
She began, reading in Erendra, pausing only 
occasionally for breath.

Dear Friends,
Please accept my sincere apologies for not 
warning you about what was to happen. I am sorry 
for any distress you suffered, but I really had no 
choice: Had I warned you, you never would have 
believed me.
As I am sure you have gathered by now, you are 
in the world on which I modeled the little games we 
played together. Except they weren't just games.
I am not going to bore you with a long rendition 
of the difficulties this caused me as a child, but I 
have always had an ability to see into another world 
— this world that you are now in, since you are 
reading this. Quite clearly, I am not the only one 
who has ever had these visions, although I flatter 
myself by feeling that no one has ever had them so 
clearly. Not that it is ever terribly clear; the different 
time rates of our two worlds have always made 
events on the other side — your side — seem to 
happen so quickly that they are difficult to follow, 
even when my fleeting visions are so powerful that 
they overwhelm my senses.
My friends, I hunger for this world; given the 
chance, here, I know that I would be the most 
powerful wizard that this world has ever known. 
Were I able to transfer myself, as I did you. I would 
have.
But I can't. Magic works differently in the two 
worlds; in ours, it is an erratic force. As I write this, 
I have been trying to transfer material objects for 
twenty years, succeeding only slightly better than 
one percent of the time. And always, the objects 
change; only recently have I been able to control 
that change.
People, or any sentient creatures, are a different 
matter. There is a force in our world, called the 
collective unconscious, which inhibits the transfer of 
such. To put it simply, all of you belonged in our 
world, and there was nothing that I could do to 
transfer you as long as that obtained.
But there is ample evidence of individuals who 
have been liberated from the collective unconscious, 
and, given the proper set of conditions, have popped 
from one world to the other. Benjamin Bathurst and 
Ambrose Bierce are the two best known examples; 
no doubt there have been others.
As I write this, I don't know if I will be able to 
duplicate those conditions with any success; I do 
know that I can't do it for myself. A corollary of self-
referential theory may, indeed, make that an 
impossibility for one confined to our world.
But, as you read this, you know that I have been 
able to duplicate those conditions for you, with the 
aid of much preparation and your participation in 
our game. I don't know who you are — as I write 
this. I have been trying different combinations of 
enchantments and individuals for a number of years, 
setting up caches of supplies at many different sites. 
The sites have been, as I'm sure you have gathered 
by now, always the places where our campaigns 
have started.
I would be very surprised if you all are not angry 
with me right now. But please try to understand: 
With what I know from my sight, I could he the 
greatest wizard, the most powerful user of magic 
that this world has ever known; instead, I find myself 
in the grips of academia, this world hovering in 
front of me like a ripe fruit.
But there is a way across. In this universe, there 
is a device called a Gate, a Gate Between Worlds, 
that can open up a pathway between our universes. I 
ask that you go to the Gate, and bring me through.
And in return, I promise to gratify your every 
wish.
To make this possible, along with the various 
supplies you will find in the other boxes, there is one 
box which I am certain you will regard as a treasure 
chest. Its contents are the result of years and years 
of research and experimentation. You will find a 
Horn, a lengthy book of spells, ten Cloaks of 
Transposition — but I don't need to go on; the 
contents are self-explanatory. Use and enjoy them.
These devices, together with the map of this 
world, will enable you to get from where you are to 
where the Gate is, and help you subdue the Gate's 
guardian so that you can bring me through with 
ease.
As for the rest of the supplies, they should prevent 
your having to buy anything locally. Please 
distribute the brandy among yourselves as a treat 
from me, and in partial apology for the discomfort I 
have caused you.
When you bring me through, you will receive the 
rest of my apology. Those among you foolish enough 
to wish to return to our dull, drab world will be 
given a ton of gold. And for those of you who wish to 
remain with me. I promise to gratify your every 
wish. And I mean that literally.

Andrea lifted her head, and looked directly at 
Barak. "And it ends, 'with most sincere best wishes.' 
"
Barak rose to his full height, slipping his 
scabbard from his sword, and dropped the scabbard 
to the grass. "Can you hear me, you bastard? This is 
what you get, when I get my hands on you." He spun 
on Aristobulus. "Get a sword."
"What?" The old man cowered.
"Get a sword, so I can kill you fairly. That box!" 
He waved his sword at the shards littering the 
hillside. "The one with the treasures. You broke it, 
you — "
"Enough, Barak." Ahira moved in front of him, 
his battleaxe held easily in his massive hands. 
"We're in enough trouble as it is. I'm not going to 
have you — or anyone else — killed. Is that 
understood?''
Barak snickered. The dwarf was threatening him? 
Ahira might be a lot stronger, but his sword had the 
reach. "Me killed? Don't be more stupid than — "
"Karl!" Andy-Andy moved between the two. 
"Stop it."
Karl? Who is — "Oh." He took a deep breath. He 
was Karl Cullinane, and Karl Cullinane did not 
carve up a helpless old man like a side of beef.
He stooped slowly and picked up his discarded 
scabbard, slipping the sword easily home.
Aristobulus got to his feet. "I understand your 
anger. I was most... disoriented upon awakening." 
He turned to the others. "And I do apologize, to the 
entire company." He sucked in air through his teeth. 
"But it is worst for Andrea and myself. The box I 
inadvertently destroyed contained the spell book. 
Unless we can find duplicates, I am limited to the 
spells in my head. Just those, and when they are 
gone, no more." The wizard took a step back and 
raised his hands. ''It would be a shame to waste one 
— Fire, say — in defending myself."
Barak smiled and took a step forward. "Try it, I 
bet I get my hands around your throat bef — " The 
prick of a knifeblade at the back of his neck stopped 
him.
"Easy, Karl." Walter was calm as always, "No 
fights. You heard Ahira."
If he moved forward quickly enough, while 
kicking back hard enough, he could — no, Barak 
thought, not a good risk. "Then how about — "
Ahira held up a palm. "I'll deal with Aristobulus." 
He turned to the wizard. "Put your arms down."
"I — "
"Put them down!" The dwarf planted himself in 
front of the old man, dropped his axe to the ground, 
and folded his arms over his massive chest. "We had 
better settle this now. Are you willing to take orders 
like everyone else, or do you want to strike out on 
your own?"
Aristobulus sneered. "That's an empty threat. You 
don't dare abandon me." He waved a hand at Andy-
Andy. "And leave her as your only wizard?"
Ahira turned his back on him. "Then get going. 
Hakim, put the knife away. Barak, you agree that I'm 
in charge?"
He rubbed at the spot where the knifepoint had 
been, surprised to find no blood on his finger. "For 
now." Was the dwarf really going to get rid of 
Aristobulus? With the loss of the treasure box, that 
would make things more than difficult. But he was 
right. They were in enough trouble; there just wasn't 
room for internal dissension. "As long as you think 
you can get us home, Ahira."
The dwarf nodded. "I don't just think it, I swear 
it." He turned back to the wizard and did a double 
take, as though he were surprised to see Aristobulus 
still there. "I thought I told you to get going."
"Now wait a minute. You — "
"No. You're either one of us, or you're not. You 
decided not. So leave."
"But... how can I — how do you expect me to — 
"
"Frankly, I expect you to die. A wizard, without 
spell books, alone? You don't have a chance. You 
needed us more than we needed you." Ahira planted 
a hand against Aristobulus' chest and pushed him 
sprawling. He turned to Karl. "If he's not gone in 
two minutes, you get a chance to see whether you 
can work that sword faster than he can work his 
mouth." The dwarf closed one eye in a broad wink.
Good for you. I just hope that this works. 
"Understood." He took a step toward the fallen 
wizard.
"Wait!" The fear in Aristobulus' voice matched 
the ashen pallor of his face. "I agree. You're in 
charge."
Karl didn't look at Ahira as he advanced on the 
wizard. "You want to give him another chance?"
"Yes." The dwarf walked away. "Help him up."
Karl smiled at Ahira's back. I'm not sure I like 
you. But I'm sure as hell not going to cross you. He 
looked from Doria to Lightfingers to Walter, then let 
his eyes rest on Andy-Andy's. They had all gotten 
the point, too.
But you'd better make it work. You'd damn well 
better.

Ahira had been off by himself for a while, sitting 
on a fallen tree and staring at an anthill, when Doria 
walked over.
"James? Mind if I join you?"
"Sit." He kicked a heel against the rough bark, 
feeling it crunch satisfactorily. He quelled a muted 
resentment at her presence; it had been good to be 
by himself, not have to juggle six, twelve 
personalities No, fourteen — including both of his 
own.
She smoothed her robes around her legs and 
seated herself gracefully on the grass in front of him, 
peering at him out of unblinking, yellow-irised eyes.
He looked away. A strange reversal this was. 
Usually, she was the one who avoided his eyes. 
"What is it?"
"We have a problem."
"Really?" He arched a brow. "Just one? That 
would be nice. Very nice. Which one are you 
referring to? Right now, I'm busy chewing my nails 
over Hakim and Lightfingers. I can think of half a 
score of things that could go wrong down there, and 
not much we could do about any of them. How long 
have they been gone, anyway?"
"A couple of hours. But I meant that we have a 
new problem." She rubbed at her eyes. "I can't get 
my spell back."
"What?" A cleric wasn't like a wizard, dependent 
on rememorizing spells from books. For a cleric, 
getting a used spell back was just a matter of praying 
for it. At least, it was supposed to be.
"I tried. Honest, I tried. But it just didn't work."
He didn't bother to keep the anger, the frustration 
out of his voice. "You tried what?"
"Praying. To the Healing Hand. But nothing 
happened."' She scratched at the back of her hand, 
leaving long led weals. "I can feel the other spells in 
my head. All of them — but I can't get the one I 
used back." A stray blond strand came to rest over 
one eye; she pushed it away. "Maybe..."
"Maybe what?" This was frightening; the one 
thing he had been able to count on was their magic 
working.
"Maybe if I believed..."
He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. "You 
mean to tell me that with all that's happened to us, 
you don't believe in magic?"
"Stop it. Stop it." He let her shrug his hands away. 
"It's not that. It's just that the notion of a god of the 
Healing Hand, a..."
"Benign deity?"
"...doing good, healing people — it just seems so 
absurd." She fastened slim fingers in her hair. "After 
all that's happened to us — after all that's happened 
to me — I just can't accept that. Not really."
"You're not just talking about here." This was a 
side of Doria he had never really seen, But beyond 
the friendly facade, the polished nails and slightly 
awkward manner, he had, sometimes, sensed a deep 
sadness.
"No, not just here." She worked her mouth, but 
no words came. Doria buned her face in her hands.
''You don't have to talk about it if you don't want 
to," he said, then cursed himself for putting it that 
way. Confession was a powerful cleanser of the 
psyche, he should have asked her to talk about it, 
made her talk about it. "But tell me, anyway." That 
sounded lame. Damn.
"I can't."
He reached out, gently pulling her hands from her 
face. "Don't worry about it," Ahira forced a smile. 
"I'm sure that everything will work out. And if you 
want to talk about it later, I'll be here. Wherever here 
is." He stood and helped her to her feel. "I saw some 
cans in one of the boxes. How about you read them 
for me? If one of them's salmon, we'll split it."
Her smile was almost natural. "But did you see a 
can opener?"
He hefted his axe. "Yup."



CHAPTER FIVE:
Lundeyll

The day is for honest men, the night for thieves.
 — Euripides

Lightfingers sidestepped a rut on the dusty road. 
"How do you want to play it?"
Hakim smiled. "The first thing we do," he said, 
"is find ourselves a tavern, and get ourselves a 
drink." He cocked his head to one side. "Unless, of 
course, we can find ourselves a willing tavern girl."
They were half a mile from the city, the walls 
looming dark and massive ahead of them. 
Lightfingers found it strange, actually, that there was 
still spring in Hakim's walk; the hike down the hill 
and along the road hadn't made an impact on the 
younger man.
Lightfingers raised his hand. "Hold it a moment; 
got to catch my breath." He forced a chuckle. 
"Besides, since when have you been willing to 
share? 'We'?" Not that anything interested him after 
that walk, except a place to sit down, and something 
to drink Preferably something cool.
Hakim clapped him on the back. "That's the 
spirit. Jason, m'friend, we may be down here on 
business, but I didn't hear the dwarf say we couldn't 
have fun, too. How much do you have on you?"
He shrugged. "I don't know exactly. One 
platinum piece, five gold, eight silver, six copper — 
something like that."
"Pretty good for not knowing exactly, Jason."
"Call me Lightfingers," He rubbed at his stump. 
Jason Parker was a young man with a full 
complement of limbs, Was...
"Lightfingers, then. Look, Doc apparently went to 
one hell of a lot of trouble to get us here and get us 
supplied. I doubt that he would've outfitted us with 
money that wasn't good — at least at bullion rates "
"Whatever they are."
"Right."
A creaking from ahead sped them around the 
bend. A stocky peasant, dragging a creaking 
handcart, smiled a greeting through gapped teeth. He 
stopped to run the blunt fingers of one hand through 
his greasy blond hair while he balanced the cart with 
his other.
"Greetings, friends," he said in Erendra, his 
vowels overlong to Lightfingers' ears, "Bound for 
Lundeyll?"
Lightfinger walked over and brushed an 
imaginary speck of dirt from the peasant's shoulder. 
His jerkin was similar to Lightfingers', but cut more 
broadly. "Yes, we are. — There. That looks better, 
friend. And how is the trading today?"
The peasant patted his pouch, then waved a hand 
at the muslin sacks on his cart. "Good." He lowered 
the cart, letting it balance on the two struts that 
depended from the handles. "In fact" — he 
rummaged around in the cart, producing a bulging 
winesack —  "good enough that Wen'l of 
Lundescarne would share a drink with two strangers. 
For luck." He uncorked the bag and drank deeply, 
two trickles of purple running from the corners of 
his mouth and into his beard. "If you would honor 
me?"
"Delighted." Hakim elbowed Lightfingers aside, 
accepted the winesack, and tilted it back. "Good. 
Very good." He wiped his mouth on the back of an 
arm, handing the sack to Lightfingers.
Lightfingers drank. Hakim was right; the wine 
was good. The dark, lukewarm liquid washed the 
dust from his mouth, replacing it with a tingling, a 
rippling effervescence that burbled down his throat, 
setting up warm vibrations in his middle. 
Lightfingers propped the bottom of the winesack on 
his stump and considered taking another swallow. 
No, it wouldn't do to seem too greedy. Better to be 
greedy.
He handed the wine back to Wen'l. "I thank you."
The peasant frowned; an unsummoned memory 
welled up; A drink for luck was a ritual that had to 
be accompanied by an introduction.
"Einar... One-handed thanks you."
Wen'l smiled, his forehead wrinkling as he turned 
to Hakim.
"And Hakim Singh thanks you, as well."
Wen'l's puzzled smile didn't change. "I can see 
that friend Einar is of Osgrad, but you are from...?"
"Secaucus."
Wen'l nodded knowledgeably. "Ahh. And that 
land is to the..." He snapped his fingers, as though 
the direction were on the tip of his tongue.
"West," Hakim supplied. "Far to the west."
The peasant's eyes widened. "Beyond the Bitter 
Sea?"
"Far beyond."
"Beyond fabled D'tareth, even?"
Hakim shot Lightfingers a quick glance. D'tareth 
had been the jumpmg-off point of the last game. The 
last one before this one — no, this wasn't a game. 
"Yes, beyond even D'tareth."
Wen'l nodded wisely. "Oh, yes, I have heard of 
Seecacuse — it just escaped me for a moment." He 
shrugged, dismissing the subject. "Do you need a 
place to stay in Lundeyll?" At Lightfingers' nod, the 
peasant brightened. "Good. If I may, let me suggest 
the tavern of Frann of Pandathaway, on the Street of 
Two Dogs. It is just beyond the public well. Tell 
Frann that you are friends of Wen'l, and I am sure he 
will give you a special rate, a good one." Wen'l 
turned to put the winesack back in his cart.
"Permit me." Lightfingers stepped up and 
stumbled slightly to distract the peasant while he 
opened and emptied Wen'l's pouch, then flicked his 
haul into his sleeve before taking the sack. He 
tucked the winesack under a blanket in the cart. "To 
keep it out of the sun, and cool." Lightfingers raised 
his good hand to his forehead. "And a good day to 
you, friend Wen'l."
The peasant nodded, picked up the handles of his 
cart, and started down the road. "And a good 
evening to you, friends — you should hurry, if you 
wish to reach Lundeyll before sundown."
"We will." Lightfingers tugged at Hakim's arm, 
"Let's hurry, friend Hakim." In a few moments, 
Wen'l and his cart were out of sight Lightfingers 
emptied his sleeve pocket into his hand, "Look at 
these."
"Where did you — you stupid son of a — "
"Look at them."
Hakim held the scattering of coins in cupped 
hands. They were just like the ones they had in their 
own pouches: roughly circular, covered with a 
rippling pattern on one side like a stylized 
representation of waves; the other side decorated 
with a poorly stamped bust of a bearded man. He 
couldn't read the writing — damn, I should have had 
Doria read it to me before we left.
"See?" Lightfingers said. "That solves the money 
problem —  this is local coin. But look at the 
amount. Wen'l said he did well, but there's a full 
dozen coppers to one silver coin. Which means that 
we're rich."
Hakim's face darkened. "No, that means that 
you're disobeying orders. Ahira said no stealing."
He shrugged. "Put them in your pouch." Hakim 
hesitated. "Unless you want to run after the peasant 
and tell him you're sorry we robbed him. Look, 
didn't the dwarf say that we were supposed to gather 
information?"
"Well, yes."
"And isn't the fact that we have legitimate money 
important information? Well, isn't it?"
"Yes, but — "
Lightfingers spat on the ground. "Don't be more 
of a fool than you have to be. He tried to steal from 
us — 'stay at Frann's Inn' — he's probably getting a 
kickback from the innkeeper, who'd know to charge 
us extra."
As Hakim tucked the coins in his pouch, 
Lightfingers kept a smile from his face. The bigger 
thief — hah! — wasn't thinking. Why would 
Lightfingers have him hold his haul? No reason — 
unless Lightfingers intended to add to his take, add 
enough to it that would make a paltry dozen coppers 
and one silver coin seem too small to bother with.
If only I'd known how well off we were. I wouldn't 
have bothered to come along. Just lift all the money 
in their pouches, and run. Which is what I'll do when 
we get back — won't let that opportunity escape me 
again.
"Ja — Einar?" Concern creased the big man's 
face. "Are you all right?"
"Never mind. Just thinking about something." He 
waved a hand at the guard squatting at the 
latticework gate ahead of them. "Let's get him on his 
feet, and get some directions."
He raised his voice and switched to Erendra. 
"You — how do we get to the Street of Two Dogs?" 
Lightfingers smiled at Hakim. "After all, we don't 
have to tell him that Wen'l sent us, eh?"

Frann of Pandathaway mopped at his gleaming 
pate and seated himself across the table from them. 
"I thank you," he said, tossing back a quart-sized 
mug of the sour beer that already had Lightfingers' 
head buzzing. "And would you care to ply me with 
more beer before you start to extract information 
from me? Not that it will do any good." He gestured 
at the scraggly occupants of the low-ceilinged room. 
"There's little enough wealth here. Not enough to 
interest a pair of thieves." Frann raised a bushy 
eyebrow. That appeared to be the only hair on the 
beefy man's body; his mottled forearms and huge 
hands were as naked and hairless as his head.
The tavern was dark and dank, the gloom hardly 
alleviated by a dozen oil lamps sputtering out clouds 
of smoke where they hung from the overhead beams. 
The low, roughhewn tables were littered with pools 
of spilled beer and gobbets of meat.
Lightfingers sipped his beer. Hardly a well-kept 
place, this was. But even at this early hour, Frann's 
tavern was crowded, several scores of men gathered 
around the tables, shouting at the three harried 
barmaids to bring them more beer.
Hakim smiled broadly. "And what makes you 
accuse us of being thieves? As we told you, we are 
men-at-arms." He dropped a hand to the hilt of his 
scimitar. "If you have any doubts, I'd be happy to 
demonstrate. Quite happy."
As Lightfingers set his mug down and reached his 
hand into his jerkin to loosen his dagger in its 
sheath, Frann chuckled deeply, raising both palms in 
mock surrender. "As you say." Shaking his head, he 
pinched a passing barmaid, the bedraggled girl 
rewarding him with a squeal and a scowl. "More 
beer, or I'll feed you to the hogs." He turned back to 
Lightfingers and Hakim. "As long as you don't 
annoy my customers, it's of no interest to me 
whether you're soldiers, or thieves... or whores in 
disguise, for that matter."
Hakim returned his smile. "A rather good 
disguise."
"Indeed." Frann accepted the fresh tankard and 
took a healthy swig before setting it down and 
folding his hands on the table in front of him. "And 
now, my two well-disguised trollops, what is it that 
you want to know?"
Lightfingers considered it for a moment. This 
interrogation of the innkeeper was a waste of time, 
but it couldn't be helped. He had to stay in Hakim's 
good graces until they got back to the hill. And, for 
now, that meant getting information out of Frann.
If the innkeeper knew anything. "Let us suppose 
something," Lightfingers said, idly running a 
fingertip through a puddle of beer on the tabletop. 
"Let us suppose that my friend and I were thieves?" 
He stared sternly at Frann, "Untrue as that is, of 
course."
Frann pursed his mouth. "Why not? And?"
"And let us suppose that we two thieves were 
newly arrived from the west — from the far west — 
looking for something worth stealing, say."
"Then you would probably pay well for 
information, I suppose."
Lightfingers produced a silver coin, spun it on the 
table in front of him. "Possibly so." As Frann 
reached for it, he slapped his hand over the coin. 
"Possibly we would pay for such information, after 
we had received it." Lightfingers left the coin on the 
table as he sipped his beer. "Remember, we are 
supposing that my friend and I are thieves, not 
fools."
"Well put." The innkeeper rested his many chins 
on his fists. "Then I would say this: Take passage 
from Lundeyll. We are poor here." Frann shook his 
head sadly. "It's all I can do to make ends meet, keep 
the lord's men from booting me out into the street. 
Now, if I were a younger man, I'd go back to 
Pandathaway." He scowled, then sighed, "There is 
much worth having, there. I remember once, back 
home, a dwarf paid for a night's lodging with a 
diamond. It was the size of my thumbnail." He 
stared at his dirty, split thumbnail. "I swear, it was."
Lightfingers didn't ask why Frann had left 
Pandathaway. In the second place, the innkeeper 
probably wouldn't tell him. Possibly he had been 
chased out, exiled, or left just a few moments ahead 
of the authorities.
But in the first place, Lightfingers really didn't 
care. "And how would you suggest we get to 
Pandathaway?"
Frann shrugged. "The usual way. Book passage at 
Lundeport." He smiled. "I know a captain who might 
give you a good rate for deck passage."
"Like you gave us here? I don't see the need."
Hakim elbowed him in the side. All this talk of 
stealing was not what the big man was interested in. 
"Perhaps there would be something else, some other 
— "
"Quiet." Lightfingers shook his head. "I find what 
our host is saying to be most interesting."
Frann smiled knowledgeably. "What are you 
really looking for?"
"Actually," Hakim said, quashing Lightfingers' 
objection with a glare, "we've heard of something 
called the Gate Between Worlds."
"Then you're not thieves. You are fools." Frann 
spared his hands. "Even if it exists, then it would 
seem a waste of — " He interrupted himself with a 
shrug. "But it's none of my concern." He turned to 
Lightfingers, palm up. "But I would be happy to tell 
you..." He accepted the coin, beckoned to a barmaid, 
and tucked it into her cleavage. "...what everybody 
else knows, that it's said to be east of Pandathaway, 
somewhere past Aeryk." The innkeeper set his palms 
on the table and levered himself to his feet. "And I 
will add this for free: If you have any talent, you 
would be wise to stay in Pandathaway. Steal from 
the dwarves, from the elven. The risk is great, but so 
are the rewards — if you're good enough." He turned 
away, muttering, "The size of my thumbnail, it 
was...."
Lightfingers drained his tankard and shook his 
head. "A genius, that's what you are. A genius."
"What did I do?"
"You told him the truth, stupid. Look, as long as 
we didn't seem too eager, I could have kept him 
talking, probably all night. A silverpiece is worth a 
lot here — haven't you been listening? Hell, we 
could buy this place, serving girls and all, for what 
we've got in our pouches."
Hakim shrugged his bare shoulders. The big man 
was completely unaffected. By Lightfingers' scorn, 
by the hike down, by the chill drafts blowing 
through the tavern, by the quarts of beer he had 
consumed. "As you pointed out, money isn't a 
problem for us." His expression grew grave. "And 
no more stealing, by the way. Understood? There's 
nothing worth taking here, and we don't need any 
trouble with the locals. How'd you like to try 
climbing those walls?"
Lightfingers rubbed his stump against the edge of 
the table. "Wouldn't be hard; they've got a walkway 
around the top, and staircases leading up to it — the 
walls are intended to keep people out, not in. It 
would be tough to get over them from the outside. 
And I could have done that barehanded, before I lost 
my — "
"Jason." Hakim's face creased with concern. 
"What the hell are you thinking of? You sound as if 
you think..."
"That I'm Einar Lightfingers?" He sneered. "Who 
do I look like? And who do I have one hand like?" 
He slammed his stump down on the table. "For all I 
know, this Jason Parker was only a dream. Here is 
real." He waved his stump under Hakim's nose. 
"This is real."
He pushed himself to his feet, wobbling. The 
beer, that was the trouble. He'd had enough to get 
angry on, but not enough to relax on. Yes, that was it 
— time for some more, to smooth things out.
The room canted off to the left; he snatched his 
tankard from the table and veered right, toward a 
stoppered keg in the corner.
He was halfway there when the huge oak door 
swung open and three men stepped into the tavern. 
Two were soldiers, tall and muscular in chain armor, 
swords belted to their waists, each leaning a short 
stabbing spear against the wall.
The third man, though, made Lightfingers' palm 
itch. Man? Maybe boy was more accurate: he looked 
to be about sixteen, blond, with sunken dark eyes in 
a narrow face. His soft purple cape, the many-
jeweled ring on the thumb of his ungloved right 
hand, the bulging pouch at his waist — all of it 
screamed Wealth.
Frann bustled over as the background chatter 
died, the new stillness almost painful. "Lord Lund! I 
am honored!"
With a crooked smile, the boy removed his other 
glove and slapped it lightly across the innkeeper's 
face, his men-at-arms smiling at his side. "Not Lord. 
Not yet. Just Lordling, until ray blessed father 
dies...." He cocked his head to one side and laid a 
hand on the larger soldier's arm. "Marik, I believe 
that this fat beerseller has just insulted my father."
"M-my apologies, Lordling," Frann sputtered, his 
fingers knotting at his waist. "I meant no insult to 
your noble father, may he live forever."
"Oh? Then you think me incompetent to rule 
Lundeyll?"
"No, not at all... I... I mean, what may I bring 
you?" The innkeeper clumsily dodged the paradox. 
Clearly, the lordling would choose to take offense at 
whatever Frann said. He gestured four men away 
from a nearby table, and wiped at its top, then his 
own face, "Beer? Wine?" He held a chair for the 
boy.
Lund stood silent for a moment, then shrugged. 
"Let's let it pass, for once." He sat. "And you, 
innkeeper, will bring us nothing." He jerked a finger 
at the least bedraggled of the serving girls. "Wine. 
Your best. Which, I suspect, is none too good. Oh — 
and clean glasses, if you please?"
The barmaid scurried off toward the back.
Lightfingers kept his face blank as he filled his 
tankard, then returned to his table. He sipped his 
beer slowly as the level of noise in the room began 
to pick up, returning to only a fraction of its previous 
level. Everybody in the room was patently terrified 
of the slumming lordling. Which was an advantage, 
of sorts. It might make it — 
"Don't even think about it!" Hakim hissed.
Lightfingers smiled, taking a deep draught of the 
sour beer. The taste actually got better after a while. 
"Easy, my friend. I wouldn't," Unless the 
opportunity presents itself. Then I wouldn't bother 
going back to the hill with you. I'd just book myself a 
passage to Pandathaway, and spend my time picking 
up diamonds the size of an innkeeper's thumbnail. 
"Wouldn't think of it."
"Good." Hakim sat back. "I think it would be a 
good idea if we get out of here quietly, make our 
way back to our room. It's a bit stuffy there, but I 
don't like — "
"You." The smaller of the two soldiers stood in 
front of them, glaring down at Lightfingers. "Didn't 
you see me beckon to you?"
"No, I — "
"Very well." The soldier tugged at his forelock in 
a sarcastic genuflection. "Lordling Lund requests the 
great honor of your company at his table. He likes to 
drink with the common people. If you will come this 
way?"
Lightfingers called up an expression of terror. 
Speaking of opportunity... "M-my pleasure, s-sir." 
He stood slowly, and walked shakily over to where 
the boy sat, a cruel smile flickering across his thin 
lips.
"Be seated." He nodded at a chair. "And you 
are...?"
"Einar. Einar One-Hand, Lordling." Lightfingers 
was too obviously the name of a thief.
A clay winebottle and four glasses arrived, the 
barmaid setting them in front of the boy, then 
scurrying away, her smile unchanging, as though it 
had been painted on.
"Allow me," the boy said, pulling the cork, then 
pouring wine in two of the mottled glasses. "My... 
friends don't like to drink while they are working." 
He raised a glass to his lips and took a sip. Lund 
frowned. "Too tannic." He lowered his glass and 
smiled. "I hope you won't be offended by their 
abstinence?"
"Oh no, Lordling. I follow the same custom."
Lund picked up his glass again and drank deeply, 
the overflow of the purple liquid running down his 
chin and onto his tunic. That was good; either the 
boy was normally a slob, or he was more than a little 
drunk. "Please drink, Einar One-Hand. After all, you 
are paying for the wine, are you not?" The two 
soldiers looked at each other, smiling knowingly. 
Obviously, this was not Lund's first stop on a night 
of slumming, drinking with the common folk, 
forcing them to pay for his wine.
"Of course. I am honored." Lightfingers drained 
his own glass, then let his hand fall into his lap. It 
should be easy, actually. The purse dangled from the 
near side of Lund's belt, hanging next to Lightfingers 
as though it were a ripe fruit, begging to be picked. 
He reached out his hand — 
"Would you be kind enough to pour me another 
glass?" Lund rapped his wineglass against the table. 
"It shee — seems that I am a bit uncoordinated this 
evening."
Lightfingers kept his scowl off his face. 
"Delighted, Lordling." He poured, then set the bottle 
down. A bit of distraction seemed called for; he 
brought his stump up to the table as he let his hand 
drop to his side.
The boy recoiled. "I... I understand your name 
now. How did you lose it?"
Easy, now... Lightfingers dipped two fingers into 
the mouth of the boy's pouch and pried them apart 
gently, slowly. Easy... "An accident. It was crushed 
in a mill." Inside the pouch was a jumble of coins; 
he grasped one between his fingers and eased it out.
It was platinum, thick and heavy.
Lightfingers fingerflipped it into his sleeve 
pouch, then took another, careful to be slow enough, 
smooth enough to prevent it from clinking against 
the others.
"Long ago?"
"Many years, Lordling. Many years." He took 
another, then another, slipping them carefully into 
his sleeve pocket. That's enough for now. No sense 
in being too greedy, Jason.
Jason? I'm Jason? Then what — 
His hand slipped.
Its full weight came to rest on the pouch.
And tugged firmly on the boy's belt.
Lund's eyes shot downward. "My pouch!" He 
snatched at Lightfingers' wrist, his glass clattering 
on the table.
Rough hands grasped Lightfingers' shoulders; a 
sharp blow to the back of his neck sent the world 
spinning.
"Marik — grab his friend, too," Lund rasped.
He opened his eyes. Hakim was in the doorway, 
his scimitar in his hand, off-balance as though he 
had decided to run, then changed his mind. He 
snatched a knife from his belt, sent it spinning 
toward the soldier holding Lightfingers
The knife clanked against chainmail, then 
clattered harmlessly, uselessly to the floor.
"Don't be a fool, run." He put all his strength into 
a scream. "Now!"
The big man hesitated. The smaller soldier picked 
up the knife and flung it at him.
With a meaty thunk, it sank into Hakim's 
shoulder. Dripping blood, he staggered through the 
doorway and into the night.
"Get him, Marik." The soldier, sword in hand, ran 
after him.
The other wrestled Lightfingers to his feet.
Lordling Lund stood easily in front of him, 
hefting a spear. "We will deal with your friend. I 
promise." He twirled it, the foot-long steel head 
catching and shattering the light of an overhead 
lamp. "But you won't see that, will you?" He 
touched the spearpoint to Lightfingers' tunic.
His arms were held behind him; no way to reach 
his dagger. Not that that would do a lot of good. 
"Lordling, let me explain. Please." What can I say? 
But I've got to say something, talk my way out. It 
can't end like this.
The boy hesitated, then nodded, "Of course."
"You misunderstood me. I — " An explosion of 
pain burned through his belly.
He screamed.
Bloody vomit choked his throat, spewed out of 
his mouth and down the front of his tunic.
He looked down. Half of the spearhead was sunk 
into his midsection.
Lund pulled the spear out and considered its 
bloody head. "A gut wound, I always liked gut 
wounds."
He was a long time dying. He only stopped 
screaming toward the end.



CHAPTER SIX:
Second Blood

... a soldier.
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the 'pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation,
Even in the cannon's mouth.
 — William Shakespeare

Barak came awake at a touch, flinging away the 
blankets, reaching for his sword — 
"Easy." Ahira's voice was a harsh whisper. "It's 
only me."
He set the sword back on the grass and tightened 
his cotton loincloth around his hips. That had been 
enough to sleep in, on a warm night.
He looked around. Within the circle of wooden 
boxes, everyone else was asleep, sprawled out under 
their blankets like a collection of corpses — except 
for Andy-Andy, who was huddled under hers in a 
fetal position, shivering in her sleep. Barak 
shrugged. It was her own fault: Not only had she 
turned down his suggestion that they share each 
other's warmth, but she had stubbornly ignored his 
reminder to make certain she kept at least two-thirds 
of her covering underneath her. The ground stole a 
body's warmth more readily than even the chilliest 
air.
Rubbing his eyes, he glared up at the dwarf, not 
able to make out his expression in the dim starlight. 
"My turn to go on watch? Already?"
"No." Ahira beckoned him to his feet. "Look 
down the hill, down toward the city,"
Barak drew air into his lungs and stared off into 
the distance. Nothing. A few lights twinkling in the 
city, stars shimmering over the sea, but that was all.
Wonderful. Our leader is jumping at shadows. 
"So?"
"You don't see anything on the road?"
Below them, the road was a black ribbon on a 
black background. "Don't be silly. You do?"
"I... I thought I saw a shape, like somebody fallen 
— there it is. Can't you see it? It's glowing like a — 
"
"Glowing?" He stared. Nothing. Oh. "I don't see 
in the infrared, remember?"
"Sorry — wait." The dwarf pointed. "But you can 
see that, can't you?"
Barak followed the other's gesture. Farther down 
the road, lanterns twinkled like fireflies. Three — 
no, four of them. They were too far off, too dim for 
Barak to make out the shapes holding them, but... "I 
do see the lanterns. But why are they out — ''
"Ohmygod. The shape on the road — it's Hakim," 
The dwarf spun around. "Everybody, up. Now.'"
Barak stooped to pick up his scabbarded sword. 
Best to keep it in its dark sheath, lest the bright steel 
reflect light, announcing his presence. He cast a 
longing look at his leather armor, heaped next to his 
blankets on the grass. "I'd better take it."
"Like hell you will. No time."
"No, I didn't mean the armor. I meant I'll get him, 
bring him back. Your legs are too short to run fast." 
Four of them, eh? He would have to take out two 
quickly, before they became aware of his presence. 
And even two-on-one would be a chancy shot. "Get 
your crossbow, follow me."
Ahira's face was still unreadable. He hesitated. 
Then: "Go."
Barak sprinted away. Behind him, Ahira called to 
the others. "Get up, damn you all."

Barak reached Hakim when the soldiers were still 
a few hundred yards away, the flicker of their 
lanterns announcing their coming. "Walter!" He 
reached out a hand and felt at the thief's neck. Good; 
there was a pulse. He slipped his hand down, his 
fingers coming away sticky. There was a knife in the 
thiefs shoulder, dripping blood.
He rubbed his hand on his thigh. Where the hell 
was Lightfingers? No time to worry about that now. 
He could try to move Hakim off the road, but that 
might be too dangerous. There could be other 
wounds; moving him might kill him.
He smiled. Besides, there was some business to 
take care of first.
Slipping silently into the bushes beside the road, 
he loosened his sword in its sheath. Well, Karl, now 
we find out if you have it.
Karl? No — Barak. Karl Cullinane hadn't raised a 
hand in anger since the third grade. Karl wouldn't 
squash a spider; he'd lift it on a piece of paper and 
fling it out of a window instead.
Karl was a peasant, Barak a warrior. So it had to 
be Barak, not Karl.
And to a warrior, everything is a challenge, or a 
reward. But he had to decide what the challenge 
was. Merely chasing them away wouldn't do; 
perhaps they could dig up reinforcements. He had to 
take out four soldiers — no euphemisms, kill them 
— and he had to do it without getting hurt himself. 
Doria had none too many healing spells left; Walter 
might need all of them.
"Arno, I think I see him," the closest of the 
soldiers said in curiously accented Erendra, then 
broke into a trot. Chainmail and a shortsword, plus 
his lantern — Barak could save him for later. But the 
lantern, dangling from a pole — that had to go 
quickly, before anyone spotted him crouching in the 
bushes.
Barak felt around the ground. His fingers located 
a jagged rock, half the size of his fist. He hefted it 
experimentally, and threw.
The lantern shattered, drenching the soldier in 
flames. He dropped his sword and screamed, his 
skin crackling.
The screams were like a signal to the other three; 
they dropped their lantern poles, the nearest two 
drawing their swords, the other, probably the leader, 
bringing up his crossbow. Its tip weaved, 
uncertainly.
The wind brought a stench of burning flesh to 
Barak's nostrils. He slipped his sword from its 
scabbard, keeping the blade low, next to the ground.
"Where?"
"I don't see — "
"It's the thief — he's shamming." The leader's 
crossbow leveled itself at Hakim's crumpled form.
Barak gripped his sword and charged out of the 
bushes, directly at the leader, a growl forcing itself 
from his throat.
The crossbow wavered as Barak closed, breaking 
stride to kick one of the swordsmen sprawling, 
ducking under the other's wild swing. Too bad. You 
want to live too much. The leader's drill was 
obvious: Kill one enemy, ignore the other one 
charging you.
He smacked the flat of his sword against the side 
of the crossbow, sending it spinning away in the 
dark, the bolt discharging harmlessly to his left.
The leader's eyes grew wide; he reached for his 
sword as Barak's backswing caught him at the base 
of the neck, the swordtip cleaving his throat 
effortlessly, dark blood fountaining.
The heavyset man clapped both hands to his 
throat, trying to hold the wound closed, his cry of 
pain only a gurgle as a dark torrent poured out 
through his fingers.
Barak spun around, leaving him at his back. No 
time to finish him off, not yet. When it's one-on-
many, you can't worry about killing a disabled 
enemy when there are still unhurt ones around.
The one he had kicked away was gone, vanished 
in the dark, his sword lying still on the ground. 
Where is he? Never mind--worry about him when 
you've killed the other.
The small dark man in front of him smiled, 
crouching, his sword in his right hand, a long, 
curved dagger in his left. "Many thanks for the 
promotion, friend," he said in Erendra, stepping 
lightly forward, his sword weaving like an eager 
cobra. "I never liked Arno anyway."
No time for chatter, there was still one man 
unaccounted for. Barak slashed, the blade of his 
sword parallel to the ground.
The soldier slid to one side, easily deflecting 
Barak's sword with the flat of his dagger. Before 
Barak could bring his sword back into line to parry, 
the slim rapier had nicked at his biceps. It stung, 
terribly.
"Not used to two-swords, eh?" He lunged, in full 
extension.
And gasped down at his right wrist, almost 
severed by Barak's blade. The sword dropped to the 
dirt.
Barak smiled down at the crumpling figure. 
"Then again, maybe I a — "
An arm closed on his throat, dragging him back, 
off-balance. At the edge of his vision, a gleaming 
dagger rose, and started to fall.
Time seemed to slow. You stupid idiot. You know 
better than to chat while a fight's going on. He 
released his grip on the sword, bringing his hands up 
to block the downward thrust, knowing that he'd 
never make it in time.
It just wasn't possible; the knife only had to travel 
a few inches to reach his throat, but his hands would 
have to seize the wrist, stop the downward 
movement — 
Both hands met at the soldier's flaccid arm, as the 
other arm loosened at his throat. He grabbed, 
twisted, brought an elbow back into his enemy's 
midsection, and spun around.
"No need," Ahira's voice rasped from behind.
Barak looked at the soldier. A crossbow bolt 
transfixed the man's head from temple to temple, its 
dark iron head bent, crumpled.
The dead soldier stared up at him, eyes wide in 
reproach.
Twang! Barak turned to see Ahira standing over 
Walter, drawing the string of his crossbow back, 
slipping in another bolt and sending it whistling into 
the leader. "Never worry about conserving bolts. 
Better to make sure that they stay dead." The dwarf 
sent another bolt into the smoldering body of the 
first soldier, the one whose lamp Barak had 
shattered, then looked up, a crooked grin on his 
broad face. "Not bad, Barak. Not too bad at all." He 
frowned. "Except for that stupid bit of bravado. But 
never mind; just do it better next time. Right now, 
we've got to get these bodies hidden, have Doria 
heal Hakim — and you, come to think of it; don't 
want your arm getting infected — then get ourselves 
packed up and out of here. There's probably going to 
be hell to pay — hey, what's wrong?"
Karl Cullinane was on his hands and knees in the 
dusty road, the stench of burning flesh in his nostrils, 
vomiting like a fiend.

Squinting in the dawn light, Ahira tugged at the 
cords lashing his two rucksacks together, then shook 
his head. It would tend to keep him off balance, 
having two packs on his back, but that couldn't be 
helped. Somebody had to carry the extra — either 
that, or leave behind supplies that might be needed.
"Hakim?"
87
THE SLEEPING DRAGON
The thief stopped fiddling with his pack and lifted 
his head. "What is it?"
Ahira held out a hand. "Toss me one of your 
knives. If I have to, I want to be able to cut these 
loose."
"Fine." Hakim flipped a knife point-first into the 
ground at Ahira's feet, then turned back to his work.
Ahira opened his mouth, then closed it. Ever 
since Doria had healed Hakim, he had been distant, 
quiet, not himself Not at all. Best to leave him alone, 
at least for a while. What had happened in Lundeyll 
must have been bad — climbing down a sheer wall 
with a knife in his shoulder, running flat-out for five 
miles with soldiers after him, wanting his blood....
He'll get over it. He's always been strong.
Doria gave her rucksack a final pat, then raised an 
eyebrow in an unvoiced question. There would be a 
bit of time until the others were ready to leave; 
Ahira had assigned loads based on physical strength, 
and the only one with less to carry than Doria was 
Aristobulus. Less to carry; less time to pack.
He gave her a nod and the warmest smile he 
could come up with. "Go ahead." Even if she was 
almost out of healing spells, maybe she could do 
some good.
As Doria crouched beside Hakim, Ahira 
beckoned the others to him.
"You almost ready?" Ahira kept his voice low. 
No need to distract Doria or Hakim.
Andrea nodded. She was keeping her distance 
from Barak. That was strange, considering the way 
she'd behaved the previous morning. Then she had 
clung to him like a leech. "Just a couple more 
minutes."
Barak frowned, rubbing fingertips against the 
bloodstained tear on the arm of his jerkin. The blood 
had dried, and Doria had healed the wound, so it 
couldn't be hurting him.
Then again, not all wounds are to the body.
Barak shrugged. "I'll be done shortly. I can take 
more, if necessary. No need to have the rest put out a 
lot of effort carrying what I can haul easily." He 
flexed his shoulders, threatening to split the seams of 
his jerkin.
Ahira smiled. Barak was getting damn cocky, 
after the way he'd almost gotten himself killed. Then 
again, that was better than his Karl-self exercising 
his guts about a few local soldiers who had been 
trying to kill Hakim and him when they died.
"You too, An? Good. Just as soon as Doria's done 
talking to Hakim, we head down to Lundeport, and 
see if we can book passage to Pandathaway." He 
stooped to pick up Hakim's knife and stuck it 
diagonally under his belt, the cutting edge up, then 
bent carefully at the waist to make certain it was 
secure, and that it wouldn't cut him. A quick check 
on the straps binding his battleaxe to his chest 
showed that they were tight, too, although it would 
take only two quick tugs to undo the loops and free 
the axe.
"Pandathaway? Andrea's forehead wrinkled. 
"God, that sounds familiar." She turned to Barak. 
"Doesn't it, Karl?"
He shook his head. "No. First I've heard of it. 
Maybe you overheard something, when Hakim was 
telling Ahira what happened down there." He glared 
down at the dwarf. "Not that he's seen fit to share it 
with the rest of us."
The warrior had all the sensitivity of a stone. "He 
didn't want to have a bunch of people around," Ahira 
said, not bothering to keep the scorn out of his voice. 
"How would you feel if you'd been cut up like he 
was?"
"Listen — "
"Karl." Andrea took a careful step closer to him. 
"Didn't you tell me once, quite a while back, about 
another character of yours? Something of Pan-
something... ?"
Barak nodded, quizzically, stroking at his beard 
just the way Karl Cullinane used to stroke at the 
stubble on his face. "Sure. Lucius of Pandathaway 
— Pandathaway.''' His face lit up; he dropped his 
sword, grabbed her by the arms, whirling her 
around. "Pandathaway! Of course. I know where we 
are, we — "
"Put me down!" As he did, she rubbed at her 
shoulders, arms crossed defensively across her chest. 
"You practically pulled my arms off, you clumsy — 
"
"Quiet." Ahira turned to the big man, who was 
still grinning like an idiot. "Two things: First, what 
do you mean, you know where we are? Second: 
Why the hell didn't you mention it before?"
"It was a... character Deighton and I rolled up, 
once. I never got a chance to use him, but he filled 
me in on the background — where he came from, 
like that." He rubbed his fists against his temples. 
"I... I don't know why I didn't think of it before. It's 
like there's too much inside my head, too much to 
manage."
"I understand." Ahira had been wrong to give him 
trouble for not remembering. Things in James 
Michael Finnegan's life seemed like something 
distant; it took a bit of effort to be James Michael, 
sometimes, to think like him.
But that didn't cure his impatience. "Would you 
please tell us what you know about Pandathaway? It 
could be — " 
"Damn important." Barak nodded, still smiling. 
"And it's all good. Pandathaway's a port city, on the 
Cirric — "
"The Cirric?"
"It's a huge freshwater sea, sort of like one of the 
Great Lakes, only big — " He caught himself, 
pointed an eager finger at the vast expanse of water 
spreading out over the horizon, "That's the Cirric!"
"Almost certainly. You were talking about 
Pandathaway?"
"You're going to like it. Nice place. No 
government — well, not much of one. The city's run 
by a council of guilds. Lot of them are merchants, so 
they like to keep the city open and safe, to keep the 
customers coming. Doc said that you can buy most 
anything there. There's a saying: Tola ergat et 
Pandathaway ta." Everything comes to 
Pandathaway, in Erendra. Barak shook his head, 
puzzled, "But he didn't say it in Erendra, he said it in 
— "
"It translated." Aristobulus nodded wisely. "As 
we did. It makes sense, if you think about it."
"Not to me," Barak said, shrugging. "But I was 
saying — you can get anything there: jewels, silks, 
spices, slaves, horses —  Lucius owns a 
Pandathaway-bred mare; keeps a quarter horse's 
pace for a full two miles — anything." He beamed. 
"And I haven't even given you the best."
Ahira returned his smile. The swordsman's 
enthusiasm was positively contagious. "Do I have 
three guesses?"
"No. You wouldn't guess right, anyway. In the 
city — right smack in the middle of the city — is the 
Great Library of Pandathaway. Doc said, and I 
quote, 'The Great Library of Pandathaway is to the 
Great Library of Alexandria as a broadsword is to a 
paring knife.' "
Andrea chuckled. "You mean that it's big and 
awkward, no good for paring an apple?"
"Get off my — "
"Shut up." Ahira couldn't help joining in the 
laughter. "What he's trying to say is that there might 
be a map there, to show us where the Gate is."
"Might? If it's known, it's there. It seemed kind of 
strange, then, how he kept going on about it. I 
thought Doc was patting himself on the back."
Aristobulus had been listening quietly, his lined 
face somber, his head cocked to one side. "And there 
might be something else there. Something we need, 
badly." His gesture included both Andrea and 
himself. "Spell books. Give me sufficient time, and 
I'll make two copies of — "
Ahira shook his head. "I hope we have time for 
that. But we might not. Consider — "
"I will consider nothing. Do you have any idea 
what it is like for a wizard to be without spell books? 
It's like being a, a..."
"Being a cripple?" Ahira kept his voice low, as 
his hands balled themselves into fists at his side. "I... 
have some idea of what that feels like." He forced 
himself to open his hands. "Believe that. But tell me: 
How long does it take to write a spell? Just one 
spell, a simple one."
Aristobulus shrugged, indifferent. "Given the 
right materials and enough quiet... ten days, perhaps. 
But I don't see — "
"Precisely. You don't see. And if you don't have 
everything you need on hand? How long would it 
take?"
"That depends, of course. For the Lightning spell, 
the ink must contain soot from a lightning-struck 
tree — preferably oak, of course. And then the pen 
has to be made...." The wizard spread his hands. 
"But it doesn't matter. I have to have spell books. So 
does she."
Ahira shook his head. Didn't the old fool see that 
anything — everything — had to take a back seat to 
getting to the Gate? This world was dangerous. It 
had already cost the life of one of them. They had to 
get home.
And me? Am I going to exchange security for the 
ability to be a full person? Here, I'm not a cripple. 
"Just listen — "
Barak stepped between them. "Let's leave this 
alone for the time being. We should have enough 
time to argue about it on our trip, no?" He frowned.
Ahira nodded, accepting the implied criticism. 
Barak was right, of course: The leader had no 
business getting involved in an argument, not when 
there were things to be done. Maybe Barak should 
take over — no, he hadn't acted very intelligently 
during the fight. An excess of bravado was bad 
enough in a team member.
And besides, I took on the obligation. It's mine, 
not his. "Correct, Barak. My fault. — You haven't 
packed your armor, have you?"
"Huh? What does that have to do with anything? I 
haven't, but I don't see what — "
"Take off your clothes — I need your jerkin, but 
you can keep your leggings. You can put your armor 
on over your bare hide."
"What?"
Ahira smiled. "I said, take your clothes off." Not 
a good time to bring it up, but he didn't want Barak 
musing on the leader's shortcomings. Best to keep 
him off-guard. He sobered. "I don't intend to make a 
habit of explaining myself, but... what do you think 
the chances are that they're looking for Hakim, down 
there? A big man, dressed only in pants, no shirt? 
That can't be too common around here, not from 
what we've seen and heard of the locals. So we make 
sure he isn't dressed only in pants, go for more 
standard clothing. You're the only one bigger than he 
is, so you get to provide the clothes." Ahira extended 
a palm. "It'll be a bit scratchy for you — the inside 
of boiled leather isn't too smooth — but that's the 
way it goes." He tapped a thumb against his axe. 
"Come to think of it, give me your leggings, too. 
You can switch pants with him; they won't look so 
loose on you."
"Now? Here?"
"Now."
Aristobulus snickered; Andrea giggled.
Glaring at all three of them, Barak began unlacing 
the front of his jerkin, then shook his head. He 
chuckled. "You little bastard."
"Right." Ahira returned his smile. "But hurry up; 
I want another chance to talk to Hakim before we 
get going. The sooner I get finished with that, the 
less time you have to wander around in your bare 
skin."

Ahira seated himself in front of Doria and Hakim, 
dropping the pile of clothing to the grass. He jerked 
his head at Doria. "Go put your pack on. We're 
leaving in a few minutes."
She nodded and walked away, shaking her head 
when she got behind Hakim. Clearly, she hadn't 
gotten anywhere with him; he was, sitting against 
one of the now-empty boxes, running stiff fingers 
over the thin pink scar that was all that remained of 
his wound, staring blankly off into space.
"I want you to put those clothes on, before we 
leave. You can give your trousers to Barak. And 
you'd better stash your scimitar in your pack — I'll 
give you my crossbow, so you don't feel naked."
"Fine." He made no move to pick up the jerkin 
and leggings; he just sat there, rubbing the small scar 
as though he were trying to rub it away.
"And you'll be glad to know that Barak knows 
quite a lot about Pandathaway. Sounds like a nice 
place." Ahira crabbed himself sideways, into 
Hakim's line of sight. "No lords."
"That's nice."
The best thing to do would be to try — gently, 
gently — to get him to talk it out. But there just 
wasn't time. The area around Lundeyll was probably 
not a healthy place for any of them. The graves of 
the dead soldiers were shallow, and nearby; it was 
only a matter of time until the bodies were 
discovered. And that would be one hell of a 
problem.
Quite possibly a fatal one. They could all end up 
like Jason Parker.
But why don't I feel anything for Jason? Granted, 
I never liked him — but I should feel something for 
him, now that he's dead.
Ahira shook his head. Introspection could come 
later; for now, he had to get Hakim up and moving. 
One more try the nice way. "I thought I could count 
on you. You disappointed me."
The thief's head snapped up. "What? How the hell 
was I supposed to know that he was going to pick 
Lund's pouch, get himself killed? You told him not 
to take chances, I told him not to..."
Good. Anger was better than shocked numbness. 
"That's not what I meant. We've got to get going. 
But you're just sitting there, feeling sorry for 
yourself — I expected better of you."
Hakim spat. "What do you know about it? You 
ever have to run a few miles with a knife in you, a 
bunch of people behind you, wanting your goddam 
blood?"
"No." Ahira shrugged, then started to rise. "I had 
better go give Doria a talking-to. Looks to me like 
she did a pretty poor job of healing you, if it still 
hurts you like this."
"Wait." Hakim held up a palm; Ahira lowered 
himself back to the grass. "It's not that. The time I 
played in the... game against Cornell — the time I 
played a half with a torn triceps..."
"I remember." He nodded. "That must have hurt 
almost as much as this did."
"It hurt more. But that was different. We won, 
that time."
"We won this time."
"But I didn't." Hakim slammed a fist against the 
ground. "I was supposed to get back intact — with 
Jason, with information."
"One out of three isn't bad, considering the 
situation."
"You don't understand, do you? I've never failed 
at anything before. I'm big, I'm strong, and I'm 
smart. I've always just assumed that was enough. 
This time, it wasn't." His eyes bored into Ahira's, as 
though daring him to deny it. "If you and Karl had 
been just a few seconds slower, I'd be dead. Like 
Jason." He shuddered. "God, James, you should 
have heard him screaming. I could have been next. I 
was lucky."
And you're terrified that you won't be lucky next 
time. I don't blame you for that.
Once, he had envied Walter Slovotsky. His 
attitude, his perfect faith and complete confidence 
that he was firmly at the center of the universe, and 
that all was well with him and his universe — that 
didn't seem so enviable. Not now. A self-image cast 
in stone could shatter. "Of course I never failed at 
anything." That was easy, as long as you didn't run 
into a situation you couldn't handle; that was fine, 
until you had to stagger down a road, armed men 
chasing you, knowing that if you fall, you die.
But when that self-image shatters, where do you 
go from there?
He clapped a hand to the thief's shoulder. "I don't 
know about next time. No promises." He shrugged. 
"But I'll be there, if you need me." He rose to his 
feet. "And for right now, I need you to get back on 
top of things, We had better get down to Lundeport 
and book passage the hell out of here. There could 
be trouble, if anyone recognizes you. On top of that, 
Barak is giving speeches when he should be 
fighting, Aristobulus is objecting to anything and 
everything, Doria can't get her spells back — and 
I'm waiting for Andrea to give me a problem; so far, 
she's the only one who hasn't." He held out a hand. 
"So I need your help."
Hakim sat motionless, then nodded weakly. "I'll 
do my best I... I can't promise that that'll be good 
enough." He accepted the hand, and let the dwarf 
pull him to his feet.
"Welcome to the real world." Ahira found 
himself smiling. Almost. "Now, get the hell out of 
your clothes and into Karl's." He raised his voice. 
"Everybody — we're moving out."

Aristobulus, standing sweatily in his robes, bent 
to lower his rucksack to the sunheated wood of the 
pier. There was no need to keep it on his back while 
Ahira and Hakim negotiated with Avair Ganness, 
captain of the Ganness' Pride — it looked to be a 
long bargaining session, and Aristobulus' muscles 
were already complaining from the strain.
He rubbed a fist against the small of his back and 
closed his eyes, trying to ignore the constant babble 
from merchants arguing over the price of grain, the 
squawking of the gulls overhead, the foul stench of 
rotting fish.
Eyes closed, he could see his own power wrapped 
about him, a strong crimson aura that warmed him 
— and pleasantly, despite the heat of the day. He 
raised his hand in front of his face, working his 
fingers, enjoying the way the redness outlined his 
unseen hand, even as it moved.
It was magic, of course. Which meant that it was 
good. And which meant that it was power — 
something Lou Riccetti had always wanted, but 
never known.
Off to his side, another source blazed — but less 
intensely, much less so. Andrea simply wasn't in his 
league. Was that just because her character had been 
of a lower class than his? Or was it that she just 
hadn't wanted this as badly as he had?
He shrugged. It really didn't matter. The only 
thing that did matter was that he had been reprieved 
by Deighton. Life had condemned Lou Riccetti to be 
an inconsequential little man; at best, a second-rate 
civil engineer in an age when damn close to nothing 
important was being built. No more great suspension 
bridges to span mighty rivers, few if any dams; the 
future of American engineering was in electronics 
— diddling with little circuit diagrams, not building 
things, not making magic.
And if you couldn't make magic with stone and 
steel, all that was left was to dream about real magic. 
All that had been left....
He let his remaining spells cycle through his 
brain, making sure each one was ready and 
complete. Not that that was necessary; an 
incomplete spell wouldn't make his mind pulse, 
wouldn't push at him night and day to release it, as 
though it were some sort of huge sneeze, backed up 
in his nostrils. He could live with that, easily, in 
exchange for the power.
He could even live with the knowledge of his best 
friend's death. His only friend's death. Probably he 
should be mourning Jason; perhaps Lou Riccetti 
would be going over all his contacts with Jason, 
dredging up pleasure and pain from their friendship, 
regretting that Jason was gone.
But he couldn't do it. Not with his power 
wrapping him, keeping him warm. The death of one 
powerless human just didn't seem significant. Now, 
the loss of the spell books, that hurt.
Which makes me a small person, perhaps?
If that was so, then so be it. He — 
"Are you falling asleep?" Andrea asked, nudging 
him. "Standing up?"
He opened his eyes regretfully, the warm glow of 
his power overwhelmed by the bright sunlight. "No."
"Well, Ahira says to keep an eye out for anybody 
who looks official — since the soldiers chasing 
Hakim didn't come back, the locals may be looking 
for him. And I don't think that would be very healthy 
for the rest of us."
"Very well." Although Aristobulus didn't see why 
he had to be the lookout — probably there was 
something interesting going on at the boat. Keeping 
an eye on the shoreside crowd, he moved closer to 
where Hakim was haggling with the captain.
Avair Ganness tapped bare toes on the wood, his 
heavy calluses clicking like dice. "Well then, make 
up your mind. It hardly matters to me. I can make a 
profit of five, perhaps six gold by carrying good 
Lundess wine, instead of you." He spoke Erendra in 
a pleasant rhythm, his r's rolling melodiously. Huge 
shoulders shrugged inside his sweat-stained sailcloth 
tunic, belted at the waist with a length of rope. The 
tunic stopped abruptly at midthigh; below, his thick 
legs projected like treestumps.
Hakim smiled, raising an eyebrow, "There would 
be advantages to carrying us, instead."
Ganness nodded. "That is so." He sighed. "I do 
have this problem — happens to many a man my 
age. It would cost me much to have it cured in 
Pandathaway. Perhaps even more than your passages 
will cost me, all things considered. But only 
perhaps."
Problem? He looked healthy enough.
"That wasn't what I meant." Hakim gestured at 
the crewmen swarming around the sloop, checking 
lines, stowing cargo, pausing occasionally to leer at 
Doria and Andrea. "I have been watching the way 
they check their bows, their arrows. There are few 
spots on deck that don't have a weapon within reach. 
You are concerned about pirates, no?"
"Not concerned. Properly cautious. I've sailed the 
Cirric for... forty years, man and boy. Only run into 
pirates seven, eight times." He grinned, a gap-
toothed smile that was not at all friendly, "And I 
have managed to give a good account of myself, 
those few times." He tossed his head, his waist-
length pigtail curling around his torso like a snake. 
"So I have no need of wizards or warriors to protect 
me. But" — he extended his arm toward Doria, 
frowning as Hakim moved between them — "I do 
require a cleric's help." His face went blank. "But 
that can wait until we dock in Pandathaway. I won't 
need... I won't have any use for it until then. I don't 
bugger my seamen." He smiled at Doria.
Well, that explained what his "problem" was — a 
case of impotence, eh? And just perhaps Avair 
Ganness was a bit more eager to have her cure it 
than he appeared to be — otherwise, he might well 
have set his price for passage at enough money to 
overcompensate the loss of cargo space.
Aristobulus nodded to himself. Yes, that made 
sense — but best to whisper it quietly to Ahira or 
Hakim, rather than confront Ganness. The trouble 
with most people was that they weren't rational; the 
captain might refuse to carry them, just out of 
stubbornness.
He took a few steps closer, and called to the 
dwarf.
"What is it?" Ahira snapped, "We're talking, here 
— and I thought you were told to — " He cut 
himself off, his eyes going wide, as he looked past 
Aristobulus' shoulder.
The wizard turned. A troop of ten — no, twelve 
soldiers were working their way toward the pier, 
stopping and questioning passersby as they came. 
He moved toward the end of the pier, trying to carry 
his rucksack casually.
"We had best conclude this quickly, no?" he said, 
careful to speak in English rather than Erendra.
Ahira turned to the thief, "Hakim?"
Hakim shrugged m the loose tunic.  "I don't think 
they'll recognize me, not unless — cancel that. The 
one with the longbow is Marik — he'll know me, if 
he sees me. Maybe."
"Then turn around."
Ganness frowned. "What tongue was that?"
Barak took a step toward him, smiling faintly. "I 
don't think that is any of your concern, is it?" He 
switched to English. "Better agree to something, 
folks — other than her Heal Disease spell, the only 
decent one she's got left is for Minor Wounds. And 
she's only got one of those left. If we get in a fight..."
Doria spoke up, "I don't remember anyone asking 
me if I wanted to cure him, and then... prove that I 
have."
Aristobulus sneaked a glance over his shoulder. 
The soldiers were still working their way toward the 
end of the pier, where the Ganness' Pride was tied 
up. But unless the one that knew Hakim recognized 
him at a distance, they still had a few minutes; the 
soldiers were a few hundred yards away on the 
crowded pier.
Barak shrugged. "I don't see what your problem 
is. After all, you've always been willing to make it 
with practically any — "
Her hand struck Barak's face with a loud whack! 
It probably wasn't the force of the blow that 
staggered him, it was the surprise.
Aristobulus sighed. It was starting to look like 
he'd have to waste a spell or two. The stupid, 
overmuscled, underbrained — 
"That is it," Ahira snapped, then switched back to 
Erendra as he turned to Ganness. "We have been 
trying to reach an accommodation with you, captain, 
but clearly you're unwilling to talk business," And in 
English: "I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a pimp. 
Hakim, keep your head turned away; everybody, up 
packs and move quietly down the pier. And I do 
mean quietly." He fiddled with the straps holding his 
battleaxe to his chest. "We just might be able to get 
out of this without — "
Doria raised a palm as she shot a look back at the 
approaching soldiers. "Wait. I... I agree to your 
terms, Avair Ganness," she said in Erendra to the 
captain. "Free passage for all, in return for... in 
return for..."
"Agreed." Ganness smiled gently, then spoke to 
the others. "Your cabins are forward, belowdecks. A 
bit cramped, perhaps, but I do keep a clean ship. 
And my cook is of the best; I bought him in 
Pandathaway." Ganness vaulted over the railing, 
landing lightly on the deck. "And you. Lady, I will 
see in my cabin, as soon as we clear the harbor" — 
he ran blunt fingers across his stubbled cheeks — 
"and I shave myself. I'll be gentle, I swear." He 
smiled. "You might even enjoy it."
Her knuckles whitened as she clutched the 
railing. "This is a business affair, Ganness. And I'm 
only agreeing for reasons — "
" — that are nobody else's concern," Ahira 
interrupted. "Captain, you were about to show us our 
cabins?"
"That's him!" A rough voice shouted, from down 
the pier. The twelve soldiers broke into a trot. 
Aristobulus sucked air into his lungs, "I'll slow them 
down — yes?"
Ahira nodded, unstrapping his axe. "Everybody 
else — get on board. Captain, you're about to be in 
the same trouble we are, if you don't get this ship 
moving quickly." Idly, he tore through the leather 
strap that slung his crossbow across his shoulders 
and tossed the bow and his quiver to Hakim. "Use 
it."
Ganness stood motionless for a long moment, 
then shrugged. "It seems I have little choice. All 
hands! Cast off!"
Aristobulus turned, raising his arms. Now, let the 
power flow.... It would have to be the flame spell; 
nothing else would slow down the charging soldiers.
So I'll give you fire. He let the spell click to the 
forefront of his mind, his chest tightening, straining 
as though he had drawn in twice as much air as his 
lungs could handle. The red glow brightened, a hot 
envelope enshrouding him, tingling his skin, so 
intense it blanketed his vision.
And the urgency grew; the spell had been pushing 
constantly at the back of his mind — but pushing 
gently. Now it roared, demanding use, painfully 
growing in his skull until he thought his head would 
explode from the pressure and heat.
Aristobulus released it, the rush of sound so loud 
he couldn't begin to hear or understand the words 
issuing from his own mouth.
The charging soldiers were a scant hundred feet 
away; halfway between the two men at the head of 
the group, the pier exploded into fire. The wood 
glowed with white heat for a moment before it could 
start to flame.
The wall of fire grew, tongues of flame licking 
easily two hundred feet into the sky, roaring, 
crackling.
Aristobulus dropped his hands. It was done.
"You stupid — " Ahira grabbed the collar of his 
robes; the pier dropped away under his feet as the 
dwarf threw him over the rail. He landed on his 
shoulder on the deck of the Ganness' Pride, sliding 
until he banged into a mast.
Pain lanced through him; he staggered to his feet.
And then he understood: He had cast the spell too 
far away; the lead soldiers had been able to get past 
the wall of fire before it blocked the way for the rest.
Ahira waited for them, his battleaxe held easily in 
his hands.
"Cast off, damn you all!" Ganness shouted at his 
crew, following his own orders as he raced to the 
front of the boat to slash through the bow line. "Get 
those sails up — a hard hand on the tiller, there."
The first soldier glanced at the boat as seamen 
pushed it from the pier, then moved toward the 
dwarf, only his outline visible against the wall of 
fire.
Aristobulus had known that the dwarf was strong, 
but he had never realized just how strong; Ahira 
ducked under the swing of the soldier's sword, 
planted the stock of his axe against the man's chest, 
and pushed.
The soldier tumbled back, head over heels, a full 
fifty feet into the leading edge of the fire. He jerked 
to his feet, gibbering and flaming, and twitched 
himself over the side of the pier, splashing into the 
water.
Ahira turned to the other soldier.
A crossbow bolt spanged! into the pier at Ahira's 
feet. Aristobulus turned to see Hakim, swearing, pull 
back the bowstring, then reach for another bolt.
The dwarf moved smoothly toward the remaining 
soldier, feinted with the blade of his axe, caught the 
soldier's swordthrust on the haft of his axe, and 
swung, once.
Once was more than enough. The soldier, 
chainlink armor and all, dropped to the pier, his 
torso twitching itself a few feet away from his legs 
before it stopped. Ahira had sliced the man neatly in 
half.
Raising his bloody axe over his head, Ahira threw 
it at Aristobulus. It thunked into the deck beside 
him, only a yard from his sandaled feet. The dwarf 
took a running start and jumped across the ten feet 
separating the boat and the pier.
"Not too bad, though," he smiled. "Captain, let's 
get out of here.' *
Ganness swore under his breath as he bounded 
across the deck to the tiller.



PART THREE:
Pandathaway



CHAPTER SEVEN:
In the Midst of the Sea

The entire land sets out to work, All beasts browse 
on their herbs,
Trees, herbs are sprouting, Birds fly from their 
nests...
Ships fare north, fare south as well, Roads lie open 
when you rise;
The fish in the river dart before you, Your rays are 
in the midst of the sea.
 — The Great Hymn to the Aten, Stanza Three

Barak stood by himself at the bow, leaning on the 
rail. Starlight shimmered on the flat black water 
ahead; an occasional wash of cool spray tingled his 
face.
He unhitched a small waterskin from the railing, 
taking a small swig of the leathery water to wash out 
his mouth. Which didn't do much good; his tongue 
still tasted like vomit. At least he was adjusting, 
thank whatever. The first two days aboard the 
Ganness' Pride had been a continual bout with 
nausea — of all of them, why the hell did he have to 
be the only seasick one?
It was getting better, a little. His feet had picked 
up the rhythm of the pitching deck and his gut had 
unknotted; while he had no urge to let anything but 
water past his lips, he could keep from throwing up, 
as long as he kept his eyes on the horizon. Sleep was 
impossible, except for a few brief snatches — a nap 
was an almost certain invitation to another battle 
with the dry heaves.
He rubbed at the back of his neck. It could be 
worse; he could be dead. At least he was alone for a 
while, or as close to that as possible; the bow of the 
boat was long and slender. He could ignore the 
scurrying of feet on the deck, and just watch 
starlight.
Footsteps sounded behind him Sandaled feet, 
walking over-heavily.
"Come to push me overboard, Walter?"
The thief chuckled. "As I understand it, that 
might have been a favor, yesterday, or the day 
before — to more people than you. On the other 
hand I owe you my life. You think that letting your 
stupidity pass is a fair trade, Karl?"
There was just a touch of emphasis on the name; 
he let it pass. "At least you're talking to me. The 
only other words I've heard from any of you during 
the two days we've been on this garbage scow were 
to the effect of 'Don't throw up on me.' " He found 
himself shivering, so he picked up the blanket from 
between his feet, gathering it around his shoulders 
Another night sleeping on deck — or not sleeping 
well, that was better than putting up with the stony 
silence of his so-called friends.
Walter took a position at his side, joining in his 
staring campaign at the Cirric. He was back in his 
normal clothing — or lack of it — but the chill air 
coming across the water didn't seem to affect him. 
"You're getting off easy, Karl. You did a dumb thing 
— two, actually, if Ahira wasn't exaggerating about 
your trying to strike up a conversation during the 
fight."
"He wasn't. And I did know better. It was just that 
— "
"It was just that you were acting like Karl 
Cullinane, when you should have been busy being 
Barak. If that makes any sense to you." Walter 
shrugged. "Which I hope it does. I think that's what 
killed Jason."
He raised an eyebrow. "You're sure he's dead?"
"Yeah. I heard his screams as I was running 
away." Walter shuddered. "Which makes me hope to 
God he's dead. We'll be lucky if he's the only one of 
us to die before we reach the Gate."
"If we reach the Gate."
"Right " Walter produced a piece of jerky, tore it 
in half. "Chew on it slowly, eh?" He stuck the other 
half in his own mouth.
"Thanks." It wasn't bad, actually. As tough as a 
piece of old leather, but the flavor was rich and 
strangely sweet, reminiscent of hickory. Hardly salty 
at all — he suppressed that thought: just the notion 
of salt made him gag. "But you didn't ask the right 
question."
"I didn't ask any question — but what do you 
think the right one is?"
"Try this: Should we try to find the Gate?" He felt 
Walter's gaze, turned to see the smaller man staring 
quizzically. "Or hasn't that occurred to you?"
A shrug. "It has — particularly an hour or so back 
— but never mind that. Tell me: How do your teeth 
feel?"
Barak started at the non sequitur. "Huh?"
"Your teeth, your teeth. You know, the things you 
chew with? How do they feel?"
"Well, fine, but — oh." He nodded.
"Right. The only dentistry they've got here is 
clerical spells. And that gets to be expensive; magic 
isn't that common. I spent a bit of time pumping 
some of the sailors; there's one — one —  cleric in 
Lundeport, and he sounds to be about B-Class, from 
their description Pandathaway's going to be 
different, so I hear, but clerics and wizards will 
hardly be growing on trees even there." He sighed. 
"So if you decide to stay, you can say goodbye to 
medicine and dentistry, among other things. Bet 
your teeth rot right out of your head within a few 
years."
" 'Among other things'? Like football, for 
example?" He chuckled. "You that eager to stomp 
more quarterbacks?"
"Yes, football, too. As well as reasonably safe 
homes and streets — you can forget that, if you stay 
here. And you can give up on any profession other 
than cutting people up. And you can probably count 
on not making it to old age." He cocked his head. 
"You may be a heavy-duty swordsman, m'friend, but 
you're going to run up against somebody better — or 
luckier — if you stay in the profession.''
Barak sighed Walter was right, of course; he was 
just being contrary, still burning because the others 
were shunning him for talking that way to Doria. 
Not that she — 
Don't get off the track. Remember the smell of 
that soldier's burning flesh? He wrinkled his nose. "I 
didn't exactly have much of a profession, back there 
Andy-Andy was right, I've always been a dilettante." 
He stopped talking to chew on the jerky, keeping it 
slow, ignoring his stomach's protestations. "She isn't 
speaking to me, either. I think she blames me for 
getting her into this."
"You could be right." Walter took a final nibble 
and tossed his stub of jerky forward. "And I don't 
think Doria's exactly thrilled with you. She doesn't 
understand."
He snorted. "And you do?"
"I think so. I'm not sure your stupidity is your 
fault. Though it damn well is your responsibility." 
Walter shook his head slowly. "When you talk about 
a woman's sexual habits, Karl, it's not exactly nice to 
make her sound like a... public utility. You wouldn't 
have done that, say, a week ago, back on the other 
side. Hope you get over it soon."
"What the hell are you talking about?" He didn't 
bother to keep the irritation out of his voice. Maybe 
being ignored was better than being nagged at. 
Nagged at by a thief who didn't have the slightest 
notion what it was like to be a warrior. The stupid...
"Remind me to gamble with you some time. I 
wish I could have read Doc's letter as easily as I can 
read your face." He scuffed a sandal against the 
deck. "Trouble with you, Karl, is that you spend too 
much time thinking like a warrior. ' To a warrior, 
everything is either a challenge, or a reward' — 
right?"
"That's right."
"Including, say, a woman?"
"Now, wait — "
"You wait. Hear me out. If a woman is supposed 
to be one or the other, it would stand to reason that 
one who sleeps around a lot isn't much of a 
challenge, no? And if anybody can have her — that 
isn't true for any woman I know, but let it pass — 
then she isn't much of a reward, either. Eh? I didn't 
hear you."
"Why don't you just leave me alone?" If he didn't, 
Barak could break him like a twig. Idly, he glanced 
down at the other's waist. Walter wasn't even 
wearing his knives.
Which reminds me — he turned to make sure his 
sword was still lashed to the forward mast. It hung 
there reassuringly.
Walter went on as though he hadn't interrupted. 
"I'm not talking about Doria, now. She's got some 
problems. Which are none of your business — 
although you might have known about them if you'd 
talked to her, that time, instead of grabbing your 
pants and — "
"Shut up!" The time Karl made it with Doria 
wasn't exactly one of his favorite memories. "Sounds 
like somebody talks too much. As well as — "
"You keep your mouth closed when you don't 
know what you're talking about. Okay?" Walter 
glared up at him, "Now, as I was saying, consider 
this: Maybe, just maybe, there's nothing wrong with 
a woman — or a man, for that matter — having sex 
with somebody she likes, for her own damn reasons, 
not yours. And not because it's a reward, but just 
because she wants to."
"So?" He rubbed at his eyes. It was... confusing. 
To his Karl-self, that sounded reasonable, even 
obvious. But to Barak, it was absurd. Worse — 
immoral, and — 
"So if you try thinking of Doria as a person, 
instead of a... community facility, maybe you won't 
make such an ass of yourself again." Walter smiled. 
"Or not over that, anyway.''
"Thanks a lot." He put all the sarcasm he could 
muster into his voice. "But I don't remember asking 
you to come over and tell me what a jerk I am. Why 
the hell are you bothering me?"
The thief considered it for a moment. "Two 
reasons. I'll reserve one, for the time being, but the 
other... is kind of complicated. Part of it is that I owe 
you. I kept slipping in and out of consciousness, the 
other night, but I do remember you stopping one of 
those bastards who was after my blood.'' Walter 
toyed with the spot on his shoulder where the knife 
had been. Even the scar was gone now. "But mainly 
it's that it seems to me you've got one hell of a lot of 
potential. You use it right, and you can be one fine 
human being, Karl Cullinane."
Barak smiled. "And if I don't?"
"Depends on the situation." Walter's smile was 
icy. "I care about Doria. Maybe I couldn't take you 
in a fair fight, but you hurt her like that again, you 
damn well better make sure you never turn your 
back to me. Ever. Understood, my friend?" There 
was no trace of sarcasm in that last.
Barak shook his head. He didn't understand 
Walter; he never had. Football hero Walter 
Slovotsky could have had practically any woman on 
campus — and frequently did. But why Doria?
"Why Doria?" Walter echoed his thoughts. "I tell 
you, we've got to get up a poker game, once we get 
back." He chuckled, then sobered. "Because I know 
more about her than you do — remind me to tell you 
about it, the next time I'm into breaking 
confidences."
"How about right now?"
"Well..." Walter shrugged. "As long as you 
understand you have to keep your big mouth — "
"There you are. Walter, I — oh." Andy-Andy's 
voice cut off as if someone had thrown a switch. 
Possibly her eyes hadn't adjusted from the lighted 
cabins below, spotting Hakim's light skin and white 
trousers before she had been able to see Barak, 
wrapped in a dark blanket, concealed in shadow.
Walter waved her away. "I'll be back down in a 
minute."
"Then you told him — you didn't."
"He didn't tell me what?" Barak turned.
She was barefoot, wearing only a loosely belted 
silken robe, probably borrowed from Ganness. Her 
long hair was mussed, as though she had been 
sleeping. Or not sleeping. "What were you going to 
tell me, Walter?"
The thief answered calmly, "I've got nothing to 
tell you, Karl." He backed off a step. "Just take it 
easy."
"I said, what is it you were going to tell me?"
She glared at him. "You don't own me, Karl. I can 
— "
"Shut your mouth." Walter jerked a thumb at 
Barak. "You don't have to rub his nose in it. Now get 
back belowdecks, please."
Barak moved away from the railing, his weight 
transferred to the balls of his feet. Plenty of room... 
"Yes, please do," he said, never taking his eyes from 
the thief. Watch his navel — the center of gravity is 
always there. He can't fake you out if you don't let 
him. "So, you were going to reserve telling me you'd 
slept with her, eh? This whole thing wasn't about 
Doria, was it? You were just taking out a bit of 
insurance."
"I thought you might take it wrong." Walter 
balanced himself lightly on his feet, his eyes flicking 
from side to side. He moved away slowly, the soles 
of his sandals whisking on the deck.
"Bad choice. Much better to keep bare feet on 
deck. This way, you're liable to slip, fall overboard." 
He circled around, the traces of nausea vanishing. 
The only weapons nearby were the stacked 
crossbows, the boltbins, and Barak's sword, all 
lashed to the forward mast. And they were at Barak's 
back — if Walter didn't want to take him on 
barehanded, he'd have to go through him in order to 
lay his hands on a weapon.
"I doubt it, Karl." Walter held out both palms. 
"Just take it easy, and we'll talk about — "
"Don't stall. She's gone. And if I hear anybody 
behind me, I'll break your neck before I send you on 
your way. You don't have much of a chance at best. 
Want to try for none?"
"No. I don't want to fight at all." Walter shifted to 
a fighting stance, his body angled slightly away from 
Barak, his hands held chest-high. "Because I'm 
under a handicap. I don't want to hurt you — "
"That's too bad." Barak smiled, mirroring 
Walter's position, keeping his hands open, relaxed, 
ready to form fists, or parry a kick with an 
openhanded block. "Take your best shot." He's 
liable to try a feint toward the head, then actually go 
for the body. Or vice versa. But it's going to be 
something tricky.
Walter smiled. "Fine. Then, think about this. If 
you — "
"I meant to try to hit me, little man. Not talk."
"Doesn't the condemned man get a last speech? If 
you kill me now, it's because you think I've violated 
your property rights. And that would mean that 
Andrea's your property, Karl. You go around owning 
people, do you?"
Barak moved in, kicked out sideways. Walter 
blocked it with a forearm, but the force of the kick 
sent him crashing up against the rail.
He sprang off the rail at Barak. The thief 
extended a hand, reaching for Barak's throat — 
Barak clubbed it aside with a heavy fist, then 
brought both fists down on Walter's rising knee. A 
backhanded slap sent the thief skittering toward the 
bow, half stunned.
It would be easy, now. All he'd have to do is flip 
Walter up and over. He took a step forward — 
You go around owning people, do you?

Why not? said Barak. What's wrong with that?
Of course not, said Karl. You don't own people. 
It's wrong.

 — grabbed the thief s upper arms, lifted him — 

He slept with my woman. I have to kill him. 
Honor demands it.
If she's ever going to be my woman, it's going to 
be in the same sense as my friend, not my dog.

 — and set him on his feet. Karl Cullinane glared 
down at him. "You manipulating bastard."
"Karl?" Walter shook his head to clear it. "I'm 
sorry — "
"Don't press your luck. I'm not going to kill you, 
but don't expect me to — "
Footsteps thundered on the deck behind him. He 
turned, Andy-Andy, Aristobulus Doria, and Ahira 
stopped a few feet away, sleepy-eyed seamen 
crowding the deck behind them.
Ahira hefted his axe. "What the hell is going on 
here?"
Walter rubbed at the side of his neck. "Can't a 
couple of people have a quiet discussion without 
drawing a crowd?"
Karl sighed, letting his adrenaline high fade into a 
deep weariness. Ignoring raised eyebrows and half-
voiced questions, he shouldered his way through the 
crowd, toward the forward hatch. "Wake me when 
we get to Pandathaway. I've got some sleep to catch 
up on."
Walter nodded, unfastening Karl's sword from the 
mast. He tossed it to him. "Don't lose it."
"Thanks." He started down the ladder.
Andy-Andy grabbed at his arm. "Karl, wait I... I 
want to talk to you, explain — "
He pried her fingers from his sleeve. "There's 
nothing I want to hear from you." I am Karl 
Cullinane. Karl, not Barak. I'll learn from my 
Barak-self, but I won't be him.
Ever
But damned if I'm going to be the same Karl 
Cullinane you've been leading on as long as I've 
known you. "I don't want you to talk to me, except 
when it's in the line of duty. Is that clear?" He didn't 
wait for an answer before turning to Doria. "I owe 
you an apology, Dore. And I pay my debts — do 
you want it long and flowery, or is the intention 
good enough?"
Doria nodded gently, her face studiously blank, 
but her eyes smiling. "Long and flowery, I think. 
Since I have a choice."
A tightness in his chest grew, as though steel 
bands were being clamped on his heart. He forced a 
chuckle. "Later, then. You deserve to have it when 
I'm completely awake." He pursed his lips. "But for 
now — you've always played fair with me. I had no 
business passing judgment on you. I promise it won't 
ever happen again." He exhaled deeply. "And now, 
goodnight."
Doria cocked her head to one side, her expression 
becoming infinitely tender. "Are you sure you want 
to sleep alone? Just sleep."
If I accept the invitation, it'd hurt Andy just as 
much as she hurt — "I think I'd better be by myself." 
No, it wouldn't.
Besides, playing people off against each other 
isn't the sort of thing that Karl Cullinane is going to 
do.
He gripped the pommel of his sword tightly, so 
tightly that his white knuckles stood out m broad 
relief.
But I would have. Last week, last month — even 
yesterday. What is happening to me?
He shrugged, and walked slowly to the nearest 
cabin, ignoring the rush of sound on deck.
I guess I must be growing up.
It must be that. He sat on a bunk and buried his 
face in his hands. Nothing else could hurt this much.



CHAPTER EIGHT:
"Welcome to Pandathaway..."

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
 — Those dying generations — at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas.
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
 Monuments of unaging intellect.
 — William Butler Yeats

Ahira frowned up at Doria as she clung to the 
rigging a couple of yards above his head, the wind 
whipping her hair, rippling her robes.
"You should see this, Ahira. Pandathaway is... 
beautiful."
He shrugged. "I'll wait until we see it close up. 
Probably has warts, just like everything else." 
Besides, while his night vision was much better than 
any human's, a dwarfs eyes were not built for 
looking across a sun-spattered sea.
She stiffened. "There's a ship — it's coming 
toward us, fast — "
"Shi-ip," the lookout at the top of the forward 
mast called out. "Just a hair off starboard, captain."
Avair Ganness chuckled. "Nothing to fear. Lady. 
It's just the guideboat." He raised his voice. "Drop 
all sails. Helmsman, bring us about. Secure all 
weapons — we've made it again." He glared at the 
dwarf "Although I'd want more than a few bows and 
swords before I'd sail into Lundeport again." He 
considered it for a moment. "Perhaps you'd care to 
reimburse me for that?"
Ahira let his hands rest on his battleaxe's hilt.
Ganness shrugged. "Then again, perhaps not. Do 
you always leave such friends behind you as you did 
in Lund's territory?"
Ahira scowled at him "Shouldn't you be doing 
something nautical?"
Ganness laughed, reaching out a hand, then 
thought better of it, letting his arm drop by his side. 
"It would waste my time and effort. That's what the 
guideboat is for, to bring us in."
"You can't do it?" Doria asked, lowering herself 
carefully to the slowly rolling deck.
"I wouldn't want to try. Can you see — no, you'd 
have to know what to look for." With an easy 
familiarity, he put an arm around her shoulder, a 
blunt finger pointing shoreward "See that... 
darkening in the water... right..." his finger wavered, 
then stiffened — "there."
"Yes?"
"It's a sparling, metal-tipped, it is — lead, I think 
— sunk solidly into the bottom, canted outward. 
There's thousands of them in the harbor; they d gut 
the Pride and sink us, were I foolish enough to try to 
dock without a guideboat." He leaned against the 
forward mast, idly twirling the end of his pigtail 
around his fingers. "Can you imagine what a prize 
Pandathaway would be for pirates? Not that it'd be 
easy to take, but the Guilds' Council doesn't like to 
take chances. Particularly the wizards — they want 
Pandathaway to be absolutely safe for them. Anyone 
trying to sail into the harbor without a guideboat is 
asking to die." A crooked grin flickered across his 
dark face. "Besides, it's another way for the Council 
to make a few extra gold. Not that they need it."
Ahira looked up.   "What are you talking about?"
Ganness chuckled. "Oh — this is your first time 
in Pandathaway. You'll see." He walked over to the 
railing as the guideboat braked smoothly, then 
swung around so that its high, broad stern was a 
scant few yards from the port side of the Ganness' 
Pride.
Hakim coughed discreetly behind him. Ahira 
turned.
"How the hell is that thing moving?" The thief's 
brow wrinkled as he looked at the smaller, stubby 
craft   "I don't see any oarports — and if there's a 
mast and sail  they're both invisible."
As crewmen slid a gangplank from the guideboat 
to the Pride, Ahira moved to the rail. Under the 
water, dark shapes crowded around the guideboat's 
tubby hull. He blinked twice, then squinted, trying to 
make out their forms, could they be — 
"Silkies," Hakim breathed. "They've got silkies 
chained to the hull."
Joining them at the rail, Andrea frowned.  
"Silkies?"
Ahira nodded. "Silkies — sort of were-seals. 
Except in seal form, they're big — about the size of 
sea lions. In our world, they're mythical, probably 
the myth came about the same way dugongs were 
thought of as mermaids." Or maybe not. And maybe 
mermaids weren't as mythical as he'd always 
thought. Slippage between the universe wasn't 
limited to humans; and it could happen in both 
directions.
Both ends of the plank were made fast, as the 
guideboat's crew gathered on deck: fifty or so 
humans in heavy, center-ridged breastplates, their 
bows strung and arrows nocked, although the 
bowstrings weren't drawn, and the arrows weren't 
quite pointed at the Ganness' Pride. From the stem 
of the guideboat, a tall, slender man in a silvery 
tunic stepped lightly across the gangplank, not 
bothering to touch its low rails as he made his way 
quickly to the rail of the Pride, then dropped lightly 
to the deck. He was followed by two hulking 
swordsmen, who made their way across more 
carefully, walking in a half-stoop, hands clinging to 
the gangplank's railing.
Ganness walked up to the slim man and bowed 
deeply.
Andrea shook her head. "I wouldn't want to just 
bounce across, not while wearing that much metal. If 
he'd missed, he would have sunk like a stone."
Barak — no, he said to call him Karl — Karl 
snorted. "He's an elf. See the ears'? There's as much 
chance of his missing a jump as there is of you — ''
Ahira cut him off. "Enough." He turned to 
Hakim. "How do they manage to keep the silkies 
chained? Seems to me all they'd have to do is revert 
to human, and slip out of the collar, no?"
Hakim nodded knowledgeably, as though to say. 
Anything to keep those two from going at each other, 
eh? "I can think of a couple of ways. For one thing, 
say the transformation takes a few minutes — any of 
those archers could put enough bolts into it, when 
it's in human form, to be a fine example to the 
others."
"A couple of ways, you said?"
He nodded "Yeah. Maybe some of the silkies 
have wives, husbands, or children. Don't think I'm 
going to like these people a whole lot."
Particularly if they find out what your specialty 
really is.
Karl's fingers whitened on the hilt of his sword, 
as a slick black shape broke the surface and gasped a 
lungful of air. Then it dove sharply, its chain 
whipping behind it.
Ahira tried to seem casual as he put a hand on 
Karl's arm. "What's bothering you?"
"This." He pointed his chin at the guideboat. "I've 
half a mind — "
"Exactly." At best. "We don't buck local 
customs." Ahira forced a chuckle. "What were you 
thinking of, diving overboard, sword in hand? This 
your week to play Abe Lincoln?"
Karl cracked a weak smile.  "More like a human 
pincushion."
"Right." He jerked a thumb at Ganness and the 
elf, who were quietly examining a series of 
parchment sheets, almost certainly cargo manifests. 
"I read this as a customs inspection. You?"
A nod.  "And it looks like he's done."
The elf favored Ganness with a brief smile, 
clapped him condescendingly on the shoulder, and 
walked aft toward where Ahira and the others stood 
near their rucksacks.
"Greetings," he said airily in Erendra, then tossed 
his head, the tips of his ears momentarily peeking 
out of his neck-length blond hair. He was strangely 
thin, as though he were a normal man — except for 
the ears — who had been stretched, or distorted in a 
funhouse mirror. "I am Airvhan ip Melhrood, the 
delegate of the Guilds' Council of glorious 
Pandathway." His words came quickly, as though 
this were a set speech, down to the adjective. "I will 
need your names and occupations, so that I may 
assess your entry tariffs. You may, of course, decline 
to state your business here, in which case the 
maximum tariff will be levied." He sneered at Karl. 
"You needn't bother, you're a warrior, no?"
Karl took a step forward "You have something 
against warriors?"
The elf's two guards moved quickly; they took up 
positions behind Airvhan, hands on their swondhilts. 
Over on the guideboat, fifty bows swung into line.
"Stand easy, Karl," Ahira snapped.
Karl stepped back. The elf chuckled, shaking his 
head, then leaned against the railing, supporting 
himself on spread-fingered hands. He nodded 
lightly; the guards and bowmen relaxed. "Personally, 
or professionally?" Airvhan responded to Karl's 
question as though there had been no interruption. 
"Not that it matters; it is the policy of the Council to 
allow free entry to warriors, provided they agree to 
participate in the Games." He shrugged. "Not that 
we need to enforce that; you professional killers 
seem eager enough to win large purses at little risk." 
Raising a slim eyebrow, he smiled. "I take it you 
claim to be a swordsman. A true master of the blade, 
no doubt."
Ahira never saw Karl move. One moment, the big 
man was just standing there, his scabbarded sword in 
his hand.
And the next, the tip of his blade had snicked out 
a chip of wood from the railing, from between the 
middle and ring fingers of the elf's left hand.
As the guards went for their own weapons, Karl 
slapped their hands with the fiat of his sword, then 
returned it to its scabbard, all in one smooth motion. 
He leaned it against the mast, then folded his arms 
across his chest.
"So I claim." He stroked at his beard. "Hakim, 
here, is even better. He taught me everything I 
know. He would have gotten both fingers, instead of 
missing, as I did. Try him?"
Airvhan glared at his two guards, as they stood 
sheepishly, swords half drawn. He held up a shaky 
hand. "No need. No need at all, friend...?"
"Karl. And yes, I know of the Games. Hakim, 
Ahira, and I will be happy to attend."
The elf nodded, fidgeting. Ahira suppressed a 
chuckle, as Airvhan moved away from the rail; it 
seemed that the elf was eager to finish.
But it didn't take much to suppress laughter, 
Ahira followed the elf's gaze sideways, to the deck 
of the guideboat. Had Karl been just a touch slower, 
they might all well have found themselves filled 
with arrows.
Airvhan spoke quickly. "And I take it that the 
others of you are two wizards and a cleric? That-
will-be-a-total-of-three-gold -pieces-and-seven-
silver-if-you-please." Clearly, the elf had no desire 
to spend any more time than necessary standing next 
to a human crazy enough to risk becoming a 
pincushion in order to make a point.
But Karl's action hadn't been wise. Not at all. A 
bit of discipline was in order. "Pay the nice elf, 
Karl."
"You sure, Ahira?"
"Certain." The dwarf kept his face serious. "I'm 
sure that friend Airvhan is eager to get back to his 
boat." And antagonizing a customs official further 
didn't make any sense. "And I, for one, have no 
desire to spend any more time in the hot sun. I take it 
we will find good taverns near the docks?''
Airvhan nodded quickly. "Quite good. All the 
inns in Pandathaway are superb, friend Ahira. Much 
wine. Good wine." Cautiously, he held out a palm, 
keeping it near his body.
Karl lumbered over to him, smiled at the guards... 
and paid.

Karl and the rest followed Ahira into a sidestreet 
off the docks. The street opened into a cobblestone 
courtyard, surrounded by two-story buildings, white 
marble houses curved to accommodate the 
courtyard, and the fountain in its center.
The stones were hard under Karl's sandals, and 
his legs had grown used to the rolling of the Pride; 
he was glad when Ahira called a halt.
Karl dropped his rucksack and leaned his sword 
against the fountain's rim, taking a moment to smile 
at the two dolphin sculptures spouting water into the 
breeze. He smiled as he wiped the spray from his 
face; the dolphins seemed to smile back as they 
stood, frozen in midleap. "I like that."
The dwarf scowled. "Business first. Then, if 
there's time, you can rubberneck all you want."
Doria spoke up. "That's unfair, Ahira. We've got 
time." She smiled at Karl. "Plenty of time."
Walter took a knife from the sheaths at his hip 
and flipped it end over end, catching it absently as 
its hilt thanked into his palm. "Matter of fact, I think 
friend Karl is owed a thank-you." His mouth quirked 
into a smile; he took two more, juggling all three 
knives in a steady, effortless flickering of steel. 
"Without that diversion, I wouldn't have been able to 
pass as a warrior. A juggler, maybe," he said, 
picking the knives one by one out of the air and 
replacing them in their sheaths, "but not a 
swordsman." He patted at his scimitar. "I can't use 
this damn thing worth shit." He stood. "But you're 
right. Let's find ourselves a place to stay, then go 
exploring."
"Exploring?" Aristobulus hissed. "What we have 
to do is find the Great Library, and — "
"How about getting something to eat?"
Karl quashed his own resentment at the way the 
dwarf had snapped at him. "Everybody, shut up. 
Ahira's in charge, and he's talking."
Ahira rewarded him with a puzzled nod. "Fine. 
But first of all, what is this about games? I don't 
remember you telling me anything about it. Them."
"Whatever." But the dwarf was right. He hadn't 
said anything about the Games. Karl scratched at his 
ribs. But why think about all that now? — what he 
really needed was a bath and some sleep, on safe, 
dry, unmoving land.
No, don't let yourself get lazy now. He hadn't 
remembered, not until the elf had mentioned the 
Games. It was the same problem he'd been having, 
ever since they landed on this side. Memories of 
things he'd known back home were irregular, 
elusive. When he could remember something, it was 
reliable; but it was much easier to think like Barak, 
be the swordsman — 
No. "Sorry... I didn't remember."
"Wonderful." Andy-Andy glared at him. "And 
what else don't you remember?"
He forced himself to ignore her and spoke to 
Ahira. "If it's as Deighton said, then the Council 
likes to encourage the best warriors to stay around, 
to stay in Pandathaway. Some are hired for the 
local... police force; helps to keep the city a nice 
place to be. As for the rest, well, having the best 
around keeps up Pandathaway's reputation as the 
place to buy or hire anything, anybody.
"For wizards or clerics, there's no problem: 
There's always good-paying work. Besides, there's a 
bunch of churches and magical guilds, who pretty 
much run the city — so guild members get a stipend 
from the Council when they're out of work. It's easy 
to do that — hey! I forgot all about the prices." 
Information, images crowded his mind. Deighton 
had shown him a listing. A night's stay in a relatively 
low-cost tavern would run more than two pieces of 
gold, A good bottle of wine would cost ten, twelve 
silvers. And it was a full —  "It'll cost us at least a 
gold piece — each — just to get into the Library. 
And that won't include..." He curled his fists in 
frustration. What wouldn't it include? It was just on 
the edge of his mind.
But he couldn't think of it. That was — 
"Easy, Karl." Andy-Andy held his arm, then 
visibly remembered she wasn't speaking to him. She 
turned away.
"Relax." Walter smiled at him. "You were telling 
us how they manage to keep mercenaries around."
"Right. Since there isn't much work here, they put 
on Games. If you're good enough, you can support 
yourself in the once-a-tenday ones, if only just 
barely. But in the Seasonals, you can make a 
killing." He smiled. "So to speak. You can't get 
much more than bruised; the contact events use 
blunt, wooden weapons."
"Wonderful." Ahira spat on the cobblestones. "Do 
you think we have to waste our time on these 
Games, or can we just hit the Library, buy what we 
need, and get out?"
"I don't know." Karl shrugged. "What's our total 
worth?"
Ahira turned to Aristobulus. "Give me your best 
guess."
The wizard's eyes went vague. "Assuming 
standard rates of exchange... maybe two-thousand 
gold." He shook his head slowly. "And from what 
Hakim — "
"Walter."
" — said about Lundeyll, that would have been 
almost enough to have bought the whole town, back 
there."
"So what?" Ahira turned to Walter. "We're here 
now. How far away do you guess the Gate is?"
"Mmmm, it's got to be some distance; Frann only 
knew that it was east of Pandathaway, and he's from 
here. I don't know; maybe we have enough, if we 
don't spend too much money on room and board 
while we're here."
Karl snorted. "Two thousand? That isn't a lot; 
Lucius paid five hundred just for one horse. We 
need six."
"Five and a pony," Ahira snapped. "Fine. Here's 
what we have to do." He extended a blunt finger. 
"One, find a place to stay, at least for the night. 
Two" — another finger — "get to the Great Library, 
find out where the Gate is, figure out how we'll need 
to equip ourselves in order to get there."
"Which wouldn't be a problem," Karl said 
thoughtfully, looking at Aristobulus, "if somebody 
hadn't blown up the box with all the goodies."
"Shut up. Three, we need to know what the 
situation is here, find out how to raise the money 
we'll need. Which also means we'll need to know 
when the next Games are — is."
"Whatever." Karl nodded. "We might be able to 
do well enough in the tendays, if we're good 
enough," He fondled the hilt of his sword. I bet I am.
"Don't." Walter didn't look at him.
"Don't what?"
"Don't be sure you're good enough."
"Damn you, just because I got a bit sloppy, that 
first time — "
"It isn't that. Think it out." The thief's expression 
proclaimed that Karl wasn't going to like it. "We're 
all G-Class or so, right?"
"Right, but if that corresponds to the way things 
work — "
"As it seems to, then you think we're pretty much 
up there, right?"
Karl thought as hard as he could, If you don't stop 
reading my mind, I'm going to break some bones, 
making sure that his face showed what he was 
thinking.
"Well," Walter went on, "we aren't pretty much 
up there if they've got the best warriors in this world 
in Pandathaway, are we? We might be big fishes in 
— "
Karl smiled and held up a hand. It had been a 
long time since he'd been able to outthink Walter. 
"You think it out. Look, what would a really high-
level fighter do? Go around looking for work? Hell, 
no. They gather followers, claim some land — either 
dragging in peasants to farm it, or using locals. 
There's not going to be a whole lot of folks as good 
as we are — as good as I am — who are still 
wandering around, trying to build a name. Maybe 
we'll have to deal with a local champion or two, but 
not more than that. Right?"
"Not bad, Karl. Not bad at all."
Ahira rapped his axehilt on the fountain's rim. 
"Enough. I came up with three things we have to do; 
anybody else have a fourth?"
"No."
"Uh-uh."
"I don't."
"I want to see about finding myself a tavern girl. 
It's been..." Walter trailed off at Karl's glare. 
"Sorry."
"As I was saying," Ahira went on, "there are three 
things to do. Since this is a safe city, we'll split up 
into three groups. I'll take the Library, but I want one 
of you literate types with me. Andrea?"
"Wait," Aristobulus snapped. "I need to — "
"Fine. You, instead, since she hasn't used a spell, 
yet."
Andrea smiled. "I've only got three; I haven't 
wanted to waste them. But if you need somebody 
put to sleep, or charmed, or want me to disappear..."
Right now, Karl thought, there isn't much I'd like 
better. "That last could be useful, if we need a bit of 
extra money, no?"
"True." Ahira raised an eyebrow. "Your charm 
spell — think you can get us a decent rate for 
lodging with it?"
"Maybe. You want me to see to the rooms?"
"Fine. You take the thief with you."
I won't be jealous, I won't. I'm just going to — 
Walter shook his head. "I'd rather go look around; 
I'll keep an eye on Karl and Doria — Andrea should 
be able to handle the innkeeper by herself, no?"
"Okay. Why don't you get going, meet the rest of 
us back here, say, at sundown?"
She nodded and left, her sandals slapping against 
the cobblestones.
Ahira turned to Karl. "You three are to stay out of 
trouble, understood? I just want you to find out 
when the Games are, get an idea of the prices of 
things like horses and supplies, then meet us back 
here. No fights, and make damn sure that there's no 
stealing. We won't have another Jason. Yes?"
Good. While Walter was his best friend, Ahira 
was too smart to leave the responsibility of seeing 
that he didn't steal with him. "I'll watch him."
"And he'll watch you to make sure you don't pull 
another stunt like the one you did with the elf." He 
picked up his two rucksacks and beckoned to 
Aristobulus. "See the rest of you at sundown — in 
case somebody misses it, everybody else stays put." 
The dwarf beckoned to Aristobulus, and both of 
them walked away.
Walter waited until they had vanished into an 
alleyway beyond the fountain before turning to Karl. 
"Beer?" He smiled. "Just one or two."
Of all the irresponsible — 
No. No more kneejerk reactions. "I guess one 
beer wouldn't hurt any." Kari shrugged. "And I 
could use a drink, at that. Doria?"
She looked up at him sadly. "You never asked me 
out for a drink before, Karl." Her hand stole toward 
Walter's. "I couldn't turn you down, even if I wanted 
to." She gripped Walter's much larger hand, with 
shaking, white-knuckled fingers.
Great. Maybe I'd better have that talk with 
Walter, and soon. This is getting too damn 
complicated.

The three armored guardsmen at the top of the 
broad stone steps nodded in unison at Aristobulus, 
then glared suspiciously down at Ahira.
The dwarf forced himself to keep his hands at his 
sides, although his palms itched to feel the 
smoothness of his axe's handle. Probably this was 
just the guards' professional demeanor, but perhaps 
there was more to it: Dwarves were not renowned as 
scholars, and Ahira's presence might have excited 
their professional suspicions. If he didn't keep cool, 
that could lead to a fight.
And three-on-one would not be something Ahira 
would look forward to, not even after going berserk. 
Besides, it wouldn't be just three-on-one; these 
guards were wearing the same center-ridged 
breastplates that Airvhan's guards had worn; 
patently, they were part of the Pandathaway police 
force, or whatever passed for such. They had seen 
similarly equipped men on their way toward the 
Library — there would be, easily, half a dozen 
within shouting distance.
The largest of the three, a pale-skinned man with 
a heavy brow and a small sharp nose, gestured with 
his spear. "What are you doing here?"
Aristobulus raised an eyebrow; the guard lowered 
his spear, and touched his free hand to his forehead. 
"Your pardon — I was addressing the dwarf, sir."
At the wizard's sideways glance, Ahira nodded 
slightly. Best to keep the guards thinking that 
Aristobulus was in charge, since they were treating 
him respectfully.
"The dwarf," Aristobulus said, "would like to use 
the Library, as would I. Is his coin not good?" The 
wizard smiled thinly.
A chuckle. "It had better be. Sir. The last one 
trying to get counterfeit coin past the Librarians 
found himself full of arrows." He turned to the guard 
at his left. "Challa, take the dwarfs packs and 
weapons — everything except his pouch." Through 
yellow teeth, he grinned at Ahira. "That, you are 
going to need." The guard bowed slightly at 
Aristobulus. "If you and your... companion will 
come this way?"
"What do you want with my pack and — "
"We can't have you taking anything out of the 
Library, now can we?"
Ahira lowered his two rucksacks to the broad 
stone steps, then handed his crossbow, flail, and 
battleaxe to Challa, holding back a grin as the man 
staggered under the load. "You will make certain 
that nothing of mine... walks away?"
"You must be new to Pandathaway," Challa 
panted through gritted teeth, as he led the two of 
them through the entrance, past the open oak doors. 
The doors were massive, towering easily ten times 
Ahira's height, inlaid with gold and silver tracings. 
"We're under oath to the Library. An accusation, 
even, would put us out on the streets — at least until 
it was decided on." He set Ahira's gear down on top 
of a pile of other goods: swords and bows, sealed 
boxes and mesh bags. "But don't get any notions, 
dwarf. A suspension would give us plenty of time to 
find whoever accused us, and take our pay out of his 
small hide. Do you get my meaning?"
The entrance foyer of the Great Library of 
Pandathaway was a large, bare room, illuminated 
only by spears of golden light from tiny, fist-sized 
windows high above, only a few feet below the 
juncture of the stone walls and the ceiling. Below 
the windows, a wooden walkway ran the length of 
the front wall. No — not windows; those were 
arrowports. Whoever had designed the Library had 
provided for its defense.
Their sandals scuffed against the floor as Challa 
led them toward the rear of the room, with its two 
exits.
One was a small archway, leading into a lamplit 
corridor. Ahira started toward it, stopped by 
Aristobulus' tug on his sleeve.
"That is my entrance," the wizard whispered. 
"Glyphs over the doorway — they say, roughly: 'If 
you can read this, pass in safety.' I'll see to my 
needs, then locate you."
Without waiting for an answer, Aristobulus 
stepped briskly toward the archway and walked 
through. As he did, a bare glimmer of red outlined 
his body, then faded as the wizard walked quickly 
out of sight, not looking back.
I'll have to discuss this sort of thing with him 
later, Ahira thought, idly toying with images of 
bashing Aristobulus' head against a wall. Until they 
reached the other side, they were all in danger. 
Walking away without consulting him was not going 
to be repeated. By anyone.
Challa brushed Ahira toward the other exit, where 
a bored, white-bearded human sat behind a door 
made of thick steel bars, reading a leather-bound 
book. With a deep sigh, he closed the book and 
raised his head. "What is it?"
Challa jerked himself to a semblance of attention. 
"The dwarf is here to use the Library, sir. At least, 
that's what his friend said."
"A dwarf? And what friend?"
"A wizard, sir."
"You're certain about that?" The old man raised a 
skeptical eyebrow. "With the likes of this?"
"Certain, Librarian. He walked right through 
Wizard's Arch. There isn't any other possibility, is 
there?"
A shrug. "Well, if there is, it's no concern of ours. 
Wizards Guildmasters built it; it's their 
responsibility." He extended a palm through the 
bars. "That will be two gold."
Ahira reached into his pouch and drew out a 
single gold coin. "I thought that it was one?"
"Two." The Librarian pointed at a plaque set into 
the wall next to the door. "Can't you read?"
"No." Ahira shrugged, drawing out another coin.
"Then what are you doing here? Never mind, it's 
no concern of mine. Just an old man's curiosity. We 
don't get many dwarves here."
And at these prices, you're not going to get many 
more. Ahira dropped the coins into a withered palm.
The Librarian sighed, slipping the coins into the 
slot of a stone box, its lid secured by a steel strap 
and heavy padlock. "Enter-and-be-welcome," he 
said. "And guard, you can hurry back to your post. If 
you would care to keep your position." The door 
creaked open; the Librarian hurried Ahira inside 
with a quick gesture. "Come along, now. I don't have 
all day."
Ahira stepped through. The room was small, but 
rightly packed with bookshelves and scrollracks, 
labeled and unlabeled tomes exuding the pleasant 
reek of old paper and aged parchment.
Beyond the farthest stack, an open doorway gave 
him a glimpse of a marble-floored corridor.
The Librarian seated himself on his highbacked 
chair and folded his hands on his lap. "Well, now, 
why are you here? You can't read, and — "
"That is none of your business." An explanation 
was out of the question; Ahira wasn't sure how they 
treated the supposedly insane here, but he was damn 
sure that he didn't want to find out firsthand.
"Very well." The old man sighed. "But your 
insolence is going to cost you. Another gold, 
please."
Ahira took a half-step forward. "I could break 
you with — "
Wheeet! The man gave out a piercing, pursed-lips 
whistle, rewarded instantly by the thumping of feet 
in the corridor. Within seconds, Ahira found himself 
at the focus of an arc of five crossbowmen, weapons 
cocked and aimed at his head.
"And that will be enough of that," the Librarian 
said. "I am Callutius, Junior Librarian. You will 
address me either by my title, or simply as 'sir' — 
and always, always with respect. Is that 
understood?"
"Yes. Sir."
Callutius gave him a sour smile. "One gold for 
insolence plus another for the information is two, 
please."
"Information?"
Callutius didn't seem to hear him.
" — sir?"
"My name and title, fool." He held out his palm 
and accepted Ahira's gold, dropping one coin into 
the box, the other into a fold of the yellow sash at his 
waist. Callutius steepled his hands in front of his 
chin. "And now, what can the Great Library of 
Pandathaway do to serve you?"
Ahira scowled, "I'm afraid to say. How much will 
the answer to that question cost me. Librarian?"
"Junior Librarian — which is why I'm on greeting 
duty." He turned in his chair to face the bowmen. 
"You may go now; I think our customer is learning 
proper deportment."
As the bowmen shuffled off, he turned back to 
the dwarf. "How much it costs depends on what you 
wish to know. I assume that you'll need an 
apprentice to read for you? That will be three gold, 
for his services until the close of the Library today." 
He raised a warning finger. "And don't think to 
pump him for location information; there are severe 
penalties for that." Callutius smiled. "And as to how 
much the location of whatever it is that you wish to 
know will cost you, that is negotiable with me. Quite 
a lot, probably — nobody except a wizard comes to 
the Library unless he needs to know something very 
badly." He snickered. "Of course, you could just 
look around with the apprentice, and try to find out 
whatever it is that you need to know."
Ahira nodded. "That sounds good to me."
"Don't be silly!" Callutius was shocked. "There 
are four hundred fifty-three rooms in the Library, 
with an average of five thousand three hundred 
twelve books or scrolls in each. Conceivably, you 
could cover one room each day — it could easily 
take you better than a year to find out what you 
want. At two gold each day." The Librarian leaned 
back and closed his eyes. "I'll wait until you've made 
your decision."
Ahira thought it over. He could just wait there for 
Aristobulus, but that might be a while — and 
spending time around Callutius was not a pleasant 
prospect. Or he could hire an apprentice — no. A 
compromise was in order. "I won't need an 
apprentice, but I do want to find directions to the 
Gate Between Worlds. A map, if there is such a 
thing."
Callutius chuckled, "A treasure hunter, eh? You 
choose an expensive form of suicide — sixty 
goldpieces for directions."
"One."
"Fifty."
"One."
"Forty-five."
"One."
"Really? Is that all you're willing to pay?" 
Callutius shrugged. "Well, it's none of my concern. 
Look around: you've already paid for that." He 
raised a finger in admonition. "But if you damage 
one page, its replacement will be the skin of your 
back, suitably tanned and cured." Callutius closed 
his eyes again.
"Ten gold. And that's all."
"Done!" Callutius smile was genuinely friendly 
as he took the proffered coins in his cupped palms, 
tucking all of them into his sash. "And a well-struck 
bargain, little one."
"Meaning that I gave in too easily?"
"Not at all." The Librarian's grin made his words 
a lie. He whistled again, this time a complex four-
tone theme that was picked up down the corridor, 
then echoed off into the distance. Callutius picked 
up his book, then gestured at the doorway leading 
deeper into the Library. "Go on — an apprentice will 
meet you, to guide you," he said, ushering Ahira 
along. "And it has been a true pleasure aiding you in 
your search for knowledge." He patted at his sash.
"An enriching experience?"
"Quite. I take it this is your first time in 
Pandathaway?"
"Yes."
"Welcome to Pandathaway, then. And if you hurt 
anything, I'll see your head on a pole."



CHAPTER NINE:
Maps and Dragons

Wilt thou seal up avenues of ill?
Pay every debt, as though God wrote the bill.

 — Ralph Waldo Emerson

Karl enjoyed himself as the three of them wandered 
through the open-air markets of Pandathaway. The 
markets were a rainbow of sights, sounds, and 
smells: dwarf blacksmiths hawking mailshirts and 
steelplate greaves; jewelers selling rubies and 
sapphires in settings both plain and ornate; 
foodsellers displaying spits of garlic-laden meat and 
glass bowls of tangy fruitices; bakers calling all to 
sample golden, fist-sized loaves of bread, dripping 
butter and fresh from stone ovens.
The prices were high for most things, although a 
beerseller let them drink three huge tankards for a 
copper; it occurred to Karl that bread and circuses 
might have translated into beer and games, here.
At an armorer's canopied stall, they stopped to 
haggle with a dwarf blacksmith over the price for 
charming a blade — Walter had suggested that 
Andrea's and Aristobulus' spells might earn some 
extra money if needed.
"Well," Karl finally said, quickly bored with the 
bargaining that the smith seemed to enjoy, "if it's 
only worth one gold for two swords to you, it's 
probably not worth bothering our friends. But we 
might take you up on it later."
The dwarf spat, muttering in some tongue that 
Karl couldn't follow. "No promises that my offer 
will stay open. Many wizards in Pandathaway."
Walter looked at him, raising an eyebrow. His 
unvoiced question: Maybe it would be worth it to 
nail down the deal now?
"Out of my way," Doria snapped, shoving her 
way between Karl and Walter. "You two have the 
bargaining sense of — never mind." She slammed 
her palm down on the weathered counter. "Look, 
you," she said in Erendra, "we don't have the 
patience for that sort of nonsense. Understood?"
The dwarf spread his hands. "I don't know — "
"None of that. A charmed sword has to be worth, 
easily, a hundred, hundred-fifty gold if it has any 
kind of edge — that would be about twice standard 
— and you're trying to get these two poor fools to 
agree to half a gold, each? Don't bother keeping that 
offer open; we don't need it."
The dwarf chuckled deeply. "Well, it was worth 
trying for a fast bargain. They look new. You're a 
Hand cleric, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"It figures. No offense intended, but I don't care 
for your sect. I'm just an honest armorer and smith, 
trying to turn a bit of profit, and — "
Karl took a step forward. "And cheat us just a 
little?"
"Well," the dwarf shrugged, "maybe take a bit of 
advantage. From the way you three keep spinning 
your heads around, I figured you might be new to 
Pandathaway." He eyed Karl's sword. "You any 
good with that thing?"
Karl slipped his right hand to his swordhilt. "I 
manage."
The dwarf held up both palms. "Be easy, friend. 
I'm not threatening. It's just that I have a few spare 
coins, just now. Since you're new here, the 
oddsmakers probably will undervalue you; I might 
be persuaded to put a bet down."
Doria nodded. "And give us a good price on a 
spell or two."
The dwarf dismissed that with an airy wave. "I 
don't see the need — "
Doria reached out and grabbed him by the collar, 
pushing her face close to his. "You're familiar with 
healing spells?"
The dwarf could have pushed her away with ease. 
Instead, eyeing Karl and Walter, he nodded slightly.
"And," she continued, "have you ever seen one 
work in reverse?" She ran a fingertip lightly across 
the dwarf's throat.
He shook his head.
"Then," she said as she released him, "if you don't 
want to, maybe you'll stop trying to take advantage 
of my friends, no?"
The dwarf looked curiously at Karl and Walter. 
"Where did you get this one? I thought that Hand 
clerics were nonviolent."
And I didn't know Doria was capable of this sort 
of thing. Karl eyed her curiously. "She's a new 
kind."
"I'll go along with that — I'll make you a deal. 
Put her in the Games, and we'll all bet on her and get 
rich as elves. The stupid swordsmen will never know 
what hit them, eh?" The dwarf laughed, a deep-
throated roar that came across as sincere, not just a 
bargaining technique. "But seriously, if you'll cover 
half my losses if you don't place, I'll give you, say, 
twenty gold for glowing a sword, thirty for charming 
one. Agreed?"
"No," Doria said. "You'll give us those prices 
anyway — and your wagers are your own profit or 
loss. Agreed?"
The dwarf's mouth quirked into a frown. "Can't 
get away with anything around you, eh?" He picked 
up his hammer and turned back to his forge, 
pumping his bellows with a muscular arm. "Go on, 
now — find somebody else to persecute. If you win, 
come back and I'll do well by you." As they started 
to walk away, he called out, "And don't bring her 
with you next time."
Karl chuckled. "It seems you gained some skills 
during the transfer that we didn't know about, 
Doria."
"Not quite." She smiled up at him. "I spent a 
summer in Tel Aviv, back at the end of high school. 
That little dwarf has nothing on the Arab merchants 
in the Jaffa flea market — you've got to take the first 
offer as an insult, threaten a bit of violence... then, 
you can get down to business. Otherwise, you can 
end up spending the rent money on a pair of sandals 
— or take the whole afternoon just picking up 
lunch." She glared at both him and Walter, but there 
was a bit of pride mixed in. "It seems as though the 
two of you are going to need a keeper — or at least a 
teacher. Watch." She paused in front of a fruit 
vendor's stall and picked out three ripe, red apples 
from the slanted bin, examining the back sides of the 
fruits — "you've got to check for worm holes" — 
before pulling a copper coin from her pouch, holding 
it out to the vendor in offer of payment.
The vendor, a frowzy, overweight woman, 
brushed away the two dirty children clinging to her 
tattered skirts, nodded, and walked over to take the 
coin.
As they walked on, she handed Karl the reddest 
of the apples, Walter another, and took a bite out of 
the last. "Good. See," she said around a mouthful, "if 
you look like you know what you're doing, you'll 
save a bit of money, and a lot of time."
Karl crunched a bite out of his apple. It had been 
too long since his last meal, aboard the Pride; the 
cool, sweet fruit taste almost too good. "We've still 
got to find out when the next Games are." He eyed 
the afternoon sun. "And then get back to the fountain 
— I make it about three hours till sundown."
Walter took a last bite out of his apple and threw 
the shreds of stem and core away. "I could use 
another beer."
"No." That was a rule he'd learned back when he 
was a freshman always set your limits before you 
have your first drink. "Let's walk this way."

Ahira found the Librarian in charge of the Room 
of Gold and Gray to be an unlikely occupant of the 
post: The man was tall and well muscled, his 
shoulders straining at the seams of his gold-trimmed 
gray woolen tunic as he bustled over to the door to 
greet the dwarf and dismiss Ahira's escort.
"Welcome, welcome to the Room of Gold and 
Gray," he boomed. His voice was a deep baritone, 
his handclasp firm and friendly. "I am Oreen, I am 
the Specializing Librarian in charge of — he 
interrupted himself to chuckle — "all that you now 
survey And you are...?"
"Ahira." And I am also confused. This Librarian's 
manner was diametrically opposite to Callutius'.
"Ahira," the Librarian repeated, drawing up two 
three-legged stools, seating himself on the shorter 
one and gesturing Ahira to the other. "This will let 
us have our eyes on the same level, or close to it. 
Please, make yourself comfortable. You are both my 
first patron of the day, and my first dwarvish patron 
ever — let us enjoy the moment, shall we?"
"Do I get charged extra for the friendly 
treatment?"
Green's brow furrowed under a shock of brown 
hair "Friendly? — oh. Callutius is on greeting duty 
today, isn't he? I haven't seen the old bastard for 
months. Does he still look as though he'd just 
discovered half a maggot in his meat?"
Ahira chuckled  "Quite."
Oreen shrugged. "Well, it's his own fault. He 
never specialized, you see — instead of trying to 
learn one room, he went in for indexing, trying to 
learn what is kept where." Oreen punctuated the 
words by thumping himself on the knee. "He wants 
to be Chief Librarian someday. Which he may be, 
though I doubt it. And, in any case, he is certain to 
be unhappy in the interim." Oreen gestured at the 
shelves and racks lining the small, bright room. "As 
for me, I know every page of every book, every 
section of every scroll here. Vellum maps and hand-
copied books, printed scrolls and explorers' notes — 
I know them all." Oreen folded his thick arms across 
his chest. "Which makes me the master of all I see, 
and a happy man. Now, what is it that we're looking 
for today?"
"I'm trying to find a map that will show me where 
the Gate Between Worlds is, if you've ever heard — 
"
"There's no such map." Oreen held up a hand. 
"But please, let me show you..." He stood, sucking 
air through his teeth, and walked over to a 
scrollrack, flipping aside several scrolls before 
selecting one. "Hmmm... I think that this will give 
you the best overview of the situation." Oreen 
beckoned Ahira over to a wide table and rolled the 
scroll open, carefully pinning his selected panel 
open with four springy clamps. "My own design, 
these clamps — they keep the scroll firmly open, 
without hurting it at all  — You see, here we are 
Pandathaway " The Librarian held his finger over 
the designated spot, not touching the yellowed 
parchment. "I could show you the floor plans of 
most of the structures here. Do you follow me, so 
far?"
"Yes, but — "
"Be patient for a moment, friend Ahira, be 
patient. We now move north and east..." His finger 
traced a path through a scattering of upside-down 
V's. "...where we reach the Aershtyl Mountains, and 
Aeryk, there. This is the trade route into the 
mountains, we have much contact with the Aerir. So, 
I could show you maps of the landholding around 
Aeryk — contour maps, if you're familiar with them, 
much of the land is on its side." His finger went 
farther north. "Now, here's, a problem: the Waste of 
Elrood. Do you know of it?"
"No." Oreen's friendliness tempted Ahira to be 
more complete — but it was better to be safe. "I'm 
new to this area."
"Oh?" Green's lifted eyebrow invited him to go 
on.
"I believe you were saying something about a 
Waste?"
Oreen nodded. "It was almost a thousand years 
ago — I don't have the date on the tip of my tongue, 
but I could get if for you if you want me to — it was 
a thousand years ago, that two powerful wizards 
dueled on the plain of Elrood. It was a lush 
farmland, back then. They destroyed everything 
around them, for a great distance. Now, it's 
devastated. Nothing grows." He shook himself. 
"But... you pass through just the edge of the Waste, 
and — "
"Wait." Ahira indicated a patch of green in the 
large brown circle that marked the Waste. "What's 
this? I thought you said that it was all destroyed. 
That's farmland or forest, isn't it?"
"Very good." Green's smile held no trace of 
condescension. "That's the forest surrounding the 
home tabernacle of the Society of the Healing Hand 
— oh, you know the Society?"
"Slightly," Ahira admitted. "I have a friend who 
is a member." In a manner of speaking, that is.
Oreen stood back, impressed. "Really. They're 
powerful healers. Their Grand Matriarch is said to 
be able to raise the dead, although I couldn't swear to 
the truth of that. I've never heard of a Hand cleric's 
talking about it, though." He snorted. "On the other 
hand, the damn Spidersect clerics claim they can do 
anything, and they lie. But, as I was saying, the 
Matriarch is most powerful; she fully protected the 
tabernacle and its grounds from the battle."
Ahira frowned. "I thought you said it was a long 
time ago — hundreds of years, no?"
Oreen's face wrinkled. "Where are you from, 
friend Ahira?"
"What do you mean?" There was a challenge in 
Oreen's voice that made Ahira's hands itch for the 
handle of his battleaxe.
The Librarian sighed, and shook his head. "My 
apologies; it's not my place to pry. But it must be a 
strange land, where powerful clerics can't maintain 
their own life functions."
The James Michael part of him welled up with an 
image of old Father Mendoza, his parish priest, who 
had collapsed with a heart attack while celebrating 
Mass, and died a few hours later. It was strange, 
come to think of it: Why couldn't the gods — God 
take care of his own?
He shook his head. That was beside the point; the 
problem was how to deal with Oreen. Possibly the 
best thing to do would be to lay his situation before 
the Librarian, and ask his advice.
But how could he put it? I used to be a cripple on 
another world, until a would-be wizard sent me 
here, to clear the way for him?
No. That wouldn't do. Just because magic worked 
here didn't mean that there was nothing that the 
locals wouldn't consider insane.
And how do they treat the insane here? Beat 
them, to drive the demons out? And might that even 
work here?
It might, at that. But the cure could easily be 
worse than the disease. "You were showing me the 
route, I believe."
Oreen looked at him for a long moment before 
shrugging. "Very well. As I was saying, I can't show 
you detailed maps of the Waste, simply because 
nobody has ever made one. At least, not to my 
knowledge — anyone going through there would be 
more interested in getting out than they would be in 
mapmaking." He smiled. "And to every rule, an 
exception: I could show you a map of the road from 
Metreyll to the tabernacle of the Healing Hand." His 
finger hovered over a line from a lake to the green 
spot that marked the forest preserve of the Society. 
"But that would take you out of your way. Far out of 
your way, if you're going to Bremon."
"Bremon?"
"Bremon." Oreen tapped at a lone inverted V, 
near the Waste. "That's where the Gate Between 
Worlds is supposed to be. I have a description — no 
map, just some notes — of an entrance into the 
mountain. A hundred years back, someone gave up 
on finding the Gate when he was just outside of the 
mountain. So, I can show you where that is. But I 
can't show you a map of the inside of the mountain, 
simply because — "
"Nobody who has ever gone in has ever come out 
again, to tell the tale."
"Of course." Oreen .was puzzled. "What do you 
think I've been getting at?"

An easterly wind brought a stink to Karl's 
nostrils, as the three of them walked along a quiet 
cobblestone street. It was a stench of dung, and 
sweat, and fear. He was about to pick up the pace, to 
urge the others along, when Walter plucked at Karl's 
sleeve. "I think there's a slave market over that way 
— I can just barely hear an auction. You two want to 
go look?" The thief shrugged. "I know we can't 
spend any serious money right now, but it might be 
worth our while to find out how much some bearers 
cost. Could be cheaper — " He was interrupted by 
the crack of a distant whip, immediately followed by 
a scream of pain. Walter winced. "...than buying 
horses and such."
Karl shook his head. "We won't own people. It's 
wrong."
Doria frowned at Walter. "How could you even 
think of such a thing? That's — "
"Thinking it through. Which you two aren't. 
Look, what would we do with a bunch of slaves, 
after we reach the Gate? We'll let them go, no? In 
effect, it'd be more like a temporary indenture than 
real chattel slavery; they'd trade a bit of service for 
their freedom."
"No." Karl clutched his sword more tightly. 
"That's out. Just forget about it. One of the few 
virtues our world has is — "
"Don't be silly. In our world, it's been the norm 
for most of history. Even in our time, chattel slavery 
isn't unknown. It's still legal in half a dozen places I 
can think of — Saudi Arabia, f'rinstance. You — "
"I won't stand for it." You don't own people. It's 
wrong.
Doria interposed herself between the two of them. 
"Just let it be. We're supposed to be seeing the 
sights, no?"
"Fine."
The street sloped gradually downward as it 
narrowed, the one-and two-story stone houses that 
lined it becoming progressively more ill-kept. 
Through latticed windows, Karl could see an 
occasional head, peering out at him, ducking aside 
when he returned the occupant's gaze. Idly, he let his 
free hand rest on the hilt of his sword, loosening it in 
its scabbard. Probably that was an unnecessary 
precaution, but that was the trouble with 
precautions: You couldn't know which one was 
necessary until it was too late.
Ahead of them, where the now narrow street 
opened into some sort of plaza, there was a distant 
roaring, as though of a fire.
Fire? Karl sniffed the air. No good; the wind was 
at his back. "You two hear that?"
Doria and Walter nodded, stepping up their pace 
to keep abreast of him. "Sounds like a fire," Doria 
said. "A fire? This whole place is built out of stone. 
There can't be a fire."
"Bets?"
They reached the end of the street. What had 
seemed to be a plaza was more of a large, railed 
balcony, overlooking a vast pit, easily two thousand 
feet across, a hundred feet deep at its center.
And in the center of the pit, chained by the neck 
to a massive boulder, was an only slightly less 
massive dragon.
It was a huge brown beast, easily twice Karl's 
height at its front shoulder, only slightly shorter at 
the hips. Two leathery wings sprouted from behind 
its shoulders, curling and uncurling constantly as the 
dragon flamed patches of brown muck into ash and 
steam, its tail flicking nervously from side to side.
The head was a horror. It was shaped much like 
an alligator's head, but it was massive, teeth easily 
the size of daggers, wicked red eyes that bore into 
Karl's, sending him reeling away from the pit's edge.
A gout of flame issued from its mouth, roaring as 
it touched the stream of sludge that poured out of 
one of the pipes feeding into the pit.
*Go away,* sounded in his head, accompanied by 
waves of nausea.
Karl fell to his knees, gagging, his tearing eyes 
jammed shut.
"Karl?" Walter knelt beside him. "What happened 
to you?"
"Karl — are you all right?" Doria's face went 
ashen as she crouched in front of him.
Another burst of flame sent up a cloud of steam 
from a sludge pipe.
Karl forced his eyes open. No, there was nobody 
else there —  all of the buildings that circled the pit 
presented it with only blank walls.
*After all, no one would want to look out on a 
sewer, would he?*
This time, the voice was unaccompanied by 
nausea; Karl staggered to his feet, wiping his mouth 
on the back of his hand. "You're talking, in my 
head."
*Very clever, swordsman.* The dragon's 
directionless voice dripped with sarcasm. *And you 
are talking with your mouth. And the mixed-up little 
healer and the smug thief beside you are standing 
mute. Have you any more subtle observations to 
make? If not, please taunt me in my captivity, and 
then be on your way.* The dragon's forepaw idly 
clawed at the coils of chain around its neck — no, it 
wasn't chain, exactly; more like cable. And in spots 
where the filth that covered it had flaked away, 
specks of gold showed through.
*That is so I can't flame myself free, fool. Were I 
so foolish as to try, I would only burn myself,* It 
had tried that, more than once. The gold plating on 
the steel cable conducted the heat away. To the 
dragon's neck.
Karl's hands flew to his burning neck, circled by a 
ring of fire.
But the fire wasn't there; the pain faded instantly, 
until it was only a memory, as distant as a half-
forgotten pain from a childhood fall.
*How do you like the feeling, human? Your kind 
— *
"No, not me."
"Karl, would you — "
"Shut up." You're not hearing my voice, are you?
*Why would I be interested in your voice?*
I... don't know. But... how can your own flame 
burn you? And why are you angry at — 
*A magical creature the dragon is, but not 
immune to flame, to heat, to burning. I control my 
own flame, of course, but the... indirect effects, no. 
And I hate you because... wait. Who are you?*
"My name is Karl Cullinane. This is Doria and 
Walter." And I don't know why you're angry at me. I 
never did anything to you.
*I am Ellegon. The disposer of wastes.*
I... don't understand.
*Wait until the wind changes, Karl Cullinane. 
This pit is where the sewers of Pandathaway empty, 
so as not to foul their precious harbor. I must flame 
the wastes into ash, or sit here buried in human filth. 
They captured me, when I was only half a century 
out of the egg, and chained me here, dumping their 
excrement on me for these three centuries.*
You're more than three hundred years old?
The dragon had been chained in sewage for three 
centuries; it let Karl feel what that was like.
For just a moment.
As he lay retching on the stones, Walter pulled at 
his shoulders. "C'mon, we've got to get him out of 
here. It's killing him."
*Yes, I'm only a child. Do you think it's right, to 
treat a child like this? Do you?*
Nausea.
Karl shrugged their hands away, closing his eyes, 
trying to close his mind. Please. Don't do that again.
*You wouldn't have done it? No, I see that you 
wouldn't, not even to a dragon.*
The nausea ceased. "Take it easy, you two. 
Everything's okay." No, I wouldn't do it to a dragon.
Karl would kill a dragon, if it endangered him. If 
he could. But this was wrong. Karl had felt just a 
trace of Ellegon's suffering, and that was more than 
enough. Unless the dragon wasn't as sensitive to — 
*Do you want to feel it again?*
No. This was wrong, but it didn't look as though 
there was anything that Karl could do about it: The 
dragon looked hungry, and the cable was thick.
*I am hungry, and I haven't asked you to cut the 
cable. Not that I need to eat; dragons are magical, 
don't you know. We like to eat* — the satisfaction 
of crunching a cow, eating it in two bites, sent the 
last traces of nausea away — *but we don't have to.*
I didn't know. I didn't know anything about 
dragons.
A mental shrug. *Are you stupid, or merely 
ignorant?*
Just ignorant, I hope.
*Hmmm. I have a proposition for you. If I do two 
things for you, would you do one thing for me?*
That depends. You can't — 
*I can't reach your mind from much farther away, 
yes. You could run away, and I wouldn't be able to 
talk to you, or do thi — *
DON'T. I don't want you to make me vomit again. 
But you were offering me a proposition? I... I'm not 
sure I trust you enough to go down there, and try to 
free you.
Flame roared. *Fool. I wasn't asking for that. Not 
from a filthy human. But if you could see your way 
to bringing me something to eat? A sheep, maybe? 
I'll do something for you. I'll start by telling you 
something you need to know, if you are going to 
find the Gate Between Worlds, Karl Cullinane.*
How — how do you know?
Blistering scorn. *I read minds, remember?* 
Ellegon roared.
Sorry. — And yes, if I can afford a sheep, if you 
do something for me that makes it worthwhile, I'll 
bring, you one. Or something else to eat, if I can't 
manage to buy a sheep.
*Agreed. First: You will find the Gate deep under 
the mountain Bremen, just north and west of the 
Waste of Elrood. And — *
I thank you, but maybe Ahira — 
* — I know. Your companion may already have 
found that out. I wasn't finished. I was going to tell 
you something else, something that he could not 
have found out. Something that I know, simply 
because I am a dragon, and know where all of my 
kind are.*
"Karl, what is — "
"Shut up. I'm talking to the dragon."
"You're talking to a dragon?"
*Yes, he's talking to a dragon.*
Walter and Doria both jumped, as Ellegon 
included them.
*But it's easier to talk to only one.*
You were telling me that there's a dragon there, 
at the Gate. That was bad. But maybe, if they were 
lucky, the dragon wouldn't be as large as Ellegon.
*No, He won't. He will be much larger. He has 
lain there long enough for the mountain Bremon to 
grow up around him, as He sleeps there, guarding 
the Gate.*
"Wonderful." He turned to the others. "Ellegon 
just told me that there's a dragon at the Gate, 
guarding it."
"Karl," Doria shrilled, "would you tell me what is 
going on?"
*Tell them to go away. Their minds are even 
narrower and more cramped than yours. Although 
the woman's holds more. Strange. And the other's is 
built differently, as though it's not quite the same 
kind. I... don't understand.*
"Ask him," Walter said, "what the other dragon's 
name is. Maybe Ari can put together a name-spell, 
and — "
*Fool.*
"I heard that." Walter glared.
*And fool you are. He was the first dragon, 
created before all the rest of us.*
"So?"
*So, in the old days, when there was but one 
thing of His kind in all the world, why would He 
have need of a name? Just so, billions of years later, 
some stupid human could cast a spell using it? No. 
He is The Dragon, oldest of us all, and has no need 
of a name.*
So what can we do to protect ourselves against 
him?
*Don't wake Him. He is older than the mountain, 
and you could break the mountain more easily that 
you could dent the smallest of His scales. Karl 
Cullinane?*
Yes?
*I have done one thing for you, no? Will you 
bring me my sheep now, or must I do the other?*
You make that sound like a threat. And I don't like 
threats, Ellegon.
*Very well.* Ellegon sighed mentally. *Then, I 
will let you understand.*
Understand wha — 
The universe fell apart.

He was fifteen, and a nice Jewish girl. Or, at 
least, she was supposed to be. But there were things 
she wasn't supposed to be, and things she wasn't 
supposed to do. Like grope in the dark with Jonathan 
Dolan, and slip out of — 

*Enough? Or do you really want to understand 
Doria?*
You're letting me into her memories? Why?
*So you'll understand.*
No, wai — 

And she couldn't tell Daddy, of course. He called 
her his one-and-only, and Mommy thought she was 
still a virgin. That was one of the rules: You don't 
talk about it. But it wasn't only that she was tale, 
there was this burning — and that damn Jonny 
Dolan was telling everybody that she'd given him 
the clap. And that couldn't be true. It couldn't. He 
was the first, and the only one, so far.
And it hadn't even been any fun. Just a sticky 
mess. He lied. They all lied. It wasn't any fun at all.

*You still don't see it.*

But I can't tell anybody. Besides, it's probably not 
that. Maybe, if I just forget about it. it'll go away?

*I think, perhaps, just a bit more.*

"She's a sick little girl, Mr. Perlstein, but with a 
bit of luck we'll have the fever down in a few hours." 
She lay panting beneath the plastic, no longer able to 
paw at the tubes in her nose and arms — they'd 
fastened her hands down.
"But it can't be gonorrhea. Not my little — "
"You know, Mr. Perlstein, you make me sick."
"Doctor, I — "
"If she'd been able to tell anybody — if she'd felt 
able to tell anybody... if there'd been one goddam 
person for her to talk to, maybe she wouldn't be 
lying there now. We could have treated it easily, if 
we had gotten to it. Before."
"Before?"
"Before it grew into one hell of a raging pelvic 
infection that'll leave her sterile, if it doesn't kill 
her."
"Sterile? My little — "
"Sterile. Unable to conceive. Ever. If we're lucky. 
Nurse." A cold hand felt at her forehead. "I want a 
temp and BP every five minutes. If her temp doesn't 
start to drop within the hour..."

*And the last portion of the payment.*

And I guess it doesn't matter anymore and besides 
in a lot of ways I'm perfect because nobody ever has 
to worry about getting Doria Perlstein pregnant ever 
which means that every cloud has a silver lining 
because now I can have any boy I want to but they 
all treat me like I was a cigarette they pass around 
but I guess that doesn't matter because that's what I 
deserve isn't it because becausebecausebecausebe — 

*Enough.*

"Karl, are you okay?"
"I don't care what he said, Walter, we've got to 
get him out of here."
"No — wait. I think he's coming around."
Karl pried an eye open. Doria and Walter bent 
over him, concern creasing their faces. "It's okay," 
he said, not surprised to hear his voice coming out as 
a harsh croak. "Help me up."
"What did he do to you?" Doria asked. "He hurt 
you again. That — "
"Shh." Understanding, eh?
*Understanding. It's not always easy to 
understand things, Karl Cullinane. Even I know 
that.*
She doesn't know?
*No, of course not. Why would I want to hurt — 
*
You would have killed us. a few minutes ago. If 
you could have reached us.
*A different thing entirely, no?*
A different thing entirely.
*Will you get me my sheep now?* Ellegon asked 
plaintively.
Karl walked slowly to the railing and stared out at 
the dragon. "You two keep watch. I've got a debt to 
pay."
"What did it do to — "
"Shh."
*Then I get my sheep!*
No. He slipped out of his sandals, using their 
thongs to lash his scabbard to his shoulders.
*No? Then you are like all the rest, you — *
Shh. Just be quiet for a moment.
Karl Cullinane pays his debts. That was the rule. 
And even if the debt came out of a window into 
Doria's mind, a window that he wouldn't have 
wanted to look through...
And to think I treated her like — 
*You didn't know. What are you doing?*
Karl levered himself over the railing. Good — the 
rockface below was rough and cracked; there would 
be many finger- and toe-holds. I took up rock 
climbing one summer — hey! why are you asking? I 
thought you could read my mind, even what I'm not 
consciously thinking about.
*Not now. There's an intensity — *
Shh. I've got to pay attention to what I'm doing.
He picked his way carefully down the face, 
ignoring Doria's and Walter's shouted questions 
from above. You can't turn off my sense of smell for 
me, can you? he thought, as he lowered himself into 
the ankle-deep foul muck.
*No — you're really going to do it? 
Thankyouthankyouthankyou — I'll leave, I'll fly 
away, I will. Please, Karl, please don't change your 
mind. Pleaseplease — *
Shh. Stumbling and gagging at the stench, he 
started to walk toward Ellegon.
Never mind, Karl. He's been in this for three 
hundred years.
As he got closer, it became shallower; a harder 
surface beneath the ooze supported his bare feet.
The dragon loomed above him, its breath coming 
in short gasps, its wings curled protectively by its 
sides. Lower your neck, will you? If there's a weak 
point in this cable, it'll probably be there, where you 
can't see it.
Ellegon knelt in the filth, his huge head just 
inches away from Karl. His mental voice was 
strangely silent as he presented his barrellike throat.
It was a cable, and like all cables, made up of 
smaller strands. It took a moment for Karl's swordtip 
to snick through the first strand, and a moment 
longer for the next.
Easy, my friend, easy. Just a few dozen more. He 
had to stop to quell his gagging reflex; wading 
through this... sewer was something he'd try to 
forget.
And — he cut through the last strand — done!
Ellegon's massive head tilted at him. 
*Thankyouthankyouthankyou — *
Shh. Better get going. He slipped his sword back 
in its sheath.
*Grab my neck,* the dragon said, its mind 
muttering a background of *Free. Free. I'm Free.*
Karl reached out, and as he did so, the creature's 
wings flapped, blurring with speed as it eased into 
the air, then whirred over to the balcony, Karl 
dangling for a moment, then dropping to the tiles. 
*Free.*
*One more thing,* Ellegon said, landing.
"Look out, Karl, he's going to — "
The dragon's mouth opened, and a gout of flame 
rushed out, enveloping Karl. Just flame; no heat, 
although the reeking muck covering much of his 
body burst into fire, sparkling and burning away. 
*My flame couldn't hurt you, Karl Cullinane. Not 
you. Not now.* It tingled pleasantly, that was all. He 
turned in the firestream, letting it wash over him like 
a shower.
*Free.* The flame stopped.
Better get going.
With a snap of his wings, the dragon jumped 
skyward, his wings just a blur as he left the balcony 
and the pit behind him.
*Free.*
Flyaway, my friend.
Three times the dragon circled overhead, gaining 
height as he flew.
*Free.*
"Karl," Doria said, shaking her head, "would you 
mind telling us just what's going on?"
"I think we'd all better get out of here, folks," 
Walter said, moving them along. "When the 
authorities find out about this, they aren't going to be 
all that pleased."
Ellegon flew off toward the north, now so high he 
was only a dark speck against the blue sky.
*Free.*
"Karl, why?" Doria asked.
He slipped one aim around her waist, the other 
around Walter's as they walked away. "Because I 
never felt this good in my Whole. Damn. Life."
*Free.*
That was faint now; did he hear it, or just imagine 
it?
It really didn't matter.
Not at all.
*Free.*



CHAPTER TEN:
The Inn of Quiet Repose

We may live without poetry, music and art;
We may live without conscience, and live without 
heart;
We may live without friends, we may live without 
books;
But civilized man cannot live without cooks.
 — Edward Bulwer-Lytton, Earl of Lytton

Walter Slovotsky suppressed a chuckle at Andrea's 
bubbly enthusiasm as she led the group down a 
broad street toward the Inn of Quiet Repose.
"You should see it," she said, hurrying them 
along. "And I got a fine deal for the suite — it's 
going to cost us just one hundred gold for the next 
ten days."
A hundred gold? By local prices, that wasn't 
much at all. Walter shrugged. Either she had landed 
them in some horrid hovel, or her Charm spell had 
been awfully effective.
Apparently, Ahira had the same idea. "If you 
charmed whoever's running it, won't — "
"Nope." She took a smug, prancing step, "The 
owner has an amulet around his neck, one he thinks 
wards that kind of spell away." She spread her 
hands. "But it doesn't have any kind of aura at all — 
either it's dead, or it's a phony. But here we are."
The inn was a three-storied edifice, a marble 
mansion like a stone version of something out of 
Gone with the Wind. Tall fluted pillars guarded the 
broad staircase, the foyer was a vast, soundless 
room, with deep, blood-red carpets that seemed to 
suck the weariness out of Walter's legs. He smiled as 
he tilted his head back to enjoy the mural that 
spanned the high ceiling: chubby nymphs chasing 
unicorns through a green glade.
He started to lower his pack to the floor, but six 
young women in filmy white kimonos descended on 
them, relieving them all of their burdens as others 
arrived bearing silver trays laden with steaming 
cloths to bathe their hands, feet, and faces, and yet 
others carrying thick towels to pat them dry, and tall, 
frosty glasses of ice and wine.
And all this when they were barely inside the 
door. Walter nodded. I think I'm going to like this.
And then, for a moment, he had his doubts. A 
huge man, yards of yellow silk caftan barely 
containing his oversize belly, stepped from behind a 
curtain. "Well, it seems as though you were correct, 
my little friend." He scowled down at Andrea, easily 
half again her height. Walter tried to guess his 
weight, three-fifty, four hundred perhaps? "I 
wouldn't have believed that there was so scruffy a 
group if — but never mind, pay no attention, 
Tommallo is but ranting, again And these are guests, 
their way has been pai — " He stopped himself, 
rubbing a finger against his almost impossibly 
aquiline nose, then shook his head. "My guests: Will 
you go to your suite now, or would you care to dine 
first?"
Ahira spoke up. "Is there a bath — "
"You insult me!" The owner stood back, his 
hands on his hips. "This, my dear sir, is the Inn of 
Quiet Repose. Nowhere, I say, nowhere in glorious 
Pandathaway will you find an establishment so well 
kept, so replete with every facility necessary to 
provide a guest ease or comfort. Every comfort."
Walter looked the nearest of the serving girls up 
and down. Quite a difference from the ugly, 
unbathed serving girls of Lundeyll. Then he glanced 
at Karl. On the other hand maybe the stupid 
swordsman would give him trouble over that — 
couldn't he see that there was a difference between 
here and home? When in Pandathaway...
The owner was still talking. "...you will even 
discover — perhaps I should save this? No, no — 
you will find that your suite's bath is complete with 
running water, requiring only the merest turn of a 
valve for its use." He stamped his bare foot 
soundlessly on the carpet. "And you will find your 
rooms to be quiet, your sleep will be deep and sound 
and filled only with light, pleasant dreams. Our table 
is the finest, with food — " He smacked himself on 
the forehead. "But I forget my manners! I am 
Tommallo, your host for the next ten days — and at 
an unusually low fee." Again, his forehead wrinkled, 
as though he were trying to figure out why he had 
agreed to such a relatively small charge. He glanced 
at Andrea and Aristobulus, in their gray robes. "It's 
as though — but no," he murmured. "I've a token to 
ward that away. But perhaps its potency has fled? 
No, no, pay attention, Tommallo, for you have 
guests, and yet to find out what their pleasure is, you 
old fool. Letting your mouth run free when — "
Ahira held up a hand. "I'm for the bath, first. I 
suppose everybody else is, too."
"Not me." Those were the first words out of Karl 
since they'd left the sewage pit. The stupid — but 
never mind I've got to help Jimmy contain the 
damage. Not sure what kind of police force they 
have here, not really — but whatever kind they have 
is going to be looking for Kari And they'll be bloody 
unlikely to overlook his accomplices.
"I managed," Karl went on, "to get myself 
cleaned up earlier. Right now, I could use some 
food. Anyone else?"
Well, that might have been true for Karl, but 
Walter hadn't been cleansed by fire — and had no 
desire whatsoever to try it out. He scratched at his 
arm, the itching from lack of bathing had subsided 
into a dull background of irritation, but now there 
wasn't anything he wanted more than a bath.
Except survival. And that means I'd better keep 
an eye on Mr. Cullinane. "I need some food, too." 
Walter patted at his stomach. "Been a long lime 
since breakfast. Tommallo?"
"Yes?" The innkeeper beamed at him. "Snacks — 
I have a fresh, pungent beetlepaste — or would you 
prefer something more substantial?"
"Beef?"
"Ah... the cooks have a wonderful roast in the pit 
Hindleg of a virgin heifer, marinated in wine and 
herbs for a week, then cooked in a vat with — "
"Enough." Aristobulus held up a hand. "Let us get 
to it, shall we7"
Andrea nodded, as did Doria.
Ahira shook his head. "The rest of you go along 
— I'll head up to our suite, and get myself a bath and 
a nap."
Tommallo snapped his fingers. A buxom blonde 
led the dwarf away. "And for the rest of you — 
would you care to dine in the common room, or — "
Walter shook his head. "We need some privacy."
The innkeeper tilted his head, smiling knowingly. 
"Ah — and will you require an additional wench or 
— "
"We're fine the way we are."
Tommallo nodded, and conducted the five of 
them down a hallway, to a staircase, then up two 
flights to another hallway, and finally to a room at 
the corner of the building, two walls composed 
mainly of open windows and bead-curtained exits to 
the veranda outside. He bowed them in, waiting until 
everyone was seated on a bench at the massive oak 
table before clapping his hands together. "Wine for 
my guests!" he commanded the air.
As though they had been waiting behind the 
curtains, three women stepped out, bottles in hand, 
along with heavily laden trays. Bowls and small 
sharp knives were set in front of them, along with 
serving dishes of buttery corn, served on the cob 
with a tangy brown sauce, small fowl — squab, 
perhaps? — the skin broiled to a perfect golden 
crispness, a purple paste that was somehow sour and 
hot and sweet, all at the same time, and delightfully 
so.
Tommallo bowed. "Enjoy yourselves, my guests. 
If you have any desire at all, you need merely snap 
your fingers, or when in your room, pull a bellrope." 
He left, but the servitors kept bringing platters of 
food, setting them down, and leaving.
Walter sampled a knobby sheet of bread. The 
bulges turned out to be a cheesy orange filling. A 
strange combination of flavors, but a delightful one; 
he debated for a moment whether to reach for 
another helping or sample the steaming slices of 
beef and lamb or the silver tureen of leeks floating in 
a clear broth before deciding to take all three, and 
more of the bread.
There was no sound for minutes, except for the 
noises of chewing and frequent oohs and ahhs as all 
sampled the fare. Do we talk here or — stupid!
"Everybody," he said in English, "no Erendra — 
just keep the talk in English, understood?"
Aristobulus shook his head. "No," he said around 
a mouthful of fowl, "I don't understand — we've got 
nothing to hide."
"We do now." Walter jerked his thumb at Karl, 
who was silently chewing on an ear of corn, careless 
of the way the sauce was dripping on the tabletop. 
"Genius, here, decided to ruin the city's sewage 
system." He looked over at Andrea. "And besides, 
we don't want the staff here to overhear how we got 
the cut-rate price on the lodgings, do we?"
Andrea shook her head. "I wouldn't worry about 
it. As I said, Tommallo isn't the sort to talk things 
over with his employees, and — "
"Not employees," Karl growled. "Let's at least 
keep it honest."
"They are so employees, stupid. Slephmelrad, to 
be precise,"
Slephmelrad. Fealty servants. Walter shrugged. It 
had taken a while to get used to the way that oddities 
of the Erendra language awakened knowledge that 
he hadn't known he'd had, but it had become a 
frequent phenomenon. And, come to think of it, when 
I get some spare time it'd be worthwhile to ran 
through every Erendra word I know, and try to 
integrate all that.
"Oh." Karl shrugged, smiling awkwardly at a 
slender girl who looked to be about thirteen; she 
deposited another clay bottle of wine on the table 
before leaving. "Just women?"
"No." Andrea smiled broadly, "Male servants, 
too. And one of them — "
"Enough." Walter rubbed at his temples. Granted, 
the two of them had had a good time together aboard 
the Ganness' Pride, but it hadn't been that good. And 
the way she rubbed Karl's nose in her right to — 
something had to be done about that.
You're a fine one to talk, Walter Slovotsky. You've 
never made any pretense with Doria that she was 
your one-and-only. "We'll talk about it later." Then 
again, that was different. For one thing, unless he 
was totally misreading Karl, and Andrea was a liar, 
those two had never gotten together. And, dammit, 
he didn't rub Doria's nose in it. Ever.
Complications... everything's got complications. 
And Jimmy was probably at the heart of one of the 
worst of them. Why hadn't he made a play for 
Doria? It was as clear as anything that the little guy 
wanted her — and here, it might work. Or would 
that be some sort of perversion, come to think of it? 
What would you call it, humanality?
He shook his head. It'd probably take Jimmy a 
while to work things out. If he slept with Doria, was 
he, Ahira, being queer for humans? And if he made 
it with a female dwarf, was James Michael — 
The trouble with me is that, way down deep, I'm 
shallow. My best friend is finally in a situation 
where he can be a whole person, and all I worry 
about is whether that's a perversion of some sort.
And whether I have to sleep alone tonight. He 
caught Doria's eye, tilting and raising his chin in an 
unvoiced question. She glanced at Karl, then at 
Andrea, frowned, and nodded. Well, at least that's 
taken care of. That's the trouble with me, though — 
I'm just a slave to my hormones and digestive juices. 
He reached out and speared another slice of red, rare 
beef.
"Sewage system?" Aristobulus looked over. "You 
mean that little dragon?"
"How'd you hear about it?"
"I spent some time in the wizards' section of the 
Library, chatted with a few guild members taking a 
break from doing some research. Found out some... 
interesting things, between my reading and talking."
"Well?"
"Hmmm, I think I'll save it for later. There are 
some calculations I want to recheck. But for now... 
did you realize that this whole Guilds' Council thing 
is a sham?"
Karl frowned. "Wait a minute. I — "
"You didn't spend the afternoon with some of the 
people who really run Pandathaway, Karl. It's the 
wizards — the rest are just window dressing. Which 
is why we don't have to worry about To — about our 
host's getting angry, even if he does find out what 
Andrea did." Aristobulus smiled smugly. 
"Assaulting any wizard is a capital crime — ditto an 
authorized cleric, member of any of the five 
recognized sects. Including" — he nodded to Doria 
— "the Hand, by the way." The wizard frowned and 
shook his head. "I'd leave you all right now, if it 
wasn't..."
Damn me. I've got a mind like a sieve. Ever since 
he had learned about the Great Library, Walter had 
worried that Aristobulus might choose to leave the 
group in Pandathaway. He hadn't said anything; 
nothing could be done about it. If Aristobulus 
wanted to go, he could. "And why won't you?"
Aristobulus took a long swig of wine before 
answering, "It's the damn spell books again." He 
drained the mug and slammed it down on the table. 
"I may be good, but I'm not a Wizards' Guild 
member."
"So?"
"So, if and when I apply for membership, I'll be 
better off having a set of books of my own. 
Otherwise, I've got to apprentice, of all things."
Walter chuckled, The notion of Aristobulus 
apprenticing to some other wizard was almost 
absurd. Ari was pretty far along as a wizard; it was 
unlikely that there were many others in Pandathaway 
as powerful as he was. But it was a certainty that 
there were plenty of wizards who could gang up on 
him and make him toe the line. "How long an 
apprenticeship?"
He scowled. "Until my — get this — my master 
decides that I'm worthy." He shook his head. "And 
that's not the worst of it. All apprentices in the guild 
have to submit to being put under geas."
Now that was bad for Aristobulus, but good for 
the rest of them. A geas would rob him of his ability 
to disobey his master's orders. And it was unlikely 
that any master wizard would want to dispense with 
the services of someone with skills as developed as 
Ari's. Normally, the tradeoff between master and 
apprentice — in any profession — was that of 
training in the craft for doing all the trivial 
gruntwork. But Ari was capable of doing much more 
than preparing a potion under supervision; whatever 
guild wizard he'd be apprenticed to would quickly 
find his services indispensable.
But it was good for the group, at least. With a 
lifetime of apprenticeship to look forward to if he 
stayed in Pandathaway, Aristobulus was certain to 
stay with the group. At least until they reached the 
Gate, and Deighton. "You're assuming that Doc'll 
furnish you with another spell book or two."
"Very good." The wizard popped a ball of deep-
fried prawns and garlic into his mouth. "And then I'll 
come back here, apply to the guildmaster, and live 
off my earnings and the stipend guild members get, 
just like all the others." He chuckled. "Including the 
extra earnings from selling phony charms, like the 
one that Tommallo has. The fool — why would the 
wizards bother to sell him a real protection when he 
can't tell the difference?"
As Karl reached for his third helping of beef, the 
wizard cocked his head. "I thought you're supposed 
to go light on food, before?"
"Before what?"
"The Games, stupid — the every-ten-days ones 
are tomorrow, aren't they? I thought that's what — " 
Aristobulus wrinkled his brow. "You mean you 
didn't bother asking anyone about them? I thought 
— "
Walter held up a hand. "We got distracted." And 
it's just as well that the Games are tomorrow, at 
that. The cops are going to be looking for Karl, 
Aristobulus is probably trying to figure out a way to 
swipe a set of books from a local, and — 
And the simple fact is that I'm scared. He rubbed 
a thumb against the spot where Lund's henchman 
had cut him. I know I won't stop being scared until 
we get home. But will it stop, even then?
He stood. Somehow, the food didn't taste so good 
anymore.

Rubbing at his hair with a thick flannel cloth that 
served as a towel, Ahira decided that Tommallo 
hadn't been bragging. Their suite in the Inn of Quiet 
Repose was broad and spacious, oozing comfort 
from the deep crimson carpet that tickled his ankles, 
all the way to the chandeliers overhead, scores of 
candles burning almost smokelessly, dripping only a 
sweet fragrance into the common room. Beeswax, 
perhaps?
He sighed. And there was even half-decent 
plumbing — superior, by local standards. Granted, 
the hot water for his bath had been taken, bucket by 
bucket, from a copper kettle, but at least it had been 
hot.
He dropped to the floor next to his weapons and 
stretched out on his back, pillowing his head on his 
hands, letting his eyes sag shut. With a bit of luck, 
he could catch a nap before the others returned from 
dinner.
And it was good to be alone, without having to 
worry about where the others were, what the others 
were doing....
The world slowly faded away into the warm 
twilight of oncoming sleep.
"Shh." Hakim's whisper boomed. "Don't wake 
him; he needs his rest."
Ahira opened his eyes. "Thanks for the thought, 
anyway."
As the others filed into the room, he shrugged, 
deciding against slipping away to one of the sleeping 
rooms. There was much to talk about; they had to 
figure out what the next move was.
Karl stretched out on a fur-covered couch and 
patted at his belly. "Sorry. Hey, you missed one hell 
of a good meal, though. I don't think I'll be able to 
eat for hours. How was your bath?"
"Restful." Ahira forced himself to sit up. "Very 
restful. You all should try it, a bit later."
Doria sat beside him, hugging her knees. "Why 
not now? You go get some sleep. We've got a long 
day tomorrow, what with the Games and all."
"Tomorrow? Then never mind." He rubbed at his 
eyes. "All right, everyone, gather around. Let's get 
this over with."
Hakim sat down next to Doria, followed by Karl, 
then Aristobulus, then Andrea. Ahira could almost 
see bands of tension flowing between her and Karl; 
it was evident in the way he avoided looking at her, 
and in the curious little pursed-lips headshake that 
she would give every time she looked at him. 
Probably there was some intelligent thing to do, to 
get the two of them to agree to better than a coldly 
hostile coexistence.
Trouble is, I don't have a single idea what that 
intelligent thing to do is. Oh well — what cannot be 
cured, must be endured. "I'll go first," he said. "I 
know where the Gate is; I've got it right here" — he 
tapped a finger against his temple — "and I'll sketch 
out a map sometime tomorrow. Somebody pull a 
pencil and some paper from their pack. I don't have 
any."
"I do." Andrea nodded. "But how far is it?"
"Looks to be a fairly long haul from here — a 
month of traveling, easily."
Karl cocked his head to one side, a faint smile 
playing across his lips. "And once we get to Bremen, 
it'll be tougher, maybe. Almost certainly."
"What do you mean?" Ahira hadn't mentioned 
Bremon; he hadn't said anything about it since they'd 
all met at the fountain.
Karl rubbed his hand across his face. "I... had a 
talk with a friend. He says there's a big mother of a 
dragon under the mountain, guarding the Gate. 
Sleeping."
"A friend?" Andrea snapped. "What sort of 
friend?"
Hakim raised a palm. "Best not to talk about it — 
he's talking about the baby dragon that is — that 
used to be a part of Pandathaway's sewage system. 
But it's best to keep quiet about it. We'd just better 
get ourselves together and get out of here. Could be 
the authorities are looking for us, even now."
Karl shook his head. "I don't think so. We were 
down in the slums. The folks who live there 
probably won't be eager to talk to the... cops. Even if 
they saw us."
Walter sneered. "You ever live in the slums, 
genius? Sometimes you have to talk to the cops, 
even when you don't want to."
Aristobulus nodded his agreement. "And when 
the sewage starts rising around their ankles? You 
know who's going to have to take care of it, and they 
won't like it. Not at all."
Ahira didn't know what they were talking about, 
but the fact that Karl knew about Bremon — 
apparently knew more about Bremen than he did — 
was something that had to be explained. The best 
way, probably, would be to wait, to escape the worry 
of being overheard if they spoke in Erendra, or being 
labeled as strange if they talked in an unknown 
language like English. But too many precautions, too 
much paranoia, was in itself a chancy thing. "Just 
talk, Karl. Keep your voice low, by all means, but 
please tell me what the hell you're talking about."
Karl nodded slowly. "Fine. They have a funny 
sort of sewer system here. It dumps out into a pit, 
where the sewage used to be flamed into ash by a 
dragon, a young one."
"Used to be?" Andrca arched an eyebrow. "I take 
it it — "
"Doesn't anymore." Karl smiled. "They had the 
dragon chained there. I didn't like that, so I set him 
loose. End of story." He shrugged. "Probably not a 
big deal; all they'll have to do is get some high-
ranking wizards down there, every now and then, to 
Fire the slop into ash."
Ahira shook his head. The brainless —  "How 
long ago?"
"An hour or so before we met at the fountain, 
Why?"
Andrea spoke up. "Because probably the news is 
all over Pandathaway by now, and somebody is 
going to be looking for whoever did it, stupid. I 
thought that Walter was just joking before. Tell me, 
Karl, have you ever thought about the consequences 
of — "
"Shut up." That was from Doria, oddly enough. 
Her defending Karl made little sense. "Tell me, Karl; 
Did you think about the consequences?"
Karl didn't answer for a moment; he sat there 
tailor-fashion, his body relaxed and loose, his eyes 
misty like an absurdly overmuscled Buddha. "To be 
honest, I didn't. It... it was important enough that... 
consequences just didn't matter. I'm sorry if you're 
upset — "
"Upset?" Andrea was almost hysterical. "If they 
find out who did this, we all could get killed."
Doria's face clouded over. "He said that it was 
important enough, didn't he? I don't understand why 
— but maybe I don't have to. We all — "
Andrea threw up her hands. "That's the trouble 
with you," she shrilled at Karl, ignoring Doria, 
"you're always so damn intense about everything. 
That's why — never mind." She shook her head 
slowly, rubbing at her eyes. "It's done."
Ahira picked up on that. "Right. It's done." He 
turned to Karl. "Did anyone see you three?"
"No." Karl chewed on his lower lip. "And 
besides, around here, the three of us aren't all that 
unusual-looking. Maybe even if someone did see us, 
and somebody else links that to Ellegon getting 
away — "
" — it might not matter," Ahira finished. Well, 
that wasn't likely, but at least it was a possibility. 
"But let's not take chances. I don't want you three to 
be seen together in public until we're gone from 
Pandathaway. And we'd better arrange to get out of 
here soon. Soon as possible. And that means that 
you and I'd better do well enough in the Games 
tomorrow so that we can buy what we need quickly, 
and get out of here." He considered that for a 
moment. "Better: We buy just what we need to get 
to Aeryk, and finish outfitting ourselves there."
Aristobulus cocked his head to one side. "I'll still 
need another two days in the Library, at least. I've 
gotten one of my spells back, but I need the Fire 
spell, and I think, with a bit of effort, I could puzzle 
out the spell that would let me bring writing 
materials past the Glyph — "
"No." Ahira made that as final as possible. "We 
don't have time for all that. You and Andrea each 
have one spell to relearn — you do that tomorrow 
morning while we get ready to leave after the 
Games."
Hakim lifted his head. "I've got a better idea. We 
could have Ari Glow a blade or two — we ran into a 
smith who might pay nicely for it, if Doria handles 
the negotiations, And then he can relearn both that 
and his Lightning spell. That way..."
"Good." Ahira nodded. "And that's the way we do 
it. Where are these Games taking place?"
"Mmmm." The thief spread his arms, 
embarrassed. "To be perfectly honest, we got kind of 
dis — "
"At the Coliseum," Aristobulus snorted. "North 
side of the city. The oddsmakers set up their tables at 
dawn; contestants have to be there by midmorning. 
Anything else you need to know? It's fortunate that 
at least one of us spent some time asking questions 
— "
"Enough." Ahira cut him off. "Spilled milk. 
Doria?"
"Yes?"
"You and Walter take care of placing the bets on 
us. Don't go deep into our money, but if Karl and I 
are as good as I think we are, we shouldn't have any 
problem winning. And since we're new here, I bet — 
"
Doria nodded. " — that you'll be undervalued. 
Fine. How much should we put down?"
Karl spoke up. "That's not the way you gamble. 
Not if you know what you're doing. Figure out what 
we need, find out what the odds are, and then you'll 
know how much to bet."
Andrea stood and stretched. "Well, unless you've 
got something for me to do, I'm going to wash up" 
— she put her hand over her mouth to stifle a yawn 
— "and then get some sleep. That meal's going to 
my head." She started to walk away, then stopped 
and turned. "One thing — what if you and Karl don't 
win?"
Ahira shook his head. "You're looking at it the 
wrong way.  — Now, Doria and Hakim, I want to go 
over what you've got to buy tomorrow, just at a 
minimum. That way, you can price it out, and know 
what you'll have to bet in order to make the kind of 
money we need."
Andrea scowled down at him. "What do you 
mean, I'm looking at it the wrong way?"
He sighed. She still hadn't worked it out? "Karl, 
tell her."
The big man shrugged. "Look at it this way: We 
don't have enough money to buy what we need to 
get out of Pandathaway, and this is the only way I 
can see of making it in a hurry. And whoever's in 
charge of this place is probably looking for me right 
now, and isn't likely to think all that highly of the 
rest of you. So..."
"So?"
"So we'd damn well better win, hadn't we?"



CHAPTER ELEVEN:
The Games

A man cannot be too careful in his choice of 
enemies.
 — Oscar Wilde

Karl frowned. The place felt normal, but the chatter 
was strange. The swordsmen's pit beneath the right-
hand limb of the Coliseum was a large bare room of 
gray stone, lit only by a few flickering oil lamps that 
dangled from the ceiling. The air was cold and 
damp; the reeking sawdust that covered the dirt floor 
should have been changed long ago.
But the conversation was positively merry.
"Bet I get past the second round without two 
marks on my hide, and you — "
"You serious? I put down a couple of silver on 
myself, but I only got thirty-to-one I make it to the 
finals. Who you betting with? I've been going to 
Antrius, that slimy son of a dungfly — "
"Well, of course Ohlmin's going to grab first. 
Nobody else can move near that fast. So I'm not 
holding back anything in the early rounds; I'll be 
satisfied if I can just get into the finals — "
''You're dreaming, friend. Or crazy. Dwarves are 
no damn good with longbows; they're just too short. 
Although the little buggers — ''
A pinch-faced elf waved the hundred or so 
swordsmen — humans, elves, dwarves, and curious 
mixes that Karl couldn't quite identify — to a 
semblance of silence. Standing on a waist-high stone 
block in the center of the high-ceilinged room, he 
wore a light-blue tunic with matching leggings, a 
gold headband that marked him as an official of the 
Games, and a bored expression that proclaimed that 
being around a bunch of ill-washed swordsmen was 
not his ultimate pleasure in life.
"I am," he intoned, "Khoralt ip Therranj, 
Wineseller's Delegate to the Guilds' Council — "
"So bring us some wine!" a mocking voice called 
out from the crowd.
The elf sighed. "If you will all keep silent for a 
few moments, just a few moments, this will be over, 
and you can proceed to the winning of some 
money." He made as though to step down, but 
moved back toward the center of his pedestal as the 
rush of noise diminished somewhat. He went on: "I 
will be the chief official of the swords competition. 
The top prize will be two hundred pieces of gold; 
lesser prizes in the usual ratios."
The same voice called out, "If it's as usual, then 
why are you wasting our time telling us?"
Karl looked over at him. He was a thin, dark man, 
dressed —  like all the other contestants — only in 
sandals, leggings, and tunic; armor was not allowed 
in Pandathaway's Games. Karl had a flash of dislike; 
the swordsman's crossed-arms slouch, his thin smirk, 
his whole manner suggested that he was slumming, 
that he was too good to be here, with ordinary 
warriors.
Khoralt sighed. "Perhaps not everyone here is a 
veteran of the Games, Ohlmin. I see some new 
faces; perhaps there are some men who would not 
even recognize you."
The thin man — Ohlmin — shook his head. "If 
they don't now, they will soon." He smiled thinly. 
"Business has been slow, lately — I've an order to 
fill in Aeryk, and if I don't win today, I won't have 
enough coin to make my purchases."
The elf shook his head. "Your business concerns 
are not germane, but..." He shrugged, raising his 
head to address the crowd. "Ohlmin, here, has won 
the swords competition every time that he has 
entered it, whenever his selection of slaves has 
dipped low enough that he's needed the extra coin." 
He turned back to Ohlmin. "Now, is that sufficient 
acknowledgment?"
Ohlmin paused. "For now," He smiled.
In another setting, Karl would have wanted to 
wipe the smirk off Ohlmin's face, but drawing 
attention to himself for no profit hardly seemed to be 
a good idea.
"Before I begin," Khoralt continued, "an 
announcement. Our sewer dragon, as most of you 
know, escaped yesterday. It is not known if he 
managed to free himself, or if he was aided. If 
necessary, the Wizards' Guild will discover which. 
But in any case, there is a standing reward of three 
thousand pieces of gold for the capture of the one or 
ones responsible, if any."
"Dead or alive?" someone called out.
"Alive. Two hundred fifty for the body or bodies, 
with proof." The elf pursed his lips together. "We 
want the culprit for a Coliseum execution. Now, as 
to the rules of this competition: This will be a single-
elimination event, and will begin just as soon as the 
axe-and-hammer contest is over. You can choose 
your weapons just as soon as I finish; we have a 
broad selection; there is no reason to push. Two 
critical hits constitute a win, and there will be no 
arguments as to whether a blow on a non-sword arm 
is a critical hit: It is not. Decisions of the judges will 
be just short of final. Any dispute of the judges' 
decisions will be settled by bowmen in the stands, at 
the judges' discretion." He smiled thinly. "And that 
will be final. Are there any questions? If not, then let 
— "
"Wait!" A new voice called out. "Who won the 
bows? I had a bit of coin riding on it, and the damn 
armsmen say if I leave to find out, I can't get back 
in."
Khoralt sighed, examining a slip of parchment 
which he drew from, his sleeve. "I will give you all 
the winners. Wrestling: Gronnee of the Endell 
Warrens. Crossbows: Edryncik, Pandathaway's 
Chief Man-at-Arms — " A ragged cheer went up. 
Clearly, a few of the swordsmen had bet on 
Edryncik as a local favorite. "And the axe-and-
hammer is down to the last two: Wyhnnhyr of 
Aeryk, and a dwarf — umm, Ahira of the..." He 
paused to work out the next words. "... Len-kahn 
Tunnels. And no, I don't know where those are, 
either."
Karl smiled. Good. Ahira had made it to the 
finals, at least. And with a bit of luck...
The elf cocked his head to one side, considering 
the volume of the muted roar from the crowd 
outside. "From the level of noise, I would hazard a 
guess that the newcomer has won."
Karl sighed. And now, the rest of it is up to me. It 
was a long way to Bremen; getting there safely 
could depend on how well they were equipped. And 
that would depend on his winning the purse and the 
bets that Walter and Doria had placed on him by 
now.
The elf bowed quickly. "And now, it is time for 
you to select your weapons, and get out there. Good 
fortune to you all. Anyone who makes trouble gets 
an arrow through his liver."
Karl joined the ragged column shuffling toward 
the exit, stopping in his turn at the armory to turn in 
his sword and pick out one that was roughly the 
same size and heft.
Although, it wasn't a sword, not really: The 
weapon was made of wood, except for the wrought-
iron crosspiece that served as a guard. But it hefted 
well; probably it was lead-filled. He fitted his fingers 
to the hilt and took a few cautious swings. The 
sword didn't balance too badly, but he was a bit 
nervous about the black tar that coated the "blade."
"Your first time in this nonsense?" The 
swordsman to his right let his own sword dangle, 
keeping it from touching his leg with an easy three-
fingered grip.
Karl nodded. "Yes. This thing feels... adequate, I 
guess, but — "
The other, a short, stocky man with an easy, gap-
toothed smile, interrupted him with a nod. "But 
you're worried about marking yourself with your 
own stick." He shook his head, "Don't worry about 
it, as long as you can keep from marring yourself 
before the first round; they send out slaves to rub the 
gunk off between rounds." He cocked his head to 
one side. "Are you willing to do me a favor?" he 
asked, as they stepped out of the tunnel, into the 
brightness of the Coliseum.
Karl sucked in air. He hadn't seen the Coliseum 
from the inside before, and it was a sight. 
Pandathaway's Coliseum was a huge curve, two gray 
stone arms reaching out toward the plains beyond 
the city, lined by rows and rows of cheering, 
shouting spectators in the stands. Near to the base of 
the curve, the cup of the Coliseum where the 
swordsmen stood, the stone of the Coliseum was 
dark, stained with age; beyond, toward the open 
mouth of the structure, the stones lightened, as 
though they were newer, added on.
And in the distance, the Aershtyl Mountains 
loomed, a massive backdrop that covered the 
horizon. From this distance, they seemed blue, 
wreathed with feathery clouds that clung to their 
peaks like cottony halos. The highest peaks were 
touched with snow, and glistening threads that 
twinkled on the mountainsides, combining into 
larger streams and rivers.
"Gives the actors one hell of a time," Karl's 
companion said.
Karl tore his eyes from the mountains. "What?"
A smile. "You must be new here — the Classics 
Festival just finished last month." He gestured at the 
plain, and the blue mountains beyond. "How would 
you like to play Iranys with that as your 
competition? It either breaks an actor, or pulls out 
the performance of his life."
"It would." Just a few weeks ago, just a few eons 
ago, Karl had been an acting student, paying less 
attention than he should have to memorizing his 
lines in The Glass Menagerie. But that was to be 
played on a proscenium stage; flats and lighting to 
aid the players. He shook his head. To act, to 
compete with that as a background, was a challenge 
that would frighten Alec Guinness.
"Now, how about that favor?"
Frowning at the smaller man's persistence, Karl 
turned back to him. "What favor?"
"Look, friend, this is your first time here; odds 
are, you're not going to make it past the first round." 
He jerked his chin toward the slaves raking the 
sands. "As soon as they finish, we have to square off 
— for the first round, it's pick-your-opponent. You 
have any objection to taking me on? I could use an 
easy first round."
Karl smiled. "I just might win, you know."
The other gave a slight shrug and a doubting grin. 
"I'll take my chances. Let's move out, now — I want 
to get a spot well away from the stands; sometimes 
they throw things."
Karl followed him out to a playing area near the 
center of the field. Like the fifty or so others, it was 
square, the corners marked by four iron poles. There 
would be two ways to lose a round, and any chance 
of advancing in the competition: either be hit by two 
blows that the judges deemed critical, or leave 
during play the five-yard-square area marked by the 
poles.
As the other swordsmen settled into their places, 
sound in the playing areas died down, except for 
bitter grumbling from several swordsmen, unhappy 
that they had not snagged weaker opponents.
Karl put that out of his mind, trying as well to 
tune out the increasingly loud roar of the crowd. He 
had to win; there was too much riding on it to let 
himself be distracted.
And if he was going to win the event, he would 
need to conserve his energy for the later rounds, He 
hadn't counted the contestants, but it was 
vanishingly unlikely that their number was exactly a 
power of two — and that meant that some would be 
awarded byes, now or in the later rounds. Likely the 
byes would go to contestants with winning records; 
in order to be ready for the last rounds, Karl would 
have to win the early ones quickly and easily so that 
he wouldn't be winded in the later ones.
From behind him and to his left, Khoralt's voice 
boomed, "Prepare to fight!"
Karl gripped his sword carefully.
And then, "Fight!"
Karl's opponent moved in cautiously, his sword 
weaving, ready to block or strike. The smaller man 
lunged — 
Karl dropped flat on his back, his right foot 
kicking up toward the other's hands. The sole of his 
sandal connected with his opponent's wrists; Karl 
was rewarded by a cry of pain and the sight of the 
other's sword flipping end over end out of their 
playing area.
As he bounced to his feet, Karl's own sword 
lashed out, drawing a big, black X across the front of 
his opponent's tunic.
The other sighed, raising his hands in mock 
surrender. "Damn me!" He shook his head. "Not as 
clumsy as you look, big man — that should teach me 
to try and take advantage of a tyro." As Karl 
accepted his extended hand, he brightened. 
"Although, now that I'm out of it, I might put down a 
coin or two on you. Think you can make it to the 
final round?"
Karl shrugged. "I think I might manage to do 
that."
"It gets harder from here on, you know." He 
walked away.
Karl counted the remaining contestants, as the 
losers walked off the field. Sixty-two were left. One 
of the judges beckoned to Ohlmin and a beetle-
browed dwarf, giving them byes, as Karl squared off 
with his assigned opponent, a tall elf, almost half 
again Karl's height. He was light-skinned and blond, 
almost an albino. But not nearly as frail as he 
appeared; it took several tiring minutes of sparring 
for Karl to work his way inside the other's guard and 
smack the sword out of his opponent's hands.
Thirty-two left. Karl was paired off with the 
dwarf who had been given a bye the previous round. 
The dwarf fought with a sword longer than Karl's, 
and with physical strength much greater.
Fortunately, he was just a bit slower, and a sucker 
for a false opening.
Karl came out of that match limping. Before he'd 
been able to mark the dwarf twice, the little bastard 
had connected with a wicked slash to Karl's right 
knee.
Sixteen left. Karl favored his injured knee as he 
limped over to the playing area a judge indicated. 
This time, his opponent was a human, a long-haired, 
smooth-shaven man who fought in a bizarre two-
swords style. It took a bit of time for Karl to weave 
his sword in between the long slashing sword and 
the short parrying one — and it cost him another 
blow to his knee.
He ended that round with a stroke to the other's 
temple; the man dropped as though he had been a 
puppet, his strings slashed.
As the harried slaves ran out to daub the 
remaining contestants off, Karl forced himself to 
breathe slowly, shallowly. With a bit of luck, he 
would have three rounds left — and that goddamn 
Ohlmin hadn't even worked up a sweat. Karl 
snatched the slave's rag. wiping the dripping sweat 
from his forehead, He set his sword down for a 
moment and rubbed at his swollen knee. It would 
support his weight, but just barely.
Eight contestants left. His opponent was a 
hulking creature, seemingly a dwarf-human hybrid: 
He had the heavy brows, huge jaw, and oversize 
joints of a dwarf, but he stood almost six feet tall, 
grinning with yellowed teeth as he raised his sword 
in a mocking salute.
Too tired. I'm just too tired. At the command to 
begin, Karl swept up sand with his bad leg; his 
opponent ducked under the spray — 
 — right into Karl's stroke. The blow to the 
hybrid's jaw knocked him out of the playing area, 
out of consciousness, and out of the competition.
Four. Facing an elf, Karl staggered under a 
preemptive slash, then barely connected with a 
backhanded stroke that had been aimed at the elf's 
midsection, but connected with his throat. Gasping 
for breath, the elf stumbled into a pole, and then into 
Karl's winning stroke.
Karl turned to see Ohlmin grinning at him, from a 
playing area only a few yards away. "Nicely done," 
Ohlmin called out. "But you're up against me, now. 
Care to concede, or don't you believe in accepting 
fate?"
Easy — he's just trying to bait you. to get you 
angry. Possibly that was how the smaller man had 
won all of his matches without working up a sweat? 
He certainly didn't look sturdy enough to wear his 
opponents down. Could he be that good? "No," Karl 
said, forcing himself not to pant. He drew himself up 
straight, not moving from his spot. No need to show 
Ohlmin how badly he'd limp. "Why don't you come 
over here and persuade me, little man?"
A slave ran up with a dirty cloth; Karl snatched it 
to scrub at his knee, making-sure that he rubbed 
more of the oily tar on it. Best to try to hide from 
Ohlmin just how much the battered joint was 
swelling.
Karl dropped the rag to the sand. "I don't see you 
moving. Maybe you're not so good with that stick 
after all."
Anger creased the other's dark face for a moment. 
"I wouldn't, if I were you." Superior smile back in 
place, Ohlmin walked over to Karl's playing area, 
taking up a position at the far corner of the square.
"Wouldn't what?" Karl moved back a step, 
wincing at the pain shooting through his leg. As it 
kept swelling, the pain got worse.
Damn.
"Wouldn't make it personal." Ohlmin's face grew 
somber; he shook his head slowly. "The last one to 
make it a personal thing, well, he's chained to a mill 
in Sciforth." He pinched his nostrils with the fingers 
of his free hand. "By the nose." Ohlmin dropped his 
hand and smiled. "After I beat him on the field." He 
stretched out his tar-covered wooden sword, the 
point almost touching Karl's chest. "So don't make it 
personal."
Karl pushed the point away with his own sword. 
"Just — "
Ohlmin slashed at Karl's right knee. Fiery pain 
shot through it, and Karl's leg buckled beneath him. 
He fell to the sand.
"Foul!" Khoralt shouted, running up. "That is a 
foul!"
Ohlmin eyed him slyly, while Karl struggled back 
to his feel, his knee burning as though it were on 
fire.
"My apologies." Ohlmin gave a quick bow. "I 
thought I had heard your command to begin."
Khoralt hesitated for a moment, then shook his 
head and pointed toward the exit. The crowd 
responded with a wave of hissing and shouting. The 
elf crossed his arms across his chest. "As I was 
about to say" — he gave Karl a sheepish half-smile, 
probably the only apology Karl would get — "I am 
tempted to disqualify you. But that would be too 
harsh, since you made only a simple mistake," he 
added quickly. "Instead, your penalty will be that it 
will take three hits for you to win, Ohlmin; your 
opponent will need but the usual two."
Karl opened his mouth to protest, then shut it. It 
wouldn't do any good. The crowd wanted to see the 
final match, and the elf wasn't going to deny the 
crowd. So let's try to buy a bit of time, give my knee 
a chance to stop throbbing. "I'll need a little time, to 
wipe this mark off.''
Khoralt shook his head sadly. "No, we must let 
the match go on. We will remember that there is a 
false mark on your leggings." He backed out of the 
square. "Prepare to fight."
Karl flexed his knee. If he didn't put too much 
weight on it, it would support him. Probably.
"And... fight!"
Ohlmin smiled, and moved in.
In the first few seconds of the match, Karl saw 
that he was hopelessly outclassed — and would have 
been even if his knee weren't swollen. Ohlmin's 
weaving sword deflected Karl's swings effortlessly, 
and forced him back, back — if Karl hadn't backed 
into one of the poles marking the playing area, he 
would have stumbled out of the square.
The tip of Ohlmin's sword slithered in and drew a 
light line across Karl's chest; Karl batted the sword 
out of the way, slashed — 
Stepping back, Ohlmin parried easily. "Try again, 
big man." He spat. "I have time."
Khoralt called out: "One point for Ohlmin, none 
for the challenger. Both require two to win."
Ohlmin paused for a moment. Karl lunged; 
Ohlmin dodged to one side.
I can't beat him. I'm good with a sword, but he's 
faster and better.
But damned if I'm going to let him walk all over 
me.
Ohlmin moved in. "Give up. You're not good 
enough; nobody is." He launched an attack that 
brought the two of them together, corps-à-corps. 
Karl tried to push him back, but the smaller man was 
stronger than he looked.
With a sneer, Ohlmin spat in Karl's face, then 
whirled away. "I'd be more frightened of a novice 
than I am of you. A novice might get in a lucky 
shot," he sneered. "You won't."
"Shut up and fight." Although the other was right; 
a novice might throw his sword or something, or 
accidentally bounce Ohlmin out of the — 
Got it! Karl threw his sword at the smaller man, 
flipping it end over end.
Ohlmin stepped smoothly to one side. The sword 
bounced off a pole and out of the playing area. "And 
that is — "
Karl lunged at him barehanded, receiving a 
wicked slash to the temple before he was able to 
fasten his left hand on Ohlmin's sword arm, just at 
the wrist.
Karl squeezed. Ohlmin screamed.
Bones crackled beneath his palm; Karl seized the 
front of Ohlmin's tunic with his free hand and lifted 
him off the ground, and — 
" — two points for Ohlmin, none — "
 — wobbling on his good leg, Karl raised the 
twitching form of the other man above his head and 
threw him as far as he could, out of the playing area. 
Ohlmin landed with a thump and a strangled moan.
Khoralt smiled at Karl. "Ohlmin is disqualified, 
for leaving the playing area. The winner of the 
swords competition is — what is your name?"
Karl stood up straight. "My name is Cullinane. 
Karl Cullinane."
"The winner of the swords competition is Karl 
Cullinane." The elf leaned over. ''And if you want 
some advice, Karl Cullinane, I would suggest you 
get yourself and your winnings out of 
Pandathaway."
Karl smiled. "Just what I had in mind."

Whistling to himself, Ahira bounded up the stairs 
to their suite in the Inn of Quiet Repose, his 
battleaxe strapped to his chest, and a leather sack 
well weighted down with gold slung over his 
shoulder. Between his winnings, Karl's winnings, 
and what Doria and Hakim would have from having 
bet on them, it wouldn't be a problem to equip 
themselves right. And with a bit of luck, the others 
would soon be through the Gate, and home.
As he pushed through the curtains and into the 
common room of the suite, he saw Hakim, 
Aristobulus, and Doria sitting on the rug, coins, 
jewels, and finger-size bars of gold bullion scattered 
in front of them.
"Where are the other two?"
Hakim shrugged, a strangely sheepish smile 
creasing his face. "Karl hasn't gotten back yet, and 
Andrea's still in the Library, working on her spell." 
He looked from the wizard to the cleric, then shook 
his head.
Aristobulus nodded; Doria frowned, then snorted.
What was this? From the looks passing between 
the three, it seemed as though they were sharing 
some private joke. "Want to let me in on it?"
Aristobulus considered it for a moment. "I might 
as well. I didn't go into this last night; I wanted to 
recheck my calculations first." He pursed his lips, 
rubbing withered fingers against his temples. 
"Unless I'm sadly mistaken, the Gate Between 
Worlds won't work quite the way Deighton thought 
— thinks it does."
"It's not going to get us home?" Ahira almost 
staggered. You mean that all this has been for 
nothing?
"No, no — not that. It's just that magic doesn't 
work the same way in... our native universe. A Gate 
on this side won't create a... doorway between 
worlds, but more of a trapdoor. We can go through 
— belongingness will bring us back there — but we 
can't get back here through it."
For Ahira, that was no problem. He flexed his 
shoulders and tensed his thigh muscles — going 
back to being James Michael Finnegan was 
something that had no appeal, be it permanent or 
temporary.
But for the wizard, it was different. And if 
Aristobulus couldn't get back, he wouldn't go to the 
Gate — no, better: If Aristobulus didn't think that he 
could get back to this side, with spell books, he 
wouldn't go.
"I wouldn't worry about it," Ahira said, 
unfastening his axe, then seating himself with the 
other three. He cupped a pile of gemstones in his 
hands, then let the rubies, opals, and round-cut 
diamonds trickle through his fingers and bounce on 
the rug.
Responsibilities, responsibilities — we never 
would have translated across, if it weren't for me. 
None of the others wanted it as badly. Not even 
Aristobulus. I've got to get Hakim, Karl, Doria, and 
Andrea home. "Deighton sent us all across once; I'm 
sure we can persuade him to do the same for you. 
With spell books."
"Persuade? Even though it won't help him any? I 
don't remember you having so persuasive a manner 
about you, back on the other side." The wizard 
snorted. "And you hardly had the physique — "
"I have," Hakim said. "Maybe I'm not quite as 
strong back home as Karl is here, but..."
"You'll help?" The wizard looked hopefully at 
Hakim.
"I promise." The thief smiled. "If he doesn't send 
you back — fully equipped — then I'll break a 
finger at a time until he does. And in the meantime, 
you'll keep your mouth shut in front of K — "
"What is going on?" Ahira spread his hands. "I 
thought you two had settled that, back on the Pride."
"Not that." Hakim picked up a diamond that was 
almost the size of his eye, and held it up to the light. 
"This one has a small flaw, dammit." He dropped it, 
and smiled. "But we still have enough, what with 
yours and Karl's winnings, and — "
"And your winnings, betting on us — we should 
be able to outfit ourselves more than well enough. 
Matter of fact, I want the two of you to take some of 
this gold, go out, and pick up all the healing 
draughts you can. We just may — "
"Not quite winnings,'" Doria interrupted, holding 
up three gold bars and a small leather sack. "This is 
what we won by betting on you. We got good odds 
— it averaged out to be about eighty to one."
"And the rest from betting on Karl? What were 
they, a hundred to one?"
"Two hundred." Hakim shook his head. 
"Everybody thought that Ohlmin was such a sure 
winner that you couldn't even bet on him — the little 
bugger's won every single time he's entered. So..."
"So?"
"So I didn't bet on Karl. I thought it'd be just 
throwing money away, dammit." Hakim threw up 
his hands. "And you saw what he had to go through 
to win that competition — he was sweating, and 
limping, and — "
"So how did you? — you didn't."'
Hakim smiled sheepishly. "Actually, I did. I spent 
most of the morning and a good part of the afternoon 
picking pockets. Lots of money in Pandathaway."
Ahira sighed. If Karl found out that he'd worked 
that hard to win, but the others hadn't had enough 
faith in him to bet on him at those odds... "He'll 
break your neck."
"Only if one of you tells."
"We won't. But if it happens to slip out..."
Hakim nodded. "I'd better work on my sprinting."
Ahira shook his head. "No, make that long-
distance running." He stood, "Well, let's get to it — I 
want us to outfit ourselves and be out of 
Pandathaway by sundown. Doria — you, Hakim, 
and I are going shopping; Ari, you wait here for the 
other two."
Out of Pandathaway by sundown — that had a 
nice ring to it. Then up the road through the Aershtyl 
Mountains, pass through Aeryk, skirt the edge of the 
Waste to Bremon.
And the Gate. And no more responsibilities for 
the rest. No more worries about the others getting 
themselves killed.
He sighed.
Hakim nodded knowingly. "It's hard on you, isn't 
it, m'friend?"
"At best."



PART FOUR:
Bremon



CHAPTER TWELVE:
The Waste of Elrood

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats.
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no 
relief.
And the dry stone no water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock).
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
 — T.S. Eliot

Ahira called a halt at midmorning, easing himself 
painfully out of his fore-and-aft peaked saddle, then 
turning the horses and his pony loose under a 
spreading elm. He squatted on the ground, rubbing 
at his aching thighs. Someday, I'd like to get my 
hands on whoever invented the horse. For five 
minutes, that's all. Just five minutes.
"Ahira?" Hakim called out, from his perch on the 
bench of the flatbed wagon. "You want me to turn 
these critters loose, too?" He jerked his thumb at the 
two scraggly mules hitched to the wagon.
Ahira shook his head. "No. I'm tired enough of 
fighting them back into harness every morning. Set 
the brake, twist on the hobbles, and slip their bits — 
you can feed and water them where they are."
Climbing down from his gray mare's saddle, 
Aristobulus shook his head. "You wouldn't have so 
much trouble with them," he said, "if we had decent 
harnesses. Those stupid straps half-choke — ''
"Enough." Ahira waved the wizard to silence. 
Granted, the strap harnesses they had bought in 
Pandathaway weren't nearly as good as even 
medieval horsecollars. Given, under Ari's direction 
— or, more accurately, Lou Riccetti's direction — 
putting together an efficient horsecollar was a trivial 
feat of design and engineering, but — 
 — But do I have to put up with his constant 
whining about it? "No," he said, "we're not going to 
turn the mules loose. They might run off again, and 
we don't want to waste the time chasing after them." 
Maybe Hakim got along well with the two snorting 
creatures — Ahira chuckled; even mules got along 
with him — but there was no sense in taking 
chances.
Not when you didn't have to. Take the caravan 
behind them, for example. In the twenty days it had 
taken them to get from Pandathaway to Aeryk, and 
the week since they had stopped overnight in Aeryk 
to finish outfitting themselves and stock up on food 
and water, the caravan hadn't been more than a 
couple of days behind; Ahira could see them 
moving, even at night.
They could be reasonable people; quite possibly it 
would be in both parties' interests to travel together 
as long as they were headed in the same direction. 
But — 
Ahira sighed, seating himself on a gnarled root. 
He propped his back against the tree's rough bark.  
— But that was only probably, only possibly. Best 
not to take chances. Best to keep a distance.
Andrea walked over and stretched out on her side 
on the ankle-high grass. "Nice." She unslung a small 
waterbag, took a sip, then offered it to Ahira, "I don't 
guess that it'll be this easy from here on in."
He took a sip and recorked the bag. "Thanks." He 
gestured at the long slope below them. Perhaps ten 
miles away, the lush grassland gave way to the 
Waste, the line of demarcation between dark, water-
rich greenery and brown, sun-baked earth as sharp as 
a knife. Why hadn't the Waste claimed part of the 
grassland, or vice versa? Or had it — no, that 
couldn't be: The boundary between Waste and grass 
curved smoothly away in the distance; a curve as 
even as that had to be artificial, not natural. It could 
be involved with the aftereffects of the wizards' 
battle that had created the Waste of Elrood, but — 
 — but there's no way of knowing. And it really 
doesn't matter.
"No, it probably won't be this easy." He handed 
her the water-bag. "And we'd better start going easy 
on this; I'm a bit nervous about the water supply."
Her brow wrinkled. "But we bought the two extra 
barrels in Aeryk. That should be enough, even at the 
rate Karl and the horses swill it, no?"
He gave her a nod. "It should be. But should isn't 
always enough." Ahira chuckled, dismissing the 
subject with a wave of his hand. "Don't pay any 
attention; I'm just getting cynical." For the 
thousandth time, he took a mental inventory of their 
supplies. Twelve healing draughts, sealed in gray 
metal bottles. Karl had wanted to use one, back in 
Pandathaway, to fix his sprained knee. But Ahira 
had overruled him; best to save the potions for 
emergencies, and rely on natural healing whenever 
possible. A sprain wasn't like a cut; it couldn't be a 
path for infection.
There was a score of white woolen blankets, 
along with the makings of an iron framework, so 
that they could rig a canopy over the bed of the 
wagon for travel in the heat of the Waste. The 
blankets would keep them cool during the day, and 
warm at night.
And then the food: dried meat and fruit, sweets 
for variety and quick energy, oats for the animals, a 
head-sized cube of gritty salt — plenty, surely, for 
both people and animals. No problems there.
Miscellany: a sewing kit, seven oil lanterns with 
twenty forearm-sized flasks of evil-smelling green 
oil, a flint-and-steel kit for every member of the 
party. A spare crossbow, with a lighter pull than 
Ahira's; fourscore extra quarrels for that — if Ahira 
didn't need it, Hakim could handle it without much 
difficulty. And without much accuracy, for that 
matter.
And then there was the one magical implement 
he'd bought: a clump of dragonbane, packed 
carefully in a soft leather pouch. If they couldn't 
sneak by The Dragon, perhaps the creature's allergy 
to the mossy stuff would give them time enough to 
use the Gate.
What else? Spare knives for everyone; several 
hundred yards of deceptively light rope — a knife 
could barely cut it; a few pounds of charcoal cubes, 
just in case they needed a fire when there was no 
wood available; hammers and spikes to use as 
pitons, if necessary. And thinking of wood... he 
raised his head. "Karl, Hakim — we're a bit short of 
firewood, and we're not going to find any in the 
Waste. Go cut some."
Hakim nodded, getting slowly to his feet; Karl 
stood quickly and spun around to face Ahira.
"What do we need more wood for?" There was 
only a trace of challenge in his tone.
Ahira cursed himself silently. Karl wouldn't have 
raised any objection if Andrea hadn't been nearby. 
Something had to be done about the relationship — 
whatever it was — between those two.
But now wasn't the time. Ahira forced a smile and 
started to raise himself painfully to his feet. "Fine — 
if you don't think we need it, I'll cut it myself." He 
unstrapped his axe and propped it carefully against 
the root he'd just vacated. The battleaxe was a 
weapon, not a tool. "Who saw where the woodaxe 
is?"
Doria trotted over, her robes flapping. "Some 
problem?"
Ahira shrugged. "It's nothing — don't worry 
about it."
Karl looked sheepish as he raised his palms, 
shaking his head. "I'm sorry. My fault — I forgot 
that you and your pony don't get along. I'll cut the 
wood." He retrieved the woodaxe from the bed of 
the wagon and followed Hakim out into the woods, 
away from the road.
Ahira rubbed gently at his thighs. Nice of Karl to 
remind him. Dammit, dwarves weren't built for 
riding horses, and that alleged pony was a dappled 
demon, camouflaged. Just barely camouflaged.
On the other hand, Cullinane had been getting 
more considerate, ever since that first day in 
Pandathaway. Which reminds me —  "Doria, why 
don't you and Aristobulus take a waterbag and go 
see if there's a spring around here. You do the 
walking through the brush, and let him — "
Doria's brow furrowed, "I doubt that there's a 
spring. And why me?"
Because I think I'd better have a private talk with 
Andrea, and this is a convenient excuse to get you 
out of the way for a minute, and do I have to be 
argued with about every damn thing? No, he sighed, 
that wouldn't do. "Because of your robes." He 
picked up a pebble and fingerflicked it at her sleeve; 
it bounced off as though it had struck a solid wall. 
"We don't have to worry about you getting scratched 
by brush."
She gave him a nod and a half-shrug, then walked 
away.
Ahira turned back to Andrea.
She smiled knowingly, brushing hair away from 
her face, "Alone at last, eh? Although" — she 
reached out and patted him on the shoulder — "I 
think you're a touch too short for me. No offense."
The way she put it, it was impossible to be 
offended. "None taken. But that's not what I wanted 
to talk to you about." He hesitated. The personal 
relations among the group really weren't any of his 
concern, not unless they affected their chances of 
surviving, of reaching the Gate.
Then again, anything could affect their chances. 
"What's the problem between you and Karl? He isn't 
too short for you, is he?"
She gave him a clearly pro forma grin. "No."
"Well, you don't blame him for our being here, do 
you? If wanting this has anything to do with that 
transfer's working, it's my fault, not Karl's." To 
Cullinane, it had always been a game, no more. And 
from the way Karl's demeanor kept improving, as 
they got closer to Bremon, it was likely he'd be 
happier when it was just a game once again.
"No." She looked away. "I'm not that stupid."
Ahira snorted. "You're not stupid at all. You've 
been treating him like a leper. I'm sure you've got 
your reasons; I'd like to know what they are." 
Andrea, I don't care who you sleep with, or who you 
don't sleep with. But Cullinane's all bent out of 
shape over you, and that could blunt him as a 
warrior. I want him thinking about our survival, not 
about you. "Maybe there's something I could do?"
"No." She shook her head slowly. "There's not a 
whole lot that can be done about it." Her fingers 
grasped the air clumsily. "He's kind of... I don't 
know — how well did you know him, back on the 
other side?"
"Not all that well. I don't think I saw him more 
than three, four times outside of the games." Ahira 
smiled. "And we didn't take any of the same classes 
— I don't think Karl's gotten around to majoring in 
computer sciences, yet."
"Not yet." She sighed, "But give him time. He 
keeps getting involved in different things."
"A dilettante. Can't stick to one interest."
"No. Well, yes, but it's more than that. He's... sort 
of a monomaniac, gets completely, intensely into 
whatever he's interested in...." She rubbed at her 
temples with stiffened fingers. "And he kind of 
extracts whatever he got into it for, then drops it and 
goes on to something else." She let her hands drop 
into her lap, then raised her eyes to meet his. "I 
know I'm not expressing myself well, but do you 
understand?"
"It sounds like you're scared of being, err, 
seduced and abandoned. No?"
"I knew I wasn't explaining it well — it's not like 
that at all." Her pursed lips spread into a broad, self-
assured smile, "Do you think I'm the sort of woman 
who gets seduced and abandoned, Ahira?" 
Extending a finger, she waved it under his nose. "Do 
you?''
Her tone was light and playful, but he sensed a 
serious undercurrent. "No, I don't. I think you can 
handle any sort of relationship, whether it's whatever 
you've got going with Hakim or" — he chuckled — 
"something a bit more distant with a neurotic 
dwarf."
She laughed. "Thank you. But you and Walter 
aren't the problem. It's Karl and his goddam — "
"Ahira!" Doria ran toward them, her robes 
flapping, breathlessly waving a dripping scrap of 
cloth, and — 
Dripping? He jumped to his feet. "What is tha — 
"
"We found it!" She stopped in front of him, 
taking a few moments to catch her breath. 
"Aristobulus and I — we found the spring, back in 
the brush." She shook her head. "It's amazing — it 
just burbles out of a crack in the rock, and then 
drains back into another one. We couldn't even see it 
until we were practically on top of it. How in the 
world did you know that there'd be one?"
Andrea hid a chuckle behind her hand. Sending 
Doria and Aristobulus off to find a spring had been a 
distraction.
Ahira looked at her and shrugged. "Serendipity, 
Doria." Well, there'd be a chance to try to straighten 
out Andrea later. "Simple serendipity."
"What?"
"It's when you dig for worms, and strike gold." 
He raised his voice. "Hakim, Karl — they found a 
spring. It's water this morning, soup for lunch, and 
baths for dessert." No need to worry about the water 
supply, not anymore. With seven full barrels, all 
people and animals well watered, the week-long trek 
across the Waste should be easy.
Well, relatively easy.
Doria shook his head. "I don't understand."
"Don't worry about it." He looked at Andrea, 
spreading his hands as though to say that they'd 
finish the discussion later, when they again had a 
little privacy; she nodded. Ahira turned back to 
Doria and pulled a trick from Hakim's repertoire: He 
breathed on his fingernails and buffed them lightly 
across his chest. ''Sometimes I'm so clever I don't 
even understand myself."

Karl and his horse were the first to reach the 
Waste; Ahira had let him range ahead a bit, and he 
liked that. He was relaxed, even comfortable on his 
large, reddish-brown mare; the fore-and-aft peaked 
saddle supported him well. But it wasn't just the 
saddle. Karl was taking full advantage of having his 
Barak persona to draw on: His thigh muscles held 
him firmly to the seat, his hips shifted automatically 
to keep him firmly astride, instead of bouncing on 
his tailbone, the way that the rest had been for most 
of the trip, until they gradually learned how to ride.
Except for Walter, of course. Karl turned to give 
a nod to the thief, who was basking comfortably in 
the late-afternoon sun on the blankets he had used to 
pad the cart's seat, guiding the mules with only an 
occasional twitch of his lazy fingers. Probably some 
of Walter's avowed affection for the mules was 
honest; certainly he'd staked out the cart at least 
partly from concern for his own tender buttocks, 
leaving his swayback gelding hitched behind with 
little to no regret. "Enjoying the ride?"
Walter responded with a nod and a wink. No, no 
doubt about it at all.
Aristobulus' whine drifted forward. Complaining, 
as usual. Karl urged his mare farther forward. A 
good horse; she needed only a touch of his heels to 
break into a canter, and then a light flick on the reins 
to slow her back down to a walk.
He stroked her reddish-brown neck, solid and dry 
under his palm. "Good girl — you don't even mind 
hauling my weight, do you?" She raised her head a 
bit higher, and snorted.
Ahead the Waste of Elrood stretched out across 
the horizon; a flat brown ocean of sunbaked mud, 
random cracks in the hard surface covering as if it 
were a fine netting that had been woven by a mad 
giant.
Ahira's voice boomed from behind him. "Karl — 
wait a moment."
Shrugging, Karl let the dwarf, bouncing on the 
back of his little pony, catch up. "Problem?"
Ahira shook his head. "No, I need some advice. 
The rest of these... animals seem to be kind of 
spooked by the terrain. Do you think we ought to 
walk them a while? Maybe that way they can get 
used to it?"
Karl turned to look behind. The others' horses 
were twitchy, all right; what with the snorting and 
skittish steps they were taking, it could easily tire the 
animals out much sooner than it should.
"I don't think so," he said. "Look at them. Hell, 
look at you. You're the worst."
The dwarf scowled. "What about me?"
"The purpose of riding isn't to keep as much air 
as possible between your backside and your saddle, 
you know — the reason you have to spend so much 
time walking your pony is that you don't have the 
slightest idea of how to ride him. Same for the rest, 
although they're not as bad."
Aristobulus' mount stepped to one side to avoid a 
rut; as usual, the wizard tried to overcontrol the little 
mare, frustrating the horse almost as much as 
himself.
Ahira's right hand slipped to the hilt of his axe. 
That was probably unconscious; Karl resisted the 
urge to loosen his sword from its saddle-bound 
scabbard. Easy, you're among friends.
"Dammit, Karl, have a bit of sympathy. How long 
did it take you to learn how to ride?"
Karl shrugged. "I just seemed to pick it up."
"Came with the territory, right? Sort of like 
Hakim's ability to move silently and — and my 
darksight, no?"
"So?"
The dwarf threw up his hands, startling his pony. 
"Easy, you damned little — easy, I said. So, it didn't 
come naturally to me. Or Andrea, Hakim, Doria, or 
Ari. Don't put on airs because you ride better than 
we can; it's just a lucky break. For you. It's not a 
virtue." Ahira reached behind himself, rubbing 
vigorously.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
Karl sighed. "Don't twitch in the saddle like that. 
Your pony doesn't know what you're doing, and he 
doesn't like it."
Ahira opened his mouth as though to say 
something to the effect that he really couldn't care 
less what his animal liked or didn't, then shrugged, 
"You still didn't answer my question."
Karl thought it over for a moment. At least 
Ahira's idea would give the riders some time off 
their mounts, give them a chance to work out some 
stiffness. "Actually, I've got a better idea."
Ahira's mouth quirked. "Let me guess: We get the 
critters used to the different surface by galloping 
them for a few miles, right?"
"Wrong. A horse isn't an automobile; you can kill 
it if you push it too hard. No, how about this? We 
pitch camp here until dark, then travel at night. At 
least for tonight — we can pitch those blankets as 
tarps, keep the sun off. I know you don't think that 
water's a problem anymore, but we might as well 
save all we can. And this way the horses, at least the 
ones who need it" — he patted his mare's neck — 
"can take some time to get used to this surface, just 
by standing around on it."
"Done!" The dwarf jerked his pony to a halt and 
bounced to the ground. "Everybody, time for a 
break,"
Andrea slumped in the saddle. "Thank goodness."
"About time." Aristobulus slid off his horse.
"Fine with me." Doria levered herself out of her 
saddle and dropped lightly to the ground.
Walter reined in the mules, shrugging. "I don't 
see what the problem is. But I'm easy." He tied the 
reins to the back of his seat and vaulted to the 
sunbaked earth. "What's the plan? We've got another 
couple of hours until sundown — shouldn't we get 
some traveling done?"
Now free of his pony and any necessity of 
following Karl's advice not to spook the animal, 
Ahira rubbed viciously at the base of his spine as 
though trying to scour the pain away. "This surface 
is so flat that it won't be dangerous to travel at night. 
So that's what we'll do, at least for tonight. We'll 
pitch the tarps for shade, catch some sleep, then start 
up again around midnight, when the ground's cooled 
off enough."
Doria nodded. "You're still worried about the 
water."
"Not worried. Just cautious." Ahira stretched 
broadly. "Once we hit the far side of the Waste, I 
want to have as much left as possible. We don't 
know how deep in Bremen the Gate is, and we may 
need all we can carry."
Karl nodded. A good point, and one he hadn't 
thought of. Then again, knowing how to deal with 
tunnels probably came naturally to the dwarf in the 
same way that riding came easily to Karl.
Ahira pulled the thin white blankets out of the 
back of the wagon. "Hakim and I can pitch these as 
puptents. Do we have any volunteers for first 
watch?"
Andrea smiled. "You sure do." She walked over 
to Karl and tapped him on the chest with an 
extended finger. "I think Karl's had an easy enough 
time in the saddle; time to put him to work."
The dwarf nodded. "Fine. The two of you are on 
watch until it's been dark for at least a couple of 
hours. Walter and Ari replace you then."
"Now wait a minute — " she started.
"The two of you."
Karl's forehead wrinkled, almost painfully. Now 
that was strange. Ahira had been keeping Andrea 
and him away from each other. Which made sense. 
But — never mind. If I understood people, I'd have 
stayed in psych.
He cast an eye at the setting sun. Well, he'd 
already put up with worse than a few hours of stony 
silence.

Andrea stared out at the Waste of Elrood. By 
starlight, it reminded her of the pictures the Apollo 
astronauts had brought back from the moon, the ones 
from the Mare what's-its-name, the Sea of 
something-or-other.
She sighed. I was supposed to have that quiz the 
morning after that night at the Student Union, and 
that probably would have been on it.
Stars twinkled over a scarred wasteland. Just flat, 
cracked ground, gray in the dark. The sorcerers who 
fought here must have been very powerful, and more 
than a bit mad; what sane person would want to turn 
greenery into this?
She turned around to look at the others. Under the 
bed of the wagon, Walter snored quietly. She 
couldn't make out his features, but she knew that his 
broad face would be creased with a light smile. Still 
maintaining the image, eh? The fight back in 
Lundeyll had scared him badly, but Walter 
Slovotsky wouldn't reveal that, not even in his sleep.
Doria curled next to him, tossing fitfully. Look, 
Andrea wanted to say, I don't know what's gone on 
with you and Karl, but...
But what? That was the problem.
Under their respective puptents, Aristobulus and 
Ahira slept quietly. There was something similar 
about the two of them. Maybe it was that they were 
both so one-directional. Ari just wanted to get some 
spell books, and this trip across the Waste seemed to 
him to be a way to do that. Period.
Ahira was different, though. He was just pushing 
to get them home. Just the rest of us, James Michael 
Finnegan. And who do you think you're fooling? The 
dwarf had never said so, but anyone could see that 
he was just along to get the rest of them through the 
Gate; once that was done, Ahira would turn and run. 
You don't really expect any of us to believe that 
you're going back to being a cripple, do you? Not 
when he could be healthy and strong here.
She nodded in admiration. Not for the first time. 
A sense of responsibility, that's what Ahira had. 
Ahira felt guilty about the rest of them being here. 
No, not guilt; she was right the first time. 
Responsible, that was it.
She turned back. Karl was still looking at her out 
of the corner of his eye, pretending to be ignoring 
her. Maybe that was for the best, at least for the time 
being.
At least, that's what I keep telling myself.
He got up from his seat on a stack of blankets and 
walked over. "Enough games, Andy. We've got to 
talk."
She jerked her chin at the plain. "Then let's move 
away a bit. No need to wake the others."
He smiled thinly as he followed her. "I wasn't 
planning on yelling and screaming. Were you?"
She shook her head. "Not really. I think this is far 
enough. Do you want to sit down?"
He snickered. "I'd better be sitting for this? 
Okay." They sat tailor-fashion on the cracked 
ground, Karl balancing his sword across his lap.
"Do you have to have that with you? I don't think 
anyone's going to steal it, out in the middle of 
nowhere."
He shrugged, and pulled the blade a few inches 
from the scabbard, "it's a fine piece of steel, isn't it?" 
Silvery metal gleamed wickedly in the starlight. 
"And I've got this habit of losing things. I guess I'm 
afraid that if I ever let it out of my hands, that'll be 
the end of it." He slipped the blade back. "But you're 
changing the subject. Deliberately?"
"I'm not sure. Do I have to be?"
"No. I don't make the rules. Sometimes I don't 
even know what they are."
She bit her lower lip. "As in what the rules for 
you and me are."
He nodded, looking her square in the eyes. 
"Exactly. If I didn't know better I'd swear you're 
trying to get me to hate you, or at least dislike you 
one hell of a lot. And I'd kind of like to know why 
that's a stupid idea of mine." He shrugged. "I am 
stupid sometimes. Ignorant, too. I have it on good 
authority."
"Doria?"
"Not quite." He folded his fingers behind his head 
and stretched back. "I have bad breath or 
something?"
There was a lot different about Karl now, beyond 
the physical changes. We could have had almost 
exactly this conversation a few months ago, and 
Karl would have been trembling inside that I'd turn 
him down. He isn't anymore.
"Did anyone ever tell you you're always too 
goddam intense about everything?" The violence of 
her own words surprised her. "About whatever you 
happen to be majoring in at the moment, about 
whatever diversion you're into, about — "
"About you?" He chuckled thinly. "Is this going 
to be another episode of Slovotsky's Laws?"
"What?"
Karl shook his head, his eyes closed tightly. "One 
of Walter's ideas about life. It runs something like: 
'Whatever you want too much, you can't have, so 
when you really want something, try to want it a 
little less.' Is that what this is all about?"
"No. It's not that. It's just that I'm not sure I'm 
ready for all that intensity about me." She reached 
out to take his hand; he pulled it back. "Can you 
understand that? It's not that I don't like you, it's not 
that I'm not attracted to you — "
"Now, that is." He raised an arm and flexed his 
biceps. "What with the new, improved body, and 
all." Karl lowered his arm. "Which is one thing I'm 
going to be sorry to give up, once we get back."
"You're going to be sorry to get back?"
"Don't be silly," he sneered. "I like the good 
things in life. Bathing regularly, television, dentistry, 
not having a price on my head. Stuff like that. And 
you're changing the subject again. Which suggests 
that once we get back, and I'm short, skinny Karl 
Cullinane again — "
"Shut up." Sometimes he made her so mad. "It 
isn't that at all. Women aren't as shallow as men."
"Thank you, Betty Friedan."
"It's just that you're incapable of keeping things... 
casual. No, that's not the word. What I'm trying to 
say is — "
Fear touched the back of her neck. Ignoring her 
natural reflexes, she closed her eyes. Her aura 
wrapped her thinly; it was easy to see Aristobulus' 
glowing strongly, a few hundred feet away, blazing 
in the night like a red beacon.
But there was something else, too. Not quite 
distinct enough to see with her inner vision, but 
there. "Karl." She opened her eyes. He was shaking 
his head, as though to wake up, his eyelids sagging 
shut, despite himself.
"Andy, I — " He slumped over.
Invisible fingers wrapped themselves around her 
throat, cutting off her air. She tried to pry them 
away, but they were like steel bands.
"Don't let go of her, Ohlmin," a harsh voice 
whispered. "Not until she's safely gagged."
"And then," another voice answered, "we can 
enjoy ourselves."
She opened her mouth to scream, but a cottony 
softness filled it. A rough hand clutched at her 
breasts. She struggled uselessly.
"I want this one first. There's still a lot of fight 
left in her."

Karl awoke slowly. And that bothered him, even 
in his half-awake, just-a-few-more-minutes-please 
state. He brought his hand down to wipe at his eyes.
His hand stopped short; his wrist was tangled up 
with something cold and hard.
Wait a minute! I was just talking to Andy — I 
never woke Walter. His eyes snapped open. "What 
the hell — "
A small fist came out of nowhere and struck him 
on the cheekbone. Pain lanced through his skull. He 
brought his hands down in a practiced — 
 — his wrists jerked in their iron cuffs, fastened 
in heavy chains to something over his head and 
behind him.
"I told you that nobody ever beats me," Ohlmin 
rasped. "Ever."
Karl shook his head, trying to clear it. Slowly, his 
eyes focused, becoming accustomed to the gloom. 
Hakim and Ahira sat beside him on the narrow 
bench of the small room, both still unconscious, both 
chained at wrists and ankles.
And in front of him, leaning over him close 
enough so that Karl could smell the reek of garlic 
and wine on his breath, Ohlmin stood, smirking.
"Sleep spells are handy things, no?" He slapped 
Karl lightly on the cheek. "Even if the wizards are 
resistant to them." Ohlmin smiled. "But spells of 
invisibility can fool their eyes, too."
"What are you — " A boot drove into his belly; 
Karl gasped for air.
"You speak when you are spoken to. 
Understood?" Ohlmin's voice was calm now, and 
somehow that was more frightening than his earlier 
rasp. "But I won't hurt you very much, Karl 
Cullinane. I've got to save you for Pandathaway, 
You're going to make me a rich man."
Karl tried to spit at him, but couldn't muster the 
breath to do it. Or the saliva, for that matter. His 
mouth was as dry as the Waste.
Stop reacting for a moment, and think. He 
fingered the chains. Slight ridges along the links 
proclaimed that they were cast iron, not forged. And 
that was good, possibly. If he had enough strength, if 
he had enough leverage, he could shatter them. 
Maybe. Cast iron was more brittle than forged. Just 
maybe...
His Barak-self didn't think much of that idea. 
They're far too thick. But the wall behind you is 
wood. You may just be able to jerk them loose from 
the wall.
"Feel free to continue thinking about escaping, 
Karl Cullinane." Ohlmin chuckled. "They always do. 
But" — he tapped at the wall — "the wagon is 
belted with iron straps, which is what the chains are 
bolted to."
Wagon? It wasn't a small room, then. They were 
in a wagon. No advantage there.
Better find some advantage, quickly. Ohlmin was 
close enough, just maybe. Karl lashed out with his 
right foot.
The cuff scraped his ankle as his foot was jerked 
to a halt, inches from Ohlmin's leg.
A chuckle. "We are professionals. And, just for 
your enlightenment, the rest of your party is well 
secured. Both of the wizards and the cleric are 
gagged. We may have to cut out the old man's 
tongue, eventually, but I'm sure we'll work out 
something else for the women. It would be a waste, 
wouldn't it?" He smiled, reached out, and patted 
Karl's head. Somehow that was more frightening 
than being struck. The light pat said that Karl was a 
harmless nothing, well secured. No danger at all.
Karl forced himself to keep his voice level. "Are 
you going to tell me how you found us, or are you 
trying to have me die of curiosity?"
Ohlmin laughed. "Ah, you did that very well. If I 
didn't know better, I'd think that you weren't 
terrified." He shrugged lightly. "But I don't see why 
not. The Guilds' Council finally prevailed on one of 
the grandmaster wizards to bring out his crystal ball, 
to find out who had stolen their dragon." Again, he 
patted Karl's head. "And you, my friend, are worth 
twenty-five hundred pieces of gold to me. My 
wizard — Blenryth; I don't think you've met him — 
is charging me quite a lot for those sleep and 
invisibility spells we caught you with, and quite a lot 
more for the one that kept us on your trail. But I'll 
still come out ahead." He spat in Karl's face. "I 
always come out ahead."
Karl couldn't quite reach his hand down to his 
face; the gob of spittle dripped slowly down his 
cheek.
Ohlmin sighed. "But enough of this, I had better 
get back to the women. The dark-haired one was 
quite good; I think I'll try the other. And besides, I'd 
better make certain that Hyrus doesn't damage them. 
Must keep them in shape for the block." He 
frowned. "No, one more thing." Ohlmin walked to 
the far corner of the wagon and rummaged through a 
pile of swords, knives, and crossbows.
Our weapons. And just about three yards farther 
than I can possibly reach. They might as well have 
been light-years away; it would take more than a 
sword to cut through the chains. He felt at the cuffs 
around his wrists. Damn. Even if Walter still had a 
lockpick on him, it wouldn't matter; the cuffs were 
riveted on.
Ohlmin extracted a long black scabbard from the 
pile. "I believe that this is your sword?" He slipped it 
out of the scabbard, examining the blade in the dim 
glow of the overhead lamp. "Very nice work. I don't 
think I've ever seen a sharper edge. No doubt you 
value it highly?"
Karl straightened his back. I'm not going to beg 
for my life. It wouldn't help, anyway.
"Oh, no." Ohlmin said, smiling. "No need to 
pretend to be brave." He set one foot on top of a box, 
grasped the flat of the blade carefully, and brought it 
down on his knee.
The sword snapped.
"You don't die that easily." The two pieces 
clattered on the floor. "Public executions in 
Pandathaway take a good long time." Ohlmin 
opened the door. "Think about that, for a while."
The door whisked shut behind him.
"Dammit, wake up," Karl hissed. He couldn't 
reach Walter, and the dwarf was chained beyond the 
thief. Raising his voice was certain to draw 
attention; whispering was all he had left.
With a rattle and a shaking, the wagon started 
moving.
Walter opened a lazy eye. "Will you please shut 
up?" His voice was calm and flat. As always. "We 
both woke up before you did," he said, his voice 
barely carrying over the wagon's clatter.
"Then why?"
Ahira shook his head. "Because I thought that 
there might be some advantage in playing possum." 
He shrugged. "It didn't work out that way — but 
conceivably it might, so keep your voice low."
"But we did hear something useful, at least," the 
thief said. "We're not going directly back to 
Pandathaway. One of his men said that Ohlmin 
figures to make a better profit on..." He swallowed, 
he face still impassive. "... on the women in Metreyll 
than he could in Pandathaway. So we'll be skirting 
the edge of the Waste."
Ahira nodded. "Metreyll has a road to the Hand 
tabernacle, the one in the Waste. The Society might 
ransom Doria for a decent price."
"If she's still alive when they get there." And the 
same for Andy-Andy.
"Don't be silly." The dwarf scowled. "These folks 
are professionals, remember? They'll keep the 
women alive. And that's academic; apparently the 
Matriarch of the Healing Hand can even raise the 
dead. All of which doesn't do us any good here."
Karl spat. "And what else do you know that's not 
going to do us any good?"
Ahira shook his head. "Not a lot. There's ten to 
fifteen of them, including Ohlmin and his hired 
wizard. I also know that these chains are too damn 
thick, that Hakim and I are eventually headed for the 
block in Pandathaway. I also..." He trailed off, and 
shook his head. "I also know that either Doha's or 
Andrea's gag was a bit loose, for a while."
"Huh?"
"I don't know which one," Ahira said, white-
lipped, "because I can't tell Doria's screams from 
Andrea's." He raised an eyebrow. "You want me to 
draw you a picture? Fine. From the sounds out there, 
they've been taking turns before finally deciding to 
— "
"Shut up." Karl clenched his hands around his 
chains, and pulled.
Nothing.
He tried again, holding his breath and pulling on 
the chains. Sweat beaded on his forehead, lights 
danced in front of his eyes. The skin of his right 
palm split open, wetting the chains with his blood.
Karl ignored the pain, ignored the way his head 
was threatening to break.
He pulled.
Nothing. The chains didn't shatter, didn't stretch, 
didn't give. Nothing.
"Stop it." Ahira rattled his own chains, "These 
weren't built by amateurs."
''Amateurs?"
"Yes, amateurs — like an idiot who didn't wonder 
why there was a caravan following us. Like a stupid 
amateur who let his group take a break when he 
knew that there was a price on one of the member's 
heads." The dwarf cursed himself bitterly. "But I had 
to leave you on watch. Let Karl and Andrea try to 
straighten out their relationship, I said, And while 
you were doing that, they snuck up on you." He 
snapped a glare at Walter. "You were about to say 
something?"
"I wasn't," Karl said. "If I hadn't freed Ellegon, if 
I hadn't beaten Ohlmin, none of this would have 
happened. It's my fault."
Off in the distance, a scream trilled, fading 
quickly into a muffled whimper.
Walter spoke quietly, with a calm that horrified 
Karl more than the scream. "I think we can save the 
who's-at-fault session for some other time. You 
didn't know, Karl didn't know, and Andrea isn't as 
sensitive to magic as Ari is — even if they were both 
paying attention to keeping watch, she might not 
have felt that invisibility spell being used. So the 
two of you just shut up and figure out what we do 
next. Understood?"
Karl and Ahira drew twin breaths. They nodded.
The dwarf pointed his chin at the door. "How 
long do you think it's going to take them to settle in 
for the ride?"
"What do you mean?" Karl found his voice 
becoming shrill.
"I mean," the dwarf said, from between clenched 
teeth, "that they're all... enjoying themselves right 
now. They're all charged up. We need them to be 
relaxed, and a bit tired."
What you're asking is how long it will rake for 
fifteen men to rape Andy-Andy and Doria. "A couple 
of hours, probably. Why all the interest?"
Visibly, Ahira forced himself to relax. "Then we 
wait for a couple of hours." Another muffled scream 
broke through the wagon's clatter. "We wait. Not a 
chance otherwise."
"And then?"
The dwarf nodded. "And then, I go berserk."

Ahira sat back in the flickering light of the 
overhead oil lamp, ignoring the fire in his shoulders. 
The chains' mounting had been designed for 
security, not the comfort of its victims; hours of 
keeping his arms over his head had left his shoulder 
joints painfully inflamed.
We wait.
It couldn't be helped. Even if they could break out 
of their chains earlier, retrieve the weapons, and 
charge outside, the odds were just too heavily 
against them. Ohlmin was probably their best 
warrior, and almost certainly the rest weren't 
anything near as good as Karl or Ahira, but it was 
still fifteen to two — Hakim wasn't very good in a 
fight; he'd be needed to find and try to free 
Aristobulus.
And if he can do that, maybe we have a chance.
But there had to be some time for the slavers to 
drop their guard. Just a bit. And the screams from 
the wagon ahead of them? Ignore them, or try to, at 
least. This wasn't the time for a gesture; it had to 
work.
So we wait.
But not until dawn; Hakim's skills weren't nearly 
as useful in daylight. In the day, bowmen could spot 
them easily, fill them all full of arrows before they 
were halfway out the door.
In the day, a dwarf's darksight was superfluous.
So we wait. But not long, now.
In the game, going berserk would have been a 
simple procedure. "I'm going to try to go berserk," 
you'd announce, rolling a four-sided die. If it came 
up with a zero, one, or two, the attempt would fail. 
You'd try again, next turn, if you wanted to.
And if it came up with a three, it would still be 
simple: Your Strength would double, going well past 
the maximum possible for a mortal, under normal 
circumstances. Intelligence and Wisdom would drop 
drastically, as would Manual Dexterity and Weapons 
Proficiency. Speed would be unaffected, as would 
Charisma — but your Endurance level would rise to 
the point where only a deathblow could slow you 
down.
There'd be a penalty to pay later, of course. For 
many turns after you had slipped out of your berserk 
state, you would be weak as a kitten.
But until you slipped out of it, you'd destroy, and 
break, and smash.
Or die trying.
Ahira fondled the thick chains. Possibly he 
couldn't break them, even berserk.
Never mind. It's h — it's our only chance.
He raised his head. "Karl. It's time."
"Right." Cullinane nodded slowly. "Try to 
remember to break us loose, too."
"I will. But one thing: While I'm out of it, you're 
in charge. Make sure you get everyone away you 
can. But don't worry about me; I'll — "
"No."
"Don't argue with me." This wasn't a game 
anymore. Amateur heroics were fine for around a 
mahogany table at the Student Union. But not here. 
"Once I set myself off, you won't be able to reason 
with me. I won't run. I won't be able to run."
Cullinane chuckled thinly. "I thought you said 
that once you're out of it. I'm in charge."
Ahira sighed. "Hakim, reason with him."
The thief shook his head. "I won't have to. Once 
he's got your responsibilities, he'll see it for himself. 
Which is why you picked him to take over, instead 
of me. Eh. m'friend?"
"Sure." Ahira leaned back against the rough 
surface of the wall. "It's time; we've waited long 
enough. Take care."
There was only one way to do it. Reach deep 
inside, find a core of hot anger, of raging fury...
And let it burn.

Special classes — that's what they called them. 
As though being a feeb were some sort of prize. 
Special classes, exceptional children — didn't that 
sound just dandy?
Mrs. Hennessy — that was her name. A short, 
pinch-faced redhead, always dressing just a little too 
well, oozing the slimy unction that the best special 
ed courses could teach. But the courses had never 
been able to purge from her noble head the reflexive 
notion that a bent body must hold a crippled mind.
She raised her head from the desk next to him, 
where she'd been patiently explaining to little 
Jacqueline Minelli, probably for the thirtieth time, 
that the little purple block indeed went into the little 
purple hole. "What is it, Jimmy?"
He always hated that nickname. Even his parents 
had started calling him James Michael when he 
began First grade. And that was six years ago.
But you didn't call a retard by his proper name. A 
nickname, preferably one that ended in a vowel — 
that was the protocol. And if the retard happened to 
be a mentally normal boy with muscular dystrophy? 
Didn't that call for a different protocol?
No, of course not. "I'm done with this nonsense." 
With the heels of his clumsy hands, he pushed at the 
math problem, sending the papers fluttering to the 
floor.
She stalked over and wearily began collecting the 
scattered sheets. "Jim-my, that was a bad thing to 
do."
"My name is James Michael. And I've been 
solving simple goddam algebra problems since I was 
ten years old."
"That isn't a nice word to — "
"And I'm goddam tired of being treated like I was 
half a person. Fuck you. bitch."
She slapped him.
And, of course, clapped her hand to her mouth in 
self-disgust, then spent the rest of the school day 
apologizing.
On reflection, that slap was the nicest thing a 
teacher had ever done for him.

Ahira tugged lightly at the chains. Then harder, 
and harder. No, not yet.

There was a shout out in the dorm hallway, "Hey! 
Anybody want to go out for a beer?"
His roommate-slash-keeper had already tucked 
him into bed, then headed out to the library. 
Granted, he could ask someone to help him out of 
bed again and dress him, but James Michael had 
invested many uncomfortable hours in the common 
room downstairs, putting up with corner-of-the-eye 
stares and hidden shudders until some of them had 
started to see past the crumpled body in the 
wheelchair.
But his roommate was gone. And if he went out 
for a beer with the rest, he'd have two choices when 
they came back. Either ask someone to carry him to 
the toilet three, maybe four times until the beer 
worked its way through his system, or...
Or spend the next few hours lying in his own 
urine.

Not yet. Try harder. Get through the wall of fire, 
and into the core.

Doria dropped into a chair, visibly considered the 
possibility that it would seem to him to be too far 
away, took a half-second to fight her own fear of 
James Michael Finnegan, and compromised by 
wiggling herself a scant inch closer.
Damn it, Doria, can't you treat me like a person?

Nothing. He tugged at the chains. Not even a 
dwarfs normal strength could break them, and he 
couldn't go berserk, he couldn't do it.
Here I am, just as helpless now as I've been all 
my life — 
Just
his heart pounded, a beat like a bass drum
as helpless
a red film descended over his eyes, a fire in his 
head
as I've been
his skin tingled with a rush of blood, his tendons 
sang a hymn of power
all my life.
he went berserk.

There was an annoyance about his wrists. Ahira 
wanted to bring them down, to rip, to tear, to smash. 
But something restrained his hands.
It was an annoyance he didn't have to bear. Not 
bothering to clench his fists, he brought his arms 
down.
Metal squealed and shattered, and his arms were 
free. Free. He bent and ripped his ankle chains from 
the floor.
Two humans were chained on the bench next to 
him. Why didn't they free themselves? Didn't they 
want to smash, to break, to destroy? Maybe they 
were just too stupid. He reached up, grabbed the arm 
chains of the nearest, and pulled. Metal squealed and 
snapped.
Why were his hands so wet and sticky? It doesn't 
matter — pull, and again, and again.
Sounds came from their mouths, but they didn't 
make any sense.
"Walter — take some knives, and go find Ari. 
He's probably in the wizard's wagon, whichever one 
that is. I'll get the others."
"You'll need help. I'd better — "
"Move, dammit, move."
One of the humans picked something from the 
corner and bolted out the door. As though in 
retaliation, three others lumbered in.
"Ahira — take them. I've got to get Andy, Doria."
Words, they were just words. Didn't mean 
anything.
But the biggest of the three new humans was 
pulling a sword. That was something he could 
understand.
Ahira clutched the dangling end of his wrist 
chains and whipped the loop of chain across the face 
of the swordsman. The unshaven face shattered: bits 
of tooth and bone rattled against the wall, blood 
bathed Ahira in salty fountain.
He shoved the falling body out of the way. Two 
of the enemy to face. Just two humans, with swords 
thrusting for him.
He batted the swords out of the way with his loop 
of chain, then released the end of the chain from his 
hands. That was the trouble with the chain: It wasn't 
satisfying enough. And there were two left.
A few moments later, that wasn't true: There 
weren't any humans, just pieces of them, scattering 
the room. Ahira staggered out into the night, spitting 
out a warm gobbet of flesh.
There must be more to smash. There had to be.

Easy, Karl — you've got one chance at this, and 
you had better make it good. The hilt of Walter's 
scimitar felt odd in his hand; the balance of the 
curved sword was all wrong.
So don't try anything fancy. It was easy to tell 
which of the four boxlike wagons held Doria and 
Andy-Andy; the drunken laughter and muffled 
whimpers called him.
He sprinted across the broken ground. Three long 
strides brought him to the back door of the slowly 
rolling wagon. From behind him came the clatter of 
steel, the screams of the injured, and a constant, 
deep growl.
Never mind. Ahira can handle them. He jerked 
the door open and dived in.
And was blinded by the bright lanternlight. So go 
by touch. His questing fingers nested in a beard; he 
gripped it tightly and pulled it down while bringing 
his knee up, the man's jaw crumbling like a fleshy 
bagful of glass. Don't go for the kill. A quick disable, 
then on to the next. He threw the body behind him, 
out of the wagon.
Karl's eyes cleared, faster than he would have 
thought possible. Three left; two men rising slowly 
from the bruised naked bodies of — 
Save it. There's one coming at you with a knife. 
Karl dodged to one side and chopped down with his 
sword, rewarded by the unmistakable feel of steel 
cleaving flesh, and a thump as the knife-wielder hit 
the ground outside.
Two more, drunkenly fumbling for their swords. 
He dropped the scimitar and grabbed the two men by 
their hair. Karl brought his hands together swiftly; 
two skulls shattered, as if they had been eggshells.
He seized Andy-Andy and flipped her onto her 
belly as though she was weightless.
Not now, his Barak-self said. Take out the driver, 
first.
No, not a second more. For either of them. His 
hands trembled too badly for him to deal with the 
knots. He searched the floor, found a sheathed knife, 
and slashed the leather straps that bound her hands 
behind her back. A moment later, Doria was free, 
too.
No time for the gags, best to let them handle that 
themsel — wait!
He slipped the knife between Andy-Andy's gag 
straps and her cheek, and twisted the knife's edge 
out. "Your sleep spell. Use it on the driver, then go 
invisible, and use this on him," he said, pressing the 
hilt into her hands.
Wild eyes looked back at him, out of a bruised 
face. Her left cheek was so purply inflamed that he 
could barely see that eye.
No answer.
"Doria." No, Doria was worse; either 
unconscious, or pretending to be. He turned back to 
Andy-Andy. "I can't wait — just do it." He shook 
her. "Do it."
She bit her lip so hard that blood began to flow. 
And then nodded.
He couldn't wait. There just wasn't any time. He 
had to find Walter and Aristobulus, and then get 
them all in one wagon. That was it — they'd take 
this wagon. Easier than moving Doria.
Doria's robes lay crumpled in a heap on the floor. 
He picked them up and wrapped them around his left 
arm before retrieving the scimitar.
"I'll be back," Walter and Ari first, then, if he 
could — 
He dived out of the wagon, and hit the ground 
rolling!

Crushing a human's face with the outspread 
fingers of one hand, Ahira stumbled in front of an 
open wagon. The two mules reared up, hooves 
striking out.
He batted the hooves away with the limp form of 
the dead human, using the body like a flail. Ahira 
moved in on the driver, letting the other fall in a 
crumpled heap. The slim blond man raised a 
crossbow, pulled back the string with shaking 
fingers, and dropped a quarrel into the bow's groove.
Ahira laughed. And bounded to the seat of the 
wagon, his hands reaching for the driver's throat.
The bowstring sang.

Time, Karl thought, time was the problem. 
Surprise was on their side. It hadn't been more than a 
couple of minutes since Ahira had freed them. The 
enemy would be disorganized, startled. But that 
wouldn't last long. The drill was obvious: Find 
Walter and Ari, load them into the wagon with the 
two women, and vanish into the night.
But where the hell were they?
He ran toward the forward wagon, but stopped 
short. Six — no, seven men were hurriedly 
dismounting from the wagon's back door, swords in 
hand. No time to waste — Walter and the wizard 
weren't there.
He turned and ran, past the wagon carrying Doria 
and Andy-Andy, its sleeping driver lolling on the 
seat. The next wagon was just creaking along; no 
sign of any activity. He kept running.
"Greetings, Karl Cullinane," Ohlmin's voice 
rasped from behind him.
Karl spun around. Standing next to Ohlmin was a 
short, fat man in wizard's robes. The wizard raised 
his hands, and smiled with a wine-stained mouth.
"Leave him be, Blenryth," Ohlmin said, his eyes 
never leaving Karl's. "This one is mine."
Ohlmin drew his sword and lunged, in full 
extension. Right into Karl's left arm, the one 
protected by Doria's robes.
The blade tinged, and bounced off, as though it 
had hit a wall.
Before Karl could strike, Ohlmin backed away. 
The slim man pursed his lips, "In that case, you do 
it, wizard."
Blenryth raised his arms higher, a rush of harsh 
syllables issuing from his wine-stained mouth — 
The darkness shattered as a bolt of lightning 
crackled past Karl from behind, streaking through 
the air, striking the wizard square in the center of his 
chest.
Blenryth exploded, spraying Karl with gobs of 
flesh and shards of bone, knocking him to the 
ground, out of breath.
Move. You don't know where Ohlmin is — 
Hands grasped his shoulders; Karl reached back 
and up.
"Easy," Walter's voice whispered. "It's just the, 
umm, cavalry."
Karl bounced to his feet. Standing next to the 
thief, Aristobulus, looking much the worse for wear, 
rubbed his smoldering hands together.
And grinned.
"No time for congratulations," Karl snapped, 
jerking a thumb in the direction of the wagon 
carrying the others. "They're in that one. Get in, and 
get moving. I'll catch up with you." He quickly 
scanned the vicinity. No sign of Ohlmin. The bastard 
was smart enough to know when to run.
For a moment, the other two stood still. "Now," 
Karl said. A shove sent Walter stumbling in the right 
direction. "I've got to find Ahira." And Ohlmin. He 
clutched the scimitar tightly. Definitely and Ohlmin.

The world was an incredibly deep, impossibly 
dark pit. Or well, Ahira?
No, I'm not well. I'm dead, aren't I?
"Pass me that last bottle." Hakim's voice was 
calm. As always, or almost always. "I'm going to 
pour a little more in the wound before it closes 
altogether."
"His mouth's moving," Aristobulus said. "Pour it 
down his throat, instead."
"But if he doesn't swallow — if it goes down the 
wrong tube..."
"Don't be silly. Those are healing draughts — the 
only way you could hurt him with that is if you hit 
him with the bottle."
A gentle hand behind his neck forced his head 
forward; a sickly-sweet, syrupy-thick liquid washed 
the taste of blood from his mouth. Ahira raised a 
distant palm, forcing the neck of the bottle away. 
"Save. For later." He opened his eyes. In the dim 
light of an overhead lamp, Aristobulus and Hakim 
knelt over him. "We." He swallowed, and started 
again. "We are not moving."
Hakim raised a palm. "No problem. We're far 
enough away now." He raised his head. "Karl — he's 
awake."
Far enough away? There wasn't such a thing as 
far enough away. "Who," he said, his voice a harsh 
croak, "who says so?"
Karl Cullinane leaned in through the open door, 
his face splotched with dried blood and streaked 
with soot. "I say so. They're going to be having other 
problems than chasing us in the dark."
"How about..." He gasped for breath. "How . , ."
"Shh." Karl leaned out for a moment, then 
returned. "They're both... here, anyway. Andy's not 
doing too badly." He shrugged. "All things 
considered. Doria's still kind of... rocky. Not 
physically," he said, with a wan smile. "They've both 
had enough of that stuff. But they've been through a 
hell of a lot."
"What... happened?"
"Later." Karl nodded reassuringly. "The main 
thing is that we got away. You took a bolt in the 
lung; if Ari hadn't found that cache of healing 
draughts in a box strapped under the wagon, you'd 
be dead. But he did, and you aren't. How's that for 
now?"
Ahira tried to shake his head vigorously. It just 
came out as a twitch. "How did I... get here?"
Walter patted his shoulder, then moved away, 
seating himself on a bench on the far side of the 
wagon. Idly, he picked up a crossbow, then took a 
quick fingercount of the quarrels in its strapped-on 
quiver. "Karl found you on the ground, if that's what 
you mean. Carried you — on a dead run, you should 
pardon the expression — until he caught up with the 
rest of us." He looked over at the big man, who was 
still braced in the doorway. "Eleven bolts — that's 
not going to be enough, not with my aim."
"Strap another quiver to your leg. And don't 
forget the cloth, and the lamp oil," Karl said.
"And the flint-and-steel."
"Right." He looked over at Ahira. "The other two 
are outside, in case you're wondering. They... want 
to be left alone for a while. And I can't say that I 
blame them." Karl patted Aristobulus on the 
shoulder. "Are you sure that you're up to keeping 
guard while we're gone?"
"Count on it." The wizard clenched his fists. "I've 
still got my Flame spell — anybody except you two 
who gets close, gets burned. And speaking of 
burned, do you think that Blenryth's spell books are 
still back there?"
Karl shook his head. "I doubt it. The wagon we 
torched was probably his. But if we get the chance, 
I'll check."
"Fine. And if you don't get the chance, don't 
worry about it."
Hakim laughed. "Ari, m'friend, I'm beginning to 
like you."
The wizard scowled. "Just be careful."
Ahira struggled to rise, to get his arms to push 
him upward. But he couldn't. Easy. He forced 
himself to relax. It's just temporary. It's just the 
aftereffects. "You two aren't going anywhere. Not 
back there."
Karl stepped all the way into the wagon, bending 
his neck to avoid bumping against the ceiling. "Out." 
He jerked his thumb at Hakim and Aristobulus. They 
stepped silently through the door; Karl sat next to 
Ahira. "We are going back. Just Walter and me."
"No — " Ahira tried to shout it.
"Shh. I'm going to give you the rational reasons 
first. One." He held up a finger. "There are two-
count-them-two water barrels on the side of this 
wagon. That's about five too few. Two." Another 
finger. "We don't have our supplies here — no food, 
no rope, this one lamp and one oil flask — and that 
bottle there is the last of the healing draughts." He 
patted at Hakim's scimitar, which was stuck through 
a sash at his waist. "Three. This sword isn't worth 
much; I may need a decent one later on. I kind of 
like Ohlmin's — and once I'm done with him, he 
won't have any use for it.
"And lastly," Karl continued, "there's five, maybe 
six of them left. If they have any sense, they're not 
going to try to chase us, but I don't want to worry 
about their having any sense. Understood? We're the 
fox; the only good hounds are dead hounds."
"Give me the real reason. You want to play 
hero?"
Karl held his breath for a long moment before 
answering. "This isn't for show." He toyed with the 
iron cuffs and dangling bits of chain that were still 
around his wrists. "Those bastards raped two ladies I 
care about. Two of my friends, dammit. And right 
now, both Andy and Doria are... in kind of..." He 
trailed off. Cullinane closed his eyes and tightened 
his fists. "They're hurt, and they're scared. And if I 
— damn. The next time I talk to them, I'm going to 
be able to say that the animals that hurt them are 
dead." He opened his fists and rested his face in his 
hands. "I want to tell them that they're safe, but 
that'd be a lie in this goddam world. God, how I wish 
I were home." He took a woolen blanket from the 
floor and, with the scimitar, began to cut it into 
strips. "And if the truth be known, my little dwarf 
friend, Ohlmin scares the hell out of me. I want him 
dead."
"No. You're not going. Can't let you." Couldn't 
Karl see that it was just too much of a risk? The 
thing to do was make a run for the Gate, not try to 
hunt down the surviving slavers.
"You can't stop me." Karl tied the dangling chains 
from his left cuff to his arm, weaving the strips of 
cloth through the links. He shook the arm 
vigorously. No sound. "And don't bother calling 
Walter and trying to talk him out of it." He repeated 
the process with his right cuffs chains, then started 
work on his leg irons. "You left me in charge, 
remember?"
"That was just while — "
"Too bad." Karl shrugged. "As far as I'm 
concerned, you're still out of it." He grasped Ahira's 
shoulder with a strong hand. "We'll be back in a 
while. Take care." Two steps to the door, and Karl 
Cullinane was gone.

Aristobulus kept watch until dawn, sitting tailor-
fashion on the flat roof of the wagon, a blanket 
underneath him, a waterbag at his side, his Flame 
spell at the surface of his mind.
At daybreak, a speck appeared on the horizon. He 
stood, readying himself. If it was Karl and Hakim 
returning, that was fine. And if not, well then that 
was fine, too, in another way. Out of bow range, 
there was no way that a small group of humans 
could harm him before he blasted them.
The speck grew larger, until it became their 
flatbed wagon, now drawn by a team of eight horses. 
Karl and Hakim sat on the wagon's seat, sooty but 
otherwise unharmed.
"Karl, Hakim," he called out, "is everything..." 
Aristobulus let his voice trail off. He couldn't think 
of an appropriate word.
Cullinane pulled firmly on the reins. "Easy, 
easy," he murmured to the animals. Taking a leather 
bag from the bed of the wagon, he dismounted, 
pausing only to pat the large mare that was his usual 
mount, not one of the lead horses. "No more being 
hitched in front of a wagon for you. It's back to the 
saddle, tomorrow."
He stopped on the ground in front of the wizard 
and craned his neck to look up at Aristobulus. "We 
killed all of them," he said, his voice as matter-of-
fact as if he were reporting the time of day.
"You're certain?" Aristobulus asked. "Including 
Ohlmin?"
Cullinane reached into the leather bag. "Including 
Ohlmin." He pulled his hand out.
Dangling by the black hair that was gripped in a 
trembling hand, Ohlmin's bodiless head swayed, as 
though nodding in agreement.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN:
To Bremon

Melancholy and despair, though often, do not
always concur; there is much difference: melancholy
fears without a cause, this upon great occasion;
melancholy is caused by fear and grief, but this
torment procures them and all extremity of 
bitterness.
 — Robert Burton

Karl didn't know when it had happened, but he'd 
developed a habit: rubbing his wrists as though to 
reassure himself that the cuffs were gone. It had 
been almost a week since Ahira had used the tools 
reclaimed from the slavers to chisel them all free of 
the remnants of their bonds....
Well, the physical remnants, anyway. Karl 
dropped his right hand to the saddle, shaking his 
head at the way his wrist was reddened and sore.
He shook himself, then gave a quick tug on the 
reins; the mare responded by prancing to a halt and 
letting the two wagons pass her by.
Karl stroked her neck, smiling fondly. "I'd give 
you a name, but we're going to have to turn you all 
loose when we reach the mountain. I can't quite see 
trying to take you through the Gate —  and it'll be 
easier on me if I don't name you. Understand?"
She lifted her head and whinnied. Karl chuckled; 
it wasn't a response to his question. She was just 
irritated at being passed by the harnessed horses, 
twitchy at that insult to her, a member of the saddle-
bearing gentry.
"Well, at least I understand you." He let her break 
into a slow walk, while he raised himself in the 
saddle, drinking in the cool, sweet air of the 
grassland beyond the Waste. An east wind brought 
him a faint, minty smell, presented him with the tang 
of sunbaked grass, and a distant suggestion of musk.
Walter, from his usual perch on the seat of the 
flatbed, cocked his head and lifted a waterbag. 
"Thirsty?"
More out of sociability than thirst, Karl urged his 
mare over to the flatbed and leaned over to accept 
the bag, while his mare kept to the cart's pace, her 
head held high, a bit of extra bounce to her step, as 
though to deny any association with the dusty, 
plodding drayhorses.
Idly, Karl wondered about the fate of the two 
mules. Perhaps they had run off, sometime while in 
the slavers' possession; possibly, the roast on the 
slavers' campfire had been a haunch of mule. He 
shrugged; the only people who knew were safely 
dead, and he hadn't had the time or inclination to 
quiz them about the matter.
But there could be others on our heels. We'll have 
to watch out, until we're safely away from this filthy 
world. Uncorking the bag, he took a shallow swig of 
the warm, leather-tasting water, then recorked it and 
handed the bag down to Walter. "When we stop to 
rest, I want to get in some sword practice. If you're 
game." Ohlmin's sword was a fine piece of steel, a 
rust-free length of basket-hilted saber, faintly 
curved. But it was barely half the length of Karl's 
sword; using it called for a totally different style of 
swordplay, with much more attention to parrying at 
close range. The sword was mainly a thrusting 
weapon rather than a slashing one on attack, 
although its edge was sharp enough to shave with. 
His Barak-self seemed comfortable with it; still, best 
to be sure, practice as much as possible.
I'm sure Ohlmin would want me to use it well, he 
thought sarcastically. It hardly seemed fair that that 
bastard was beyond pain, though. Then again, life 
isn't fair. "So, are you up for it?"
"Am I what?"
"Never mind."
From the high seat of the other wagon, Andy-
Andy cursed in low tones at her team of horses. Six 
were probably more than the wagon required, but 
they had the harnesses to spare, and putting six on 
meant not having to stop twice a day to change 
teams.
Karl turned to Walter. "She's coming back from 
it. At least a bit."
Walter took a grimy rag from the seat beside him 
and mopped at his forehead. "Some do." His next 
sentence, unvoiced, was, And some don't. Doria was 
close to being an automaton, responding only to 
direct questions, and then only with monosyllables. 
She ate barely enough to keep a lizard alive, and left 
the wagon only under duress. Karl had tried to take 
her aside, to explain that everything was under 
control, that she didn't have to worry — 
He'd only tried that once. Any touch set her 
screaming, a high-pitched wail that wouldn't cease 
until she collapsed with exhaustion.
Maybe, with the right kind of care, Doria would 
someday be well again. And maybe they should 
have taken a detour, to the tabernacle of the Healing 
Hand. But Ahira had overruled that; there was no 
way they could go directly there; they just didn't 
have enough water to make it to the far side of the 
Waste. And if there was another slaver team...
Ahira was right. The best thing to do was to go 
ahead, get home as soon as possible. Back home, 
psychiatric therapy might not be easily effective, but 
Karl would find a therapist to treat what was wrong 
with Doria, even if he had to break a few arms. Fine, 
let the shrink write off their history of the past few 
months as some sort of group delusion — but Doria 
would get the help she needed. For everything.
Waiter looked up at him, his brow wrinkling. 
"You know, don't you?"
"About what?"
"Doria."
Karl nodded. "Yes."
Walter considered it for a moment, as he twirled 
the reins around his fingers. "It has to be... what's-
its-name — that dragon — ''
"Ellegon."
The thief shuddered. "With all she's gone 
through, do you think she'll ever be all right?"
Karl shook his head. "No."
"How sure... ?"
He shrugged. "Not very." There was something 
strange about this whole conversation. Walter asking 
him? "I remember when you sounded a lot more sure 
of yourself."
"So do I." Walter reached back for a wine bottle, 
uncorked it, and drank. "So do I." He offered Karl a 
swig, which Karl declined with a shake of the head. 
"Karl? What do we do about it?"
Karl shrugged, and urged his mare into a trot. 
"We go home. And then we do what we can." And 
I'll carry a load of guilt with me to my grave. None 
of this would have happened if I hadn't freed 
Ellegon, beat Ohlmin. And if I'd known — would I 
have left Ellegon chained in a cesspool? Or would I 
have chosen to spend the rest of my life living with 
that?
"And what will that be?" Walter asked, his voice 
drifting forward.
Karl didn't respond. It wasn't really a day for 
answers.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN:
The Warrens

Hence, loathed Melancholy
Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born.
In Stygian cave forlorn,
'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights 
unholy.
 — John Milton

Bremon loomed ahead, a dark, jagged mass blocking 
half the noon sky.
Driving the flatbed wagon, Ahira shook his head 
and swore softly under his breath. The damn 
mountain always loomed in front of them, even 
though his mental picture of Oreen's map suggested 
that they were finally near the known entrance. 
Perhaps the rough copy he had made would have 
differed, but that had been lost, along with much of 
their supplies, to the slavers.
But no, that wasn't it. Oreen's map was clear in 
his mind; it was just that Bremon was too large, too 
massive, too gently sloped to have a clear edge, a 
noticeably demarked base.
Next to him on the flatbed's broad seat, Hakim 
peered down at him. "Are we there yet?" he asked, 
for only the thirtieth time that morning.
Ahira jerked on the reins. The flatbed's two 
horses shuffled to a quick stop on the gently uphill 
slope.
"You little ass!" Andrea shrilled. Ahira turned to 
see her wrestle the other wagon's team to a halt, the 
noses of the lead horses stopping scant inches 
behind the back of the flatbed. "You just stay there." 
She bounded out of the high seat of her wagon, and 
stalked toward him through the knee-high, golden 
grasses.
"Excuse me," Hakim said, "I just remembered 
something I've got to talk over with Ari." He made a 
quick exit, going around the opposite side of the 
flatbed from Andrea's approach, and disappeared 
into the other wagon.
Ahira didn't blame him for manufacturing a need 
to talk to the wizard, or Karl for cantering his horse 
ahead, past the flatbed. This sort of outburst was 
becoming more and more common.
I cant really say that I blame her, but I don't 
know what I should do about it. Perhaps the best 
thing would be to permanently relinquish leadership 
of the group to Karl. No, that wouldn't do; Karl and 
Hakim had been lucky — but wrong.
As Andrea planted herself in front of him, he 
rubbed at his eyes with his thumbs, then lei his 
hands drop. "What is it now?"
She threw up her arms. "How many times have I 
asked you — politely, mind — to give me a bit of 
goddam notice before you stop? Do you really want 
my team climbing into the back of this little dogcart 
of yours?"
Her face reddened; Ahira stifled a snapped retort 
and raised a palm. "Just take it easy, please." If 
you're so concerned about my stopping suddenly, 
then why don't you just let your wagon lag behind a 
few yards? That was an obvious response, but a 
wrong one. Clearly, she was playing me-and-my-
shadow with the flatbed out of an unconscious desire 
to speed him up, to speed them all up. To get herself 
away from this world, and home. "I'm sorry," he 
said. "My fault — it's just that — "
He'd tried to keep his voice level, but that only 
enraged her. "Don't you dare patronize me." she 
said, white-lipped. "I've got a job to do, driving that 
stubborn, idiotic team of horses — "
"I said — "
" — fighting them, more than half the time. 
They've got to trust me, to know that I won't lead 
them into — "
"No. They. Don't." He punctuated all three words 
by banging his fist on the wagon's seat. Ahira 
vaulted heavily to the ground. "We're stopping here. 
Now." Enough of this. Granted, Andrea had been 
through a hard time; given, it was at least partly his 
fault. But enough of treating her like, like...
...like everyone used to treat me. Like some son of 
feeb, giving her the job of driving the big wagon 
because it gives her something to do, not because 
she's best at it. Even if she wants that soft of 
treatment, it's the wrong thing to do. And it stops 
here. "We stop here; you can turn your horses loose, 
or butcher them for supper, for all I care." He raised 
his head and his voice. "Karl!"
The big man urged his horse over. "Meal break?" 
He jerked his thumb at the mountain behind him. "I 
saw some trees ahead, about a mile or so, I think. It'd 
be a bit more comfortable up there."
Ahira shook-his head. "No. I was telling Andrea 
that we're stopping here. Permanently, as far as the 
wagons go. Hakim's in the other one, talking to Ari 
— you go get him, have him saddle a horse. Then 
you two get the joy of riding out, and seeing if you 
can find an entrance, The entrance."
"And if we can't?" Karl frowned disapprovingly.
Ahira's hands itched for his axehilt. "Then be 
back by sundown. You'll try again tomorrow, at first 
light."
Karl's horse took a prancing step back. "I've got a 
better idea, I think. Doria's got a Locate spell; have 
her find the entrance."
Andrea held up a hand. "Do you two want an 
opinion, or don't you give a damn what I think?" Her 
lips pursed; she opened her mouth as though to go 
on, then stopped and started again. "It would be 
better to leave her alone. For two reasons-First, 
Location spells are finicky; if she doesn't know 
exactly what she's looking for, the spell will fasten 
on something else, something that fits her... internal 
description. Besides" — her shoulders twitched 
beneath her robes — "I think it's best to leave her 
alone, in any case. Don't put any demands on her, 
not if you don't have to. I... don't know if trying to 
get her to do something might... push her over the 
edge."
From his perch atop his horse, Karl sighed. "I 
guess you're right, I... was just thinking that a bit of 
activity would be good for her, help to take her mind 
off..." He gestured absently. "... everything."
"What the hell do you know about it?" Andrea 
snapped.
Karl sat silent for a moment, then shook his head 
slowly from side to side. "Know? I wouldn't say that 
I know much about anything." He gave a thin smile, 
then turned his mare away and trotted back to the 
other wagon.
Ahira stared off into the distance, keeping his 
eyes on the mountain, off Andrea, not saying 
anything.
Finally, she broke the silence. "What was that 
supposed to mean?"
Ahira moved to the flatbed and busied himself 
with unhitching the horses. "Only two things that I 
can think of. First, that he doesn't understand you. 
For which I can't exactly blame him. I don't, either."
"I was trying to explain it to him when..." Her 
voice trailed off into choking sounds. "When 
everything... fell apart. And now he's treating me 
like I'm... soiled."
"Don't." Ahira spun around. "Don't even think 
that. I haven't always been Karl's greatest admirer, 
but you're dead wrong." He put out a hand; she took 
it with trembling fingers. "I don't think that Karl's 
too good at handling guilt. That's what you're seeing 
— not anything else. Karl knows — we all know the 
difference between a victim and..." He clenched his 
jaw. Maybe Karl hadn't been wrong in going back to 
finish off Ohlmin and his slavers, despite the risk. 
"Just take my word for it."
She nodded slowly. "You said that there were two 
things that he meant?"
Ahira returned her nod. "That maybe there's a 
difference between knowing and caring. And Karl 
cares about you. As if you didn't know. He once 
came close to killing Hakim over you, but he 
stopped. Maybe it was squeamishness, maybe not." 
He squeezed her hand more tightly. "But he didn't 
hold back when it came to Ohlmin, did he?"
"And for that, I'm supposed to fall into — "
"And for that," he interrupted, "you're free to do 
whatever you want, without looking over your 
shoulder." He released her hand. "I need a bit of help 
with these horses. Are you available?"
Slowly, she nodded.

Karl and Walter discovered the entrance on their 
second day of searching. A spiral search pattern had 
given them a horseback view of various naked, 
slightly wooded, and heavily overgrown slopes, a 
few dozen small animals that scurried for cover at 
their approach, and more than a few dozen birds, 
who were only too glad to interrupt their constant 
search for food to chitter and twerp at Karl and 
Walter.
The thief glared up at Karl from the back of his 
mount, a mild-mannered sorrel gelding. "I've got an 
idea — what say we take a break, let me get away 
from this vicious beast for a while." Walter patted at 
the crossbow lashed to the saddle in front of him. 
"Besides, maybe I could shoot us some dinner."
Karl chuckled and stroked at his mare's neck. It 
was dry, unsweaty; probably she could go on almost 
forever at this slow walk. "Why not? My horse 
seems a bit tired," he lied. "Although I wouldn't give 
odds that you could hit a bird with that bow. Your 
aim — "
"Was good enough when it counted, no?"
That was a good point. Karl dismounted, while 
from the ivy-covered rockface to their right a small 
bird twittered its own opinion of Walter's skill with a 
crossbow.
Walter jerked his horse to a stop and got off with 
none of his usual grace, then rubbed at his back and 
thighs. It was his own fault, really — if the thief had 
taken his turn on horseback, like the others, he 
would at least have the minimal horsemanship of 
Ahira and Andy-Andy.
The bird scolded them again.
Karl chuckled as he slipped the bridle from his 
horse's neck. "Seems that crow doesn't think much 
of your riding ability, Walter."
The thief scowled as he unstrapped the crossbow. 
"It's not a crow. Too small." He pulled back the 
string and dropped a quarrel into the slot. "Possibly 
it's tasty." Walter raised the bow and took aim.
Now, that was unreasonable, trying to shoot a 
bird out of pique. Karl shrugged. On the other hand, 
the thief wasn't very accurate with a crossbow. The 
night they had killed Ohlmin and the others, it had 
been Walter's ability to move silently and almost 
invisibly in the dark that had served them well, not 
his indifferent aim.
On the other hand — hell, I've run out of hands. 
"Just leave it alone — "
Twing!
The bolt went low and wide, vanishing in the ivy. 
With a twitter and a flutter, the bird flew away.
Karl forced himself not to smile. "Well, now we 
can have a whole side of... mountain for supper. You 
like yours medium rare, or — hey! What are you 
doing?"
The thief let his bow drop to the ground and 
walked toward the rockface.
"Give me a hand up," Walter said, his eyes on the 
spot where the arrow had disappeared. "It should 
have bounced off, or stuck itself in, or something."
Karl went over and knelt on one knee, cupping 
his hands, then straightening and lifting as Walter 
settled a sandaled foot into his grip. The thief caught 
a handhold somewhere above and scrabbled up the 
ivy.
Karl looked up. Walter was gone, "Where — "
The thief's smiling face poked through the green 
curtain. "I believe that this is what we call gin." His 
unseen hands clapped. "I don't have a light, but this 
thing looks as if it goes down and in for about a 
million miles. You want to go back for the others, or 
do I?"
"Dealer's choice," Karl said calmly, his heart 
beating a rapid tattoo. We're going home. Where it's 
safe, comfortable.
I'm going home.
Thank God.

With everyone gathered just inside the entrance, 
Ahira took a few minutes to check each pack, 
working easily in the speckled light coming through 
the ivy. It would have been possible to make the 
others check their own gear, but that would mean 
waiting until their eyes adjusted to the dimness. 
Better to get going as soon as possible.
He considered the five waterskins. Enough for 
four days, maybe five, if they went on a strict water 
ration. It would be nice to have more, but they had 
lost most of the waterbags to Ohlmin's group, and 
carrying a barrel through the tunnels would be 
awkward, at best.
Ahira cinched Hakim's pack a bit tighter. "No 
need to have things fall out," he said.
Hakim smiled. "Whatever you say, fearless 
leader. I've got a suggestion, though."
"Yes?"
"Ari and Doria have their Glow spells — why not 
save on the lantern's oil, and use one now?"
Ahira thought it over for a moment. Not 
necessarily a bad idea, although the wizard's spell 
would be good only temporarily; the light would 
dim, and go out. But Doria's Glow spell was more 
powerful; it would keep whatever it was put on 
shining forever. "Karl, your sword, please."
Karl lumbered over, ducking his head under a 
rocky overhang. "Don't you trust me with an edged 
weapon?"
Ahira smiled as he hefted the blade. A decent 
saber, actually, but not quite the luxury-class blade 
that Karl's broken sword had been. "No, I'm afraid 
that you'll slice your foot off. Seriously, I'm going to 
have Doria , . ," He jerked his chin at the cleric, who 
was sitting slumped next to her pack. "I'm going to 
try to have her Glow it for you." Leaving Doria 
alone hadn't improved anything. Perhaps succeeding 
at something would be good for her.
"The point?" Karl's forehead furrowed. "Not to be 
critical, but you're not putting me in the lead, are 
you? Spelunking isn't exactly my specialty."
Dammit, Karl, give me a minute to finish. It'd be 
nice not to be interrupted. It'd be a change, anyway. 
"You get the spot just behind me. I won't need much 
light. Darksight, remember?" If the tunnels were as 
old as Oreen and that dragon Karl had talked to had 
claimed, it probably wouldn't be necessary for Ahira 
to go first; any sections of the ceiling that were 
shaky at all would have already fallen.
But no sense in taking chances. Besides, this was 
going to be easy for Ahira. A dwarf was built for 
easing through tunnels. Without adequate light, 
these humans would probably trip over their own 
feet.
The sword clutched in his hand, Ahira walked 
over to Doria and squatted in front of her. "Doria?"
She just sat there, her robes gathered loosely 
around her, eyes staring blindly through him.
"Doria, I need your help."
No response.
"Please?"
Nothing.
He reached out a hand and laid it gently on her 
shoulder. "Doria?"
Her face came alive, creasing into a wide-eyed 
rictus of terror. She inhaled violently.
And screamed.
And kept screaming, until Ahira's ears rang, and 
Doria lay curled on the floor of the tunnel, 
whimpering as she gasped for breath.
Ahira looked behind him, Aristobulus, Hakim, 
Andrea, and Karl stood shoulder to shoulder, 
glowering in unison,
I had to try. We may need her later. No — make 
that: "I have to try," he said to Doria, pretending to 
ignore the way four pairs of eyes were trying to bore 
holes into his back. "And so do you." I've got to do 
something, I have to do something. "Doria, I'm sorry 
I touch — "
"Leave me alone." Her voice was low, just one 
step above a whisper.
"No." He said that as firmly as he could. Maybe if 
he acted as though she were all right, she might be. 
If I close my eyes, does the world go away? "I need 
you to Glow this sword. Make it give off light." As 
if of its own volition, his hand moved toward her; he 
jerked it back. "You're part of this group; you're one 
of us. And we need your help."
"Ahira." Karl's hand grasped his shoulder, urging 
him away. "Not now. Well use the lanterns for a 
while. Maybe she'll be up to it later."
"No!" He shrugged the hand off. You can't help a, 
a cripple by ignoring the disability. That just makes 
things worse. You compensate for it. but you don't 
ignore it.
He shook his head to clear it. But isn't that what I 
was trying to do. just a few moments ago? Maybe it 
isn't easy to deaf with someone else's handicap, 
either. "Doria, I'm not going to stop bothering you 
until you do it." Careful not to touch her, he grasped 
the sword by the blade and slid the hilt between her 
hands. "Take it. Make it glow."
Her lips moved fractionally, without sound.
"Do it."
At first, her voice was a whisper, a quiet, distant 
rustle of breath. Then the sound grew louder, nearer, 
stronger, a rush of airy syllables that vanished as 
they touched his ears.
And the sword began to glow. Faintly; the dim 
blue of the sky before dawn.
Then brighter; the color of a robin's egg.
And brighter, until it fell from Doria's fingers, 
glowing like the flame of a bunsen burner, bathing 
her face in blue light.
Ahira reached out a hand, halting his fingers an 
inch from the blade. No heat, although it shone with 
a blue-hot fury. No heat at all — he extended a 
quivering finger and touched his finger to the metal.
No heat; his finger touched only cool steel.
Ahira smiled. "That's beautiful. I wish I'd gone 
along with Ari, to see him glow the blade for that 
smith, back in Pandathaway," He picked up the 
sword and handed it to Karl.
In the light from the blade, Aristobulus smiled. 
"You still would be impressed. If I'd tried to get that 
blade this bright, the glow would have lasted for 
only an hour or so."
"Doria," the dwarf said gently, "how long will 
this last? It's beautiful." He knew the answer, but he 
needed to hear her say it.
Her head nodded fractionally, her hands 
trembling as she knitted her fingers together. 
"Always."
Karl's hand fell on his shoulder. "I think it's time 
we got going."
"Yes," Doria whispered. "Home."

The sword held high to scatter the light as widely 
as possible, Karl picked his way behind Ahira, the 
muscles in his shoulders burning like hot wires. It 
was as though they were walking through the insides 
of some gargantuan stone worm; the tunnel twisted 
and turned, leading downward all the way, but never 
losing its tubular shape, or branching off.
His arms hurt, but he couldn't let both hang at his 
sides, except when they stopped to rest. The last 
time had been a while ago. But how long? Who 
could tell?
Just for something to do, he tinged the point of 
the sword against the ceiling overhead.
"Stop it," Ahira snapped from in front of him.
"Why? I just — "
"Stop it." The dwarf had gotten nastier the farther 
down the tunnel they went.
"Ahira?"
The dwarf didn't turn around. "What is it now?"
"How long — "
"How long until what? Until we get there? I don't 
know."
"No," Aristobulus called from behind. "How long 
until we stop to rest?" His voice was ragged; the 
wizard wasn't holding up well.
From the rear of the group, Walter's baritone 
drifted forward. "I've got a better question — how 
long until the water gives out? And what do we do 
then?"
"Relax," the dwarf said, sounding anything but 
relaxed himself. "I've figured that out." He paused to 
pick his way around a pile of rocky rubble that was 
echoed above by a gap in the ceiling. "We go along 
until we either find the Gate or use up just over half 
our water."
Karl squeezed through between the rubble pile 
and the wall, barking his shin in the process. He 
waited on the other side, extending his hand to help 
Aristobulus through.
The wizard nodded his thanks.
Andy-Andy was next; she hesitated for a moment 
before accepting his help. "Thank you." Her voice 
dripped insincerity,
My, aren't we getting formal. "And you are most 
welcome, m'lady."
She turned away, but not before he caught a trace 
of a smile.
Karl shrugged, moving aside to let Doria make 
her own way through. Figuring out why Andy-Andy 
did what wasn't certain to be a waste of time and 
effort. But close enough.
The trouble with women is that they're too damn 
intelligent.
Walter moved easily through the narrow passage, 
balancing himself like a dancer. "Want to switch for 
a while?"
Gratefully, Karl handed him the sword, accepting 
the thief's scimitar in return. He slipped it under his 
belt, then folded his arm across his chest and rubbed 
viciously at his shoulders. Forcing someone to keep 
an arm overhead would make a fine torture. And 
probably had been used as such.
Perhaps in the Coliseum of Pandathaway? No, 
probably not. Too gentle; people who would chain 
Ellegon in the middle of a cesspool would have 
much worse than that in store for someone they were 
angry at.
But we're going home. All we have to do is tiptoe 
by a dragon — The Dragon.
"Karl?" Andy-Andy's form was just a silhouette 
in the light of the sword beyond her. "Are you going 
to fall asleep standing up? Or would you be so kind 
as to come along with the rest of us?"
He didn't bother with a sarcastic smile. She 
probably couldn't see it anyway. Still massaging his 
shoulders, he set off after the others.
Once we get to the other side, Andrea 
Andropolous, you and I are going to talk this out, 
without interruptions. And then yours truly is going 
to see if he can drink Walter Slovotsky under the 
table.

Ahira was the first to see the skeleton, of course, 
because of both his position at the front of the group 
and his darksight.
But he came close to stumbling over it; a distant, 
obscene reek had him distracted. It was a strange 
odor, far different from the cool, moist smell of the 
unending tunnel.
Probably just imagining it. He shook his head 
and sniffed twice. Nothing. He shrugged, and started 
to move on.
And caught himself in midstep, the blackened 
skull barely an inch beneath the sole of his sandal. 
Ahira teetered on one leg for a moment, like an 
aerialist on a high wire.
"Hold it." He regained his balance and motioned 
Hakim forward, stepping aside to bring the skull out 
of his shadow.
It lay on its side in the middle of the tunnel, 
hollow eyesockets staring blindly, open jaw leering, 
loose bones arrayed behind it in a charred trail.
"What the — "
"Shh," Ahira whispered. "Nobody say anything. 
Just stay where you are." He knelt on the rough 
stone beside the skull, Hakim moving the glowing 
sword closer without any need to be asked.
The skull had lain there a long time; dust on the 
upper surface was so thick that Ahira's probing 
finger sank into the feathery surface past his 
fingernail, almost to the first joint. Years, certainly. 
Possibly centuries.
He rubbed his finger against his chest.
Beyond the skull, a charred ribcage lay, armbones 
to the side, the pelvis and the long bones of the legs 
arrayed as though the victim had sprawled out 
before its flesh had vanished.
To the left of the ribcage, a round shield lay, its 
concavity cupping the floor of the tunnel. No design 
on its face, just blackness.
Blackness, and charred bones — that didn't make 
any sense. Unless... Ahira wiped his hand across the 
surface of the shield.
It came away black, leaving behind a dirtied 
outline of the design that had once decorated the 
shield's face: three golden circles.
Ahira wiped his other hand against the wall. It, 
too, came away sooty.
Hakim smiled, and leaned close. "My friend," he 
whispered, his lips a scant inch from Ahira's ear, "it 
seems to me that we're almost there."
Ahira nodded. Take it slow, now. "Pass the word 
down. Everyone is to take his pack off, and leave it. 
Sandals, too — we go barefoot from here on in."
And quietly, quietly. But as he turned to look into 
the others' fear-whitened faces, he knew that there 
was no need to say that.
Ahira's heart pounded. I can send them home. 
And if I don't make it out of here in half the time it 
took to get in, I deserve to die of thirst.
Hakim turned back from his whispering to 
Andrea. "I think we can quit the pretense, James. 
This is the end of the line for you, no? You aren't 
coming with us."
Ahira smiled. "I'll see you to the Gate — I'll see 
you through the Gate. But..." He trailed off, 
shrugging.
Hakim nodded, "I understand. Do you explain it 
to the others, or... ?"
I'll leave the explanations to you. For the other 
side." It's almost done, over. And how can I say 
goodbye to all of them? His eyes started to mist over. 
He caught himself. This wasn't a time to get 
sentimental. "Oh," he whispered, as gruffly as he 
could, "we won't want that sword anymore. Drop it 
right here."
Hakim smiled, shrugged, and dropped the 
glowing blade, snatching it out of the air scant 
inches before it would have clanged on the stone. 
His smile, and his wide-armed shrug, said, Sorry, I 
couldn't resist it.
Ahira's glare answered, Try real hard, next time.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN:
The Dragon at the Gate

From generation to generation it shall lie waste,
none shall pass through it for ever and ever. But the
cormorant and the bittern shall possess it; the owl
and the raven shall also dwell in it; and he shall
stretch out upon it the line of confusion, and the
stones of emptiness...
... and it shall be an habitation for dragons.
 — Isaiah Ben-Amoz

As the distant glow of the abandoned sword faded 
behind, a rainbow phosphorescence fingered the 
walls of the tunnel ahead.
Karl furrowed his brow. Just a lucky coincidence, 
or had Ahira spotted it back at the skeleton?
He clenched the hilt of the scimitar. It probably 
didn't matter. If it hadn't gotten brighter ahead, Ahira 
would have sent him back for the sword. Stumbling 
around in the dark was almost certainly more 
dangerous than a bit of light. The other choice, of 
course, would have been for all of them to link 
hands, but — 
 — no, that wouldn't have been another choice. 
Not unless they left Doria behind.
The tunnel curled like the coils of a snake, 
winding downward, ever steeper. He was glad that 
Ahira had forced them all to rid themselves of their 
sandals; any grip less sure than that of bare feet, and 
Aristobulus, at least, would have fallen.
Just in front of him, Andy-Andy stumbled; he 
whipped his free arm around her waist, catching and 
lifting her before she could fall. As he set her on her 
feet, she gave his hand a quick squeeze and favored 
him with a slight nod.
Now isn't the time to work that out, he thought. 
There'll be plenty of time when we're back, on the 
other side. Home.
Ahead, Ahira motioned for a stop, then beckoned 
to Walter. A few whispered words passed between 
the two, and then the thief crept on hands and knees 
downward, around the next bend in the tunnel.
Seconds passed. Karl was sure it was only 
seconds; he counted eighty-nine of his own 
heartbeats before Walter returned, and Ahira urged 
them all back away from the bend, and into a 
kneeling circle.
Chance put Karl between Andy-Andy and Doria; 
he pressed away from the cleric, noting that Walter, 
on the other side of her, was similarly squeezing up 
against the smaller form of Aristobulus.
"I saw it," Walter whispered, so quietly that Karl 
had to strain his ears to hear the thief, over the 
beating of his own heart. "It's about a hundred yards 
away from where the tunnel dumps out. At about ten 
o'clock, if your back's to the tunnel —  understand?" 
Karl nodded in unison with the others.
"And The Dragon is sleeping," Walter continued. 
"But we've got to pass in front of It, to get to the 
Gate. And I don't know if we'll need Ari to operate it 
for us." He raised a quizzical eyebrow.
The wizard shook his head. "Either we're in a 
very bad way, or it's as I think: It's automatic. Does 
it look like water? Good. Then we're safe."
"One more problem," the thief whispered. 
"There's only enough room for us to go single-file 
— or just one at a time."
Ahira rubbed at his temples with blunt fingers. 
"One at a time — Hakim first."
"No," Karl shook his head, pointing to Andy-
Andy. "She goes first, it's — "
"We do it my way!" the dwarf hissed.
Well, it made sense, in a way: The thief was best 
at moving silently. Karl nodded slowly. "But she's 
next." I got her into this; I've got to see that she gets 
out of it.
The dwarf hesitated for a moment. "Agreed. Then 
Doria."
You're not thinking, Ahira. Doha could easily 
turn out to be a problem. "No, then Ari," You and I 
can take Doria out, if need be. And, each in our own 
way, you and I are responsible for her. But he 
couldn't say that, and didn't need to. A few seconds 
of thought would let the dwarf reach the same 
conclusion.
Ahira sighed. "Perhaps you're right. Hakim, get 
going."
"See you." Walter briefly clasped hands with 
Karl, then Aristobulus, then chucked Andy-Andy 
under the chin. She jerked her head away and 
grabbed his hand.
"Just be careful," she whispered. "I'll be along."
Walter look a slow, long look at Doria, then 
threw his arms around Ahira. Karl couldn't make out 
Walter's whispered words, except for the last two; 
"Be well."
The thief crawled away, then rose silently to the 
balls of his feet and disappeared around the bend.
Silence.
Ahira tapped Andy-Andy's shoulder, "Go."
Karl smiled. "See you in a little while."
Her chin trembled; a stray lock of hair fell across 
her nose.
Karl brushed it away. "Go."
She nodded, and left.
Ahira beckoned at Aristobulus. "Get ready."
Aristobulus started to rise, then stopped. "No. All 
at once."
"No," the dwarf said, shaking his head. "You next 
— Karl and I will take care of Doria."
Aristobulus shrugged and seated himself carefully 
on the floor, a study in simulated nonchalance. "I'll 
wait."
We've all grown, Karl thought. I think he's wrong 
to pull this, but it's not coming from that damn self-
centeredness that I used to hate in him. "No time to 
argue." He reached for the wizard — 
 — and found his wrists caught in Ahira's huge 
hands. The dwarf's mouth quirked; he dropped Karl's 
wrists and spread his arms, shrugging, as though to 
say, What can we do?
"Fine," the dwarf said, unlimbering his axe from 
his chest. "Single-file — first Karl, then you, then 
Doria, then me."
The wizard nodded, and stood.
Karl rose silently to his feet, as did Aristobulus. 
Ahira urged Doria to stand. Sullenly, clumsily, she 
did.
Karl took the lead, and tiptoed around the bend 
— 

 — and into a brightness that stung his eyes, and a 
silent, moldy reek that ached in his nostrils. It 
smelled of age, and cruelty, and hatred... and 
Dragon.
The Dragon lay sleeping in the huge chamber, a 
cavern lit by glowing rainbowed crystals that lined 
the wails arching hundreds of yards above the rough 
floor. Its huge head, wickedly saurian, rested on 
crossed forelegs the size of centuries-old oak trunks.
Ellegon had been right. He was just a baby, a 
miniature, smoother version of This. The smallest of 
The Dragon's mottled scales was easily Karl's 
height; Its mouth could have swallowed an elephant.
And the teeth sent chills running down Karl's 
back. They stood tall and sharp, threatening 
yellowed edges through which The Dragon's fetid 
breath whistled, like a wind through a horrid forest.
He wrestled his eyes from The Dragon and 
looked around the cavern. Beyond the creature's left 
shoulder, a mirror gleamed, a surface rippled.
The Gate. Karl tiptoed slowly forward, his feet 
numb on the cold stone floor.
The Gate hung unsupported in the air, just above 
a narrow ledge, Its surface rippled, shimmering in 
the cavern's light, as the Gate stood, silently waiting, 
like a pool of water tipped on its side.
A stone ramp led up to the Gate, tapering from a 
wide base to where it became a stone ledge. There 
was no way that more than one person could stand 
on that ledge; it couldn't have been more than two 
feet square. They would have to go through one by 
one.
He turned and waved for Ahira and Aristobulus 
to bring Doria forward.
Both of them beckoned to her.
Come on, Doria. Just a little farther.
No response. She stood still, staring wide-eyed at 
The Dragon, her jaw clenched and quivering. A 
trickle of blood ran out of the corner of her mouth 
and dripped, one drop at a time, onto her white 
robes.
Ahira shook his head as he turned to face Karl. 
No good, he mouthed. We need a diversion. 
Diversion. He pointed to Karl, then Aristobulus, and 
then the Gate. You Two wait at the ramp. I'll bring 
her.
Karl nodded, then walked slowly by The 
Dragon's head, Aristobulus at his side. The hundred-
yard walk to the ramp took him past The Dragon's 
bulging midsection. If only he had a decent sword he 
could — 
 — what? A mosquito could do more harm to me 
than I could do to That. He gripped the hilt of 
Walter's scimitar. Not unless I stuck It in the eye. 
And I couldn't reach that with a stepladder. And 
perhaps he wouldn't even be able to stick this sword 
through Its lids. Then again — 
Doria screamed, shattering the thick silence.
*HUMANS.* A roar shook the cavern, sending 
light-bearing crystals tinkling to the floor, knocking 
Karl off his feet.
Slowly, ponderously, the head lifted and turned, 
the man-high eyelids retracting.
"Over here," Aristobulus shouted, his voice 
breaking. "The eyes, Karl, the eyes — "
Karl bounced to his feet, the scimitar held in his 
right hand. "I know. I'll..." His voice caught in his 
throat as the head turned, two immense liquid eyes 
staring directly at him.
Behind Karl, Aristobulus' voice murmured harsh 
syllables, spoken and then gone, while over at the 
entrance, Ahira threw Doria's struggling body over 
his shoulder and broke into a sprint.
The Dragon's mouth opened. *BURN.* Its eyes 
gleamed — 
"And done!" Aristobulus clapped his hands 
together.
 — and shone, brighter and brighter until they 
flared with the light of a thousand suns.
Ari's light spell — The Dragon was blinded!
Karl ducked to one side as a gout of flame 
scoured the stone where he had stood. Aristobulus 
hiked up his robes and wordlessly sprinted up the 
ramp, not slowing as he reached the top, dived 
through the Gate, and was gone.
A heavy, limp mass knocked Karl off his feet. 
Doria!
"Over here! Burn me, you son of a pig-" Ahira 
shouted, his battleaxe drawn. He raced away from 
the Gate. The Dragon's head following him. "Gel 
through — take her. Move."
Karl snatched up Doria as though she were a 
piece of fluff and ran with her up the ramp, to the 
Gate. A quick one-handed throw, and she was gone.
He turned. Ahira ducked a flamebreath, and 
dashed for the tunnel's opening. Like a felled tree. 
The Dragon's tail slammed down in front of the hole, 
the impact on the floor of the cavern knocking Ahira 
over.
"Over here, now," Karl shouted. "We'll take turns 
with your attention, Dragon."
The light in The Dragon's eyes was already 
beginning to dim; Aristobulus' light spell was 
wearing off. A few seconds more, and Karl and 
Ahira would be trapped in the cavern, The Dragon's 
sight restored.
*YOU WILL BURN.*
Ahira ran toward Karl, The Dragon's head 
following him.
Karl hesitated in front of the Gate. Ahira couldn't 
run fast enough; it didn't seem to take The Dragon 
long between fiamebreaths, and the gaping mouth 
was coming to bear on the dwarf.
"Not him!" Karl shouted. "Try and burn me, 
Dragon."
At the base of the ramp, the dwarf stumbled, and 
started scrabbling up it on all fours. "Karl, go."
A rush of flame caught Ahira. The force of the 
gout of fire slid the dwarf up the ramp as he crackled 
and screamed in the flame, his arms waving 
aimlessly.
Karl turned and dived for the Gale, his legs 
burning behind him. A searing mass struck him in 
the back...
... and the world dissolved into a white-hot 
nightmare that faded only slowly into utter black.



PART FIVE:
And Beyond



CHAPTER SIXTEEN:
The Way Back

It is easy to go down into Hell;
night and day, the gates of dark Death stand wide;
but to climb back up again, to retrace one's steps
to the upper air — there's the rub, the task.
 — Publius Vergilius Maro (Virgil)

Walter Slovotsky's huge hand shook him, while the 
damp night grass pressed against his shirt and bare 
feet.
"Karl, we're back." The big man wept almost 
silently. "We're back."
Bare feet? That made sense; they had left their 
sandals behind. But why did his back hurt so? As if 
he'd been sunburned. Worse.
"Easy, now." Her hand at the back of his neck, 
Andy-Andy propped him up to a sitting position.
Karl opened his eyes, moonlight off the water in 
front of him hitting him like a slap. Moonlight? "We 
did it."
Lou Riccetti knelt in front of him, barefoot in 
now-tattered workshirt and jeans. "Not quite." His 
voice was somber, his round cheeks were wet. "We 
don't even have Jason's body with us. and..."
"And what, dammit?" Karl peeled back the right 
leg of his jeans. No wonder it ached so; it was 
covered with blisters.
"Look over there." Riccetti pointed. Doria lay 
curled on the grass, her eyes wide and unblinking, 
her chest barely moving. "She's gone, Karl. 
Catatonic."
Karl shook himself. And it was himself; smaller, 
skinnier. Barak?
Help me?
Nothing. No answer, not even the feeling of the 
presence of his other persona. Then I'll do without. 
"Where's Ahi — James?"
"Later," Andy-Andy breathed. "Just take a 
moment. You need — "
"Show him." Riccetti's voice was firm.
She caught a breath, and held it for longer than 
Karl would have thought possible. "Look to your 
right."
Walter Slovotsky knelt weeping over the dead 
body of James Michael Finnegan. The third-degree 
burns that had killed James Michael still smoldered, 
sending up light traces of mist and smoke.
Ohgod. "He didn't change enough."
Walter wept unashamedly, his huge hands 
reaching out as though to shake little James Michael 
Finnegan awake, then drawing back.
Just think for a minute. Mirror Lake spread out in 
front of him in the moonlight, the Commons all 
around. "We're on campus." A chill wind blew 
across the lake, sending a rush of leaves tumbling 
around him. "How long?"
Riccetti shook his head. "Deighton didn't lie 
about the different time rates. I snuck into a dorm; 
we've been gone just about eight hours — it's four in 
the morning. Jase is... gone, James Michael is dead, 
Doria is — "
Karl backhanded him across the face. "Shut up." 
Shaking off Andy-Andy's helping hands, he got to 
his feet, ignoring the shooting pains from the blisters 
on his soles. "We've got to get moving."
"And do what?" Andy-Andy shrilled.
"Shut up, I said." He hobbled over to where 
Walter knelt weeping over the burned body that had 
been James Michael Finnegan. "And you, stand up 
and clear your head. Now. We don't have time for 
this shit."
Walter bared his teeth and growled, "You leave 
me alone. You — "
"No time for that. Where do you keep your car?"
"Car?"
"Yes, car. Automobile — where do you keep it 
parked?"
The big man's forehead crinkled. "Over in B-Lot. 
What are you — "
"Not close enough. Lou?"
Riccetti trotted over, a faint smile peeking 
through the grimness of his wet face. "Yes? Are you 
thinking what I think — "
"You've got it. S-Lot's closest — get there, find a 
big car, and steal it. Spare key under the front 
fender, cross some wires, do whatever you have to, 
but get a big car, and get it here. Fast."
"Got it." Riccetti nodded and ran off.
"Karl?" Walter looked up at him. "What's going 
on?"
"Lou worked it out, You should have listened 
more closely to Ahira. The Matriarch of the Healing 
Hand may be able to raise the dead. Now, we don't 
have Jason's body, but we do have James Michael's. 
And we have Doria." He took a deep breath. "So 
we're going back. You know where that bastard 
Deighton lives?"
"Faculty Row — third house from the — "
"Fine. Run up there — act like you're out for a 
jog, or something — and cut the phone lines. Don't 
go in, but if he notices you and tries to get out, stop 
him."
Slovotsky stood. "Are you sure we should handle 
it this way?"
Karl grabbed him by the front of the shin. 
"Ahira's out of it, and I'm in charge. Understood?"
Slovotsky smiled and nodded. "You really think 
we'll be able to get away with all this?"
"No. But we're going to try. Get moving." Karl 
released his grip.
Slovotsky turned and jogged away, not looking 
back.
"Karl?" His feet aching hideously, he turned to 
face Andy-Andy. "What have you got for me?"
"Diversion." He jerked his thumb toward the 
road. "If anybody comes this way, you distract them. 
Particularly if it's Security. If we get stuck on this 
side, James'll get buried, Doria gets committed to 
some nice funny farm, and that's it. So make it 
good."
She nodded. "But if it's Security, and I get 
busted?"
"Then you stay here. So make sure you don't. If 
we lose you, meet us up at Faculty Row, Third 
house from the west end." He forced a grin. "It'll be 
the one with the big stolen car in front of it. Now get 
up to the road, and keep watch."
She nodded and started to walk away, then turned 
back to face him. "But what if Deighton won't send 
us back? Or can't?"
Karl crossed his arms over his chest. "He will. 
Believe me, he will."

They huddled in the bushes next to Deighton's 
back porch. A light shone through the drawn 
curtains, casting their faces into yellow shadow.
"Last chance," Karl said quietly. "We've all got 
family and friends on this side. Our lives are here. I 
promise I'll do my best to bring anybody back who 
wants to come back...." He shrugged.
Walter smiled. Not amiably. "But there's no 
guarantee we can slip by The Dragon again." The 
big man shrugged, not noticing how that split the 
shoulders of his shirt. "I'll take the chance. For 
James."
Riccetti rubbed at his face. "I've got no problem, 
I've always wanted out, wanted to make some 
miracles." He spread his hands. "And what am I 
here? A ninth-semester engineering major with 
maybe enough money for another semester. Haven't 
spoken to my parents in — " He shook himself. "I 
just want to know how we're going to do it."
"In a minute. Andy?"
She laid a hand on his arm. "We'll talk about it 
later. Right now, I'm more worried about Doria and 
Ahira. You said that they can help them on the other 
side?"
I don't have time for explanations. No, that wasn't 
true. It wasn't a matter of time, but of nerve. If we 
don't do this quickly, I don't know if I can do it at all. 
"Somewhere in the Waste is the home tabernacle of 
the Healing Hand Society. Doria's sect."
She nodded. "And she's one of their own, so 
they're likely to help her. Probably." She paused for 
a moment, fingering the bend in her nose. "But only 
probably — what if their... records don't show her? I 
mean, on this side there's institutions — maybe 
Doria would be best here?"
"No." Karl forced a smile. "I'm an ex-psych 
major, remember? The prognosis for catatonia is 
bad. Insulin therapy, shock treatments — none of it 
has decent odds. That's one.
"Two. If she could be brought out of it here, what 
do you think her chances are of ever getting out of 
the rubber-room set? Even a good shrink will 
diagnose her as having heavy delusions —  and the 
rest of us won't be around to back her up, not if 
we're going to try to get James brought back. I can't 
see a chance that she could persuade anyone that 
what happened, well, happened. As far as I can see 
it, we're her only chance." He turned to Riccetti. 
"You crack a window in the car?"
"As per instructions. The... bag is still in the 
trunk, Doria's safely under a blanket in the back seat, 
and after I dropped you two off, I parked it well 
away from a streetlight."
"Fine," Karl said. "Go back to it, start it up, and 
pull it into the driveway when you see the light on 
the front porch blink three times. If that doesn't 
happen within, say, fifteen minutes, get going. Take 
care of them, and make another try when you think 
it's right. Got it?"
"Got it." Riccetti walked away, stooping low as 
he passed under Deighton's kitchen window.
Walter straightened himself. "What have you got 
for me?"
"Free safety. If the bastard gets past Andy and 
me, stop him. Don't kill him, don't give him a 
concussion — but stop him. On the three blinks, you 
come in, too. And if we blow it, you get back to your 
dorm and play Football Hero until you hear from 
Riccetti — Andy and I will keep our mouths shut. 
You weren't at the Student Union tonight, you didn't 
know anybody was missing or dead — understood?"
"Understood. We could just ask Deighton, you 
know." Walter held up a hand. "I know — but if he 
tells us to go to hell and starts screaming for the 
cops, we're in trouble."
Karl turned back to Andy-Andy. "You still 
haven't said whether you're in or out."
She gripped his shoulder. "In. Idiot."
He took a deep breath. It wasn't all that bad, not 
here. If something had gone wrong on the other side, 
he would have ended up as the main feature at a 
Coliseum torture session; here, the worst possibility 
was being arrested for kidnapping, assault, and first-
degree murder.
No, make that second-degree. No way any 
prosecutor is ever going to prove my motive, show 
that I premeditated it.
Karl exhaled, forcing himself to relax. "Anybody 
got anything else to bring up? Then let's do it, 
people." He stood. "Now."

Ten minutes later, Arthur Simpson Deighton sat 
bound to a kitchen chair, glaring at Karl with his left 
eye. He couldn't quite glare with the right one; it was 
swollen shut.
Karl finished the last knot on the ropes that bound 
the old man's left ankle to the chair, then stepped 
back to admire his handiwork. Deighton was secure: 
His wrists were tied tightly with two of his own 
neckties, and the gag was letting little else besides 
muffled groans through.
He walked over to the sink where Andy-Andy 
stood, her right hand under the cold running water. 
"Nice shot," he said.
"Thanks." She winced. "I wish you could have 
taken him down a bit faster; I think I broke my 
thumb."
"You shouldn't make a fist with the thumb inside. 
Besides, that looks like a sprain to me. You want to 
go down to the infirmary, have it X-rayed?"
"And miss all the fun? No thanks. And no thanks 
for the sympathy, either."
He shrugged, then turned as the kitchen door 
swung open. No problem; just Walter.
"Everything okay in here?"
Karl nodded. "Just fine. You two go out and sit in 
the living room with the rest. Doc and I have a 
couple of things to talk over."
He checked three of the kitchen drawers before 
he found the one with the knives. Selecting a long, 
thin skinning knife, he looked around for a 
whetstone. No luck.
And that was too bad. Sharpening the knife in 
front of Deighton would have been good theater.
Still, Deighton's unbruised eye widened as Karl, 
knife in hand, pulled up a chair, spun it around, and 
seated himself ass-backward, his arms resting on the 
chair's back, the knife held lightly between thumb 
and forefinger.
"Deighton," Karl said, in his best Charles 
Bronson monotone, "I'm going to make this short." 
And as frightening as possible; I don't want you 
thinking about anything except that you're terrified 
of me. "You used us as a bunch of guinea pigs; 
everything that happened on the other side was your 
fault. Agreed?" And what does he know about what 
happened on the other side? He said in his letter 
that his visions were erratic, that the time 
differential makes it hard for him to follow what 
happens — does he know that Jason is dead?
Deighton shook his head violently.
Karl smiled. "Relax. You may just have a way 
out of it. As I was saying, when you shoot craps with 
people's lives, you're responsible for the result. It's a 
sound legal principle — take my word for it. Say, if 
you torch a building for the insurance, and someone 
dies in the fire, you don't just spend a year or two in 
jail for the arson. It's murder one." Karl raised a 
palm. "I'll give you this: You tried to see that we 
were well enough equipped. You didn't know that 
Ari — that Riccetti was going to blast the treasure 
chest." He set the point of the knife under Deighton's 
chin, sliding the blade through the gray goatee until 
it touched flesh. "But that doesn't make any 
difference, professor. Agreed? I said, agreed?" He 
drew the knife back, just enough for Deighton to 
move his head.
Slowly, Deighton nodded.
"And how many times a murderer does that make 
you, Art? Blink once for each."
Deighton's left eye closed, then opened. He 
looked toward the door from the kitchen to the living 
room, then back at Karl.
Good. He's not sure if I want him to count Doria, 
but he doesn't know about Jason. Karl forced 
himself not to breathe a sigh of relief. He doesn't 
know that Jason is dead.
"Now," Karl went on, "it's your fault that James 
Michael is dead, and Doria's... in bad shape. If 
killing you would bring them back, I'd do it here and 
now." He touched the blade to Deighton's neck, just 
over the jugular. "A little push, and it would be all 
over." He dropped the point of the blade. "But that 
wouldn't bring them back, would it? It's too bad that 
the only way I can see to fix things requires that you 
stay alive."
Hope brightened Deighton's lined face. Karl went 
on: "So, you're sending us back. Can you do that? I 
mean, because it worked once with us, can you be 
sure that it'll work again?"
Deighton nodded.
"Good. Next question — and in case you haven't 
guessed, the answer had better be yes — can you 
transfer us from here to that green spot in the Waste 
of Elrood, the home tabernacle of the Society of the 
Healing Hand? Better nod. Art. Otherwise" — Karl 
touched the knifepoint to the center of Deighton's 
forehead — "we go to Plan B."
Deighton drew his head back.
"You don't want to know what Plan B is, do 
you?"
Deighton shook his head as though he were trying 
to shake his ears loose.
Good. Because I don't know what Plan B is, 
either. That was the trouble with threatening 
Deighton; what if he called Karl's bluff? There was 
no way to gel back to the other side that didn't 
require Deighton's cooperation, and Karl wasn't sure 
that he had either the stomach or the knowledge to 
cause Deighton enough pain to make him cooperate 
— without killing the bastard.
So we keep him too scared to think of calling my 
bluff. "One more thing: Only six of us are going 
back; Parker is staying behind. I've got him safely 
away from campus, holed up in a motel. If we don't 
get back in a reasonable time..." He let his voice trail 
off; Deighton's imagination would work better than 
an explicit threat.
Karl shrugged. "Are we agreed? Good — I'm 
going to free your mouth now." He slipped the knife 
between Deighton's cheek and the cloth strips that 
held a balled-up dishtowel in Deighton's mouth. "Go 
ahead and yell. Once." Karl sliced the strips.
Deighton spat out the dishtowel. "You... 
misunderstood me." His voice quavered only a little. 
"I didn't mean for any of this — "
"Shut up. What equipment do you need?"
"I haven't said that I'd do it."
Karl shrugged. "Got a pair of pliers around here? 
I bet you'll do it after I've pulled a few teeth." He 
started to rise.
"Wait. There's a wood box in the living room. 
Oak, approximately two feet by one, six inches deep. 
I'll need that, and I'll have to have my hands free."
Karl reached out and patted the old man's cheek. 
"No problem. But if you try to free your legs before 
we're gone, I'll break them. At the kneecaps." He 
couldn't resist adding, "Shweetheart."

"You are lying in the short grasses of the well-
kept lawn surrounding the tabernacle of the Society 
of the Healing Hand, a group of six adventurers, 
seeking the revivification of one of your number, the 
healing of the soul of another, and fleeing the shame 
of a distant wizard, who regrets with all his heart 
that you were hurt. That any of you were hurt.
"The tabernacle towers above you, several 
hundred yards to the west, blocking the setting sun. 
In the harsh glare, it is difficult to make out the 
details, but you see that it is of the same general 
shape as the Aztec pyramids, although easily twice 
their height.
"The wind is hot and dry; blowing across the 
Waste of Elrood, it has lost almost all of its 
moisture....



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:
Payment

I have always thought that all men should be free; 
but if any should be slaves, it should be first those 
who desire it for themselves, and secondly those who 
desire it for others. Whenever I hear anyone arguing 
for slavery, I feel a strong impulse to see it tried on 
him personally.
 — Abraham Lincoln

A white-robed acolyte led them inside, with Karl in 
the lead, carrying the sewn-leather bag containing 
Ahira's remains. A distant uneasiness kept his right 
hand on the hilt of his new sword, a longish saber 
with a strange leather grip that sucked all the sweat 
away from his palm. Having the steel quickly 
available comforted him — just as well he'd kept 
that skinning knife in hand while Deighton 
transferred them; it had translated well.
Behind him walked Andy-Andy and Aristobulus, 
both clutching their leather-bound spell books as 
tightly as Karl held his swordhilt.
One thing you can say for Deighton, he doesn't 
equip us poorly. The packs they had left outside 
lacked only magical implements — Deighton had 
claimed that he hadn't any left, other than the spell 
books, and Karl hadn't wanted to argue the point. 
But they did bear food, and additional weapons, and 
several pup-tents, along with other necessities.
Last in their ragged line was Walter Slovotsky, 
Doria's limp form held chest-high in his arms. Karl 
turned to see Walter nodding reassuringly to Doria, 
as though she could see him.
Dark corridors led to a vast, high-ceilinged hall, 
where the sounds of their footsteps echoed off 
marble walls and the smooth gray floor. Lit dimly by 
three ornate candelabra that hung from the ceiling, it 
was empty, deserted save for a high-backed throne 
on a white stone pedestal, three-quarters of the way 
across the room. Beyond the throne, a narrow slit of 
a window gave them a view of the greenery on the 
east side of the tabernacle. In the morning, no doubt, 
it brought more light into the room, but not now, at 
sunset.
Karl lowered the bag to the floor.
The acolyte nodded. "The Matriarch will see you 
here," she said, extending her arms for Doria. "And I 
will see to my sister."
Walter looked over to Karl. Well? his half-shrug 
said.
We're on their turf, but...
"Really." the acolyte said, a half-sneer passing 
across her smooth face, "do you trust us so little? If 
so, then why are you here, Karl Cullinane?"
We haven't exchanged a single word, but she 
knows my name. I'm not going to ask her how; 
undoubtedly, that's what she's expecting.
"We will heal her, and take care of her. Doria is 
one of us, now — not one of you," the acolyte said. 
"I must warn you that you are now prejudicing your 
case."
That sounded ominous; he quelled the warrior's 
natural response to a challenge. "Go ahead, Walter," 
he said. "If they're as powerful as we hope they are, 
we couldn't put up much of a fight anyway."
The acolyte accepted Doria's slack body, not 
straining with the effort. Clearly, she was stronger 
than she looked.
"The Matriarch will be with you shortly," she 
said, walking easily toward the hall's entrance. And 
then she was gone.
Andy-Andy put a hand on his shoulder. "Take it 
easy, Karl —  they won't hurt her. Besides," she 
sighed, "what could they do to hurt her, the way she 
is?"
Walter chuckled grimly. "And if the little bitch 
was lying, we can still try and take her apart later. Or 
frighten the hell out of her, like you did out of 
Deighton. Nice bit of acting, that — or would you 
have carved little pieces out of him until he gave 
in?"
Karl smiled. "I'll never tell." And I'll never know. 
I know that I could have killed him without any 
regret; torture is something else. "Apology time, Ari 
— if I'd leaned on him a bit harder, we might have 
been able to get better out of him than a couple of 
spell books."
Clutching the leather-bound volume tightly, 
Aristobulus' lined face broke into a smile. "You 
haven't heard me complaining. For someone with no 
talent for leadership, you haven't done a bad job. 
Besides, I'm not the one who's wanted in 
Pandathaway — now I can go back, and qualify for 
the guild, and — "
"Not necessarily," a low, reedy voice said from 
behind Karl's back.
Karl turned, his weight on the balls of his feet, 
forcing himself to move slowly. The throne wasn't 
empty anymore.
An almost impossibly thin woman sat there, 
faintly glowing white robes gathered about her. The 
collar of her garment was different from Doria's or 
the acolyte's; it covered her head as a sort of cowl, 
casting her face into shadow, her features, if any, 
hidden as well as if she were masked. "Greetings. 
You may approach me." There was an eerie quality 
to her voice; it had the airiness of an old woman's, 
but no hint of fragility or weakness. And it was loud; 
if this was her normal speaking voice, her shout 
could well shatter stone walls.
Karl bent to pick up the bag containing Ahira's 
body, then straightened. They all walked across the 
floor, Karl carrying the bag in cupped arms. "We're 
here to — "
"I know why you are here."
They stopped in unison, ten yards from her 
throne. Karl's forehead wrinkled; she hadn't given a 
command, she hadn't said anything or made the 
slightest gesture, yet all four of them had stopped 
suddenly, as though responding to a compelling 
order.
"The issue at hand," the Matriarch said, "is 
whether or not we shall honor your wishes. Clearly, 
the Society is in debt to you to some extent; you have 
done us a service by protecting one of our own, and 
bringing her here."
"Then — " Karl started.
"But that is not sufficient payment for what you 
ask. Reviving the dead is immensely difficult, 
immensely draining. We require further payment.''
Aristobulus took a halt-step forward, then stepped 
back. "What sort of payment? I've still got some 
spells in my — "
"That is insufficient. Your spells are trivial by my 
standards, wizard. Did you look about our preserve? 
Once, the entire Waste was that lush, that fine. I 
protected this tabernacle against the magic of 
greater than you."
Walter raised his hands. "Look, Lady — instead 
of telling us what isn't enough, why don't you just 
tell us what you want? You want gold? I'll go steal 
you a few tons. You want diamonds? I'll — "
"Be silent." The Matriarch raised her hands to her 
face, the first motion they had seen her make. "The 
one who spoke of you, Karl Cullinane, was correct. 
You are not terribly bright. But this one, this Walter 
Slovotsky, is worse." She lowered her hands. "Then 
again, that is hardly your fault. You are, after all, 
merely a human."
And what are you, old lady? Karl thought. God? 
Or is it just that you think you — 
"No. And yes. It's simply that..." Her voice trailed 
off into gibberish. She sighed. "But you do not 
understand the High Tongue, and that is the only 
language in which I can clearly explain myself. My 
requirements are so necessary and so obvious —  
but this Erendra and this English of yours... the 
words do not cover the territory. So I shall speak as 
simply as I can, so that you each can understand 
what I require of you, if not why I require it — 

"Aristobulus."
The wizard shook himself. The voice was 
somehow different now, less... diffuse?
"True. I speak only to you, wizard. Only one of 
the others can hear me, and will know if you decline 
to offer your portion of the payment."
Aristobulus nodded. Very well, he thought. You 
don't want what my spells can do for you — what do 
you want?
"Your magic. All of it. Your... Aristobulus-ness. 
Your portion of the payment is to be but Louis 
Riccetti evermore. An ordinary human, unable to 
even read a word — to even see a word — in that 
book you clutch so tightly. Agree to that, and Ahira 
may live again. Decline, and he will surely stay 
dead."
How could she be sure of that? Certainly, the 
Healing Hand wasn't the only sect in the world; 
possibly there was some other cleric, somewhere, 
who could raise the dead.
"No. There is not. And soon, there may be none at 
all who can."
His aura wrapped him tightly, seething. For 
James Michael, could he give that up?
"Your reasons don't matter to me. It's... the 
distance between us that makes our communication 
so difficult, just as you could never teach your cat to 
fetch. You may give up your magic for whatever 
reason you wish. Or not." She sighed. "But I see that 
you will not. You do not see enough worth in your 
other self, in that engineering nonsense you used to 
almost worship — ''
"Nonsense? Listen to me, you: There's more 
magic in a suspension bridge than in all these books, 
and — "
"Then you agree?"
To hell with her. "Engineering nonsense" indeed. 
"Yes," he snarled. "I'll give it up." And I'll build 
bridges, here. I will. And horsecollars, and steam 
engines — 
"As you wish." She gestured lightly with one 
hand, murmuring words that could only be heard and 
then forgotten.
He changed. Aristobulus' slim form bulged out, 
the old, dry skin of his body becoming once more 
firm with youth. It dizzied him; he stumbled...
...and Lou Riccetti, clad in workshirt and blue 
jeans, picked himself up off the floor to glare at the 
Matriarch, He crossed his arms defiantly over his 
chest. And, to his own surprise, found that he was 
grinning from ear to ear.

"Andrea."
"Yes?" Why was she first? That didn't seem fair. 
After all — 
"One of the others has the same reaction. 
Curious."
Andrea tried to turn her head, to see which one of 
the others the Matriarch was talking about, but she 
couldn't move.
I'm not even breathing. She tried to force her 
lungs to draw in air, and couldn't. Panic burned her 
throat.
"Be still. Do you need to breathe?"
Well, no — and that was strange. Why didn't she 
need to?
"You stall. Which is typical of you. You lack 
commitment, Andrea Andropolous. You wait, and 
you see, and you never decide until you absolutely 
have to. Your payment is this: You must agree to 
decide about something important. Yes or no; in or 
out; together or apart."
Fine. But what "something important"? I have to 
say yes without knowing?
'"No. You neither have to say yes, nor commit 
yourself without knowing. But an important promise 
will be made here, perhaps. Your payment is to 
agree to participate, or to reject participation in that 
promise. Without hesitation; without time for 
contemplation; without stalling. Will you make 
payment? Or will Ahira remain dead?''
She shrugged mentally, irritated at the way her 
shoulders refused to move. I can't see that that's 
such a big sacrifice — and I can't see what you're 
getting out of it.
"True. Will you make payment?"
Yes. but — The thought cut off as she heard the 
Matriarch and Walter.

"Walter Slovotsky."
I'm first. I knew I'd be first.
The Matriarch chuckled. "You are always first, 
are you not? The center of your pitiful little 
universe. Your portion of the payment will be that 
egotism, that idiotic notion that everything centers 
on you, that as long as all is right with you, all is 
right with the world — and that always, all is right 
with you."
He wanted to reach up and scratch his head while 
he puzzled that out, but his arms hung limp by his 
sides. No, not limp — unmoving, that was all.
"Time works somewhat differently around me, 
when I so command it. Your mind is free, but the 
nerve impulses won't reach your arms until we have 
finished our conversation."
Well, then, we can finish it quickly. I gave up on 
seeing myself as some sort of superman back in 
Lundeyll. I'll tell you — a knife in the shoulder can 
do wonders for your perspective. Is that what you 
wanted to hear?
"No. That is what I wanted to know."

Karl's ears buzzed with the sounds of the 
Matriarch carrying on three conversations at once; 
with Riccetti renouncing his wizardry, Andy her 
indecisiveness, and Walter his self-centeredness. But 
it was as though Karl had three separate sets of ears, 
three separate minds: The words didn't jumble 
together; each word, each thought, stood out from 
the others, with crystal clarity.
"Karl Cullinane," the Matriarch said. "It is your 
turn to offer payment. Or not."
Payment? How was all this payment? What 
possible benefit could she get from this? I just don't 
see what she's gaining from — 
"True. You do not see. And, quite probably, you 
never will. Are you prepared to make payment, or 
will Ahira remain dead?"
Of course he was prepared to do something for 
her — but what did she want? Some of his 
possessions?
"No."
The sacrifice of some of his abilities, like the way 
she had made Aris — 
"No."
A portion of his psyche, as with Walter?
"No."
That left some sort of commitment, like the way 
she had made Andy agree to decide about something 
or other. Does that have something to do with this?
"Correct. And what will you commit yourself to?"
What do you want. Lady? Why don't you just 
come out and ask?
'"Because I have limitations that you can never 
understand. I am far wiser, far more intelligent, than 
you can ever hope to be, but the perspective... limits 
me."
Wonderful. Power doesn't just corrupt, it limits, 
too. Eh?
"You stall, dilettante. You delay. Answer my 
question."
There was something strange about this whole 
payment business, as though the other three had 
gained, instead of lost — 
"True."
Lou Riccetti had always been sort of an oddity, a 
misfit. No real self-respect, back in the days when he 
used to trail around behind Jason Parker, like some 
sort of obedient spaniel. But that had changed when 
he was transferred over to this side, when he became 
a wizard.
No. It hadn't. Aristobulus was just the other side 
of the same coin, seeing himself as worthwhile 
through his magic. Only through his magic.
And that was it. Lou Riccetti hadn't seen himself 
as worthwhile until the moment that the Matriarch 
had required he give up his wizardry, turned him 
back into a normal human being.
"Again correct. Go on."
Now, Walter was a different case. Slovotsky had 
always seen himself as worthwhile, perhaps too 
much so. Until Lundeyll, Walter hadn't understood 
his own mortality, his own limitations.
And the Matriarch wanted Walter to know that 
mortality, to see those limitations.
But what did that imply? So what if Walter knew 
he could hurt?
"Perhaps he can now truly understand that others 
can hurt, as well."
Karl nodded mentally.
And then there was Andy-Andy, who forestalled 
committing herself. Which sounds a lot like me, 
actually. Psych major, soc major, bridge player, 
gamer, et cetera and ad nauseam. If she's got a mild 
case of indecision, then I'm close to terminal.
"Precisely."
Then what do you want me to decide to do? I can 
see that you want me to agree to do something, but 
what?
"That which you have enjoyed most. That one 
thing which has made you feel most alive. To agree 
to do that, for the rest of your life, is your payment."
Karl let his string of former majors and hobbies 
run through his head. No, none of those. The 
Matriarch had hardly gone through all of this to get 
him to agree to finish his acting degree.
But she said that I have to take up — what was it? 
— "that one thing which has made you feel most 
alive."
And then, it all clicked into place. Normality. 
Commitment. Lack of self-centeredness. The 
commitment to understanding that there were others 
out there, that they had feelings, and that those 
feelings counted.
Jefferson's words swam in his brain: "We hold 
these truths to be self-evident, that all men are 
created equal — "
And in this world, they didn't hold that self-
evident. Ellegon was a person, if not a human, and 
he had been left chained to a rock in Pandathaway 
just for the convenience of the rulers of that city. 
And in the slave markets, whips cracked and flesh 
parted. Ohlmin and his slavers had chained and 
abused them, because people were property here.
And the last piece: The two things in my life that I 
enjoyed most were the time that I freed Ellegon and 
when I got us away from Ohlmin and killed those 
bastards.
Matriarch, that's to be my payment. Free all the 
slaves. But how? Slice up all the slavers? Break all 
the chains? How?
"That is your problem, Do you commit yourself?"
"Of course." Karl tried to spread his hands, and 
found to his surprise that he could. "But that isn't a 
sacrifice."
"But it is payment, in the only coin I will accept."
The others stirred around him. Andy-Andy glared 
up at the Matriarch. "And you can count me in on it, 
too. Is that a quick enough decision for you?"
"Yes." The Matriarch's voice held a hint of 
amusement.
Lou Riccetti, arms crossed over his chest, smiled. 
"I'm in."
Walter Slovotsky raised his hands and shrugged. 
"You'll probably get us all killed trying, but..."
Karl threw an arm around the other's shoulder. 
"But he's in, too. Now, about Ahira...?"
"We have accepted payment. It will take slightly 
more than a year to effect his revivification.''
Walter shook his head. "We can't hang around 
here; there's a price on Karl's head, at least, and the 
Pandathaway Guilds' Council has already managed 
to nail him with a Location spelt once — ''
"That could not happen here. This preserve is... 
defended. But," the Matriarch sighed, "I could hardly 
have the four of you within the tabernacle for that 
length of time, making noise and — ahh. Of course. 
Length of time, indeed." She gestured, and spoke, the 
words vanishing as they left her mouth.
Through the window beyond the throne, night 
fell, the darkness only momentary as the sun rose 
like a glowing balloon across the sky.
And darkness, again. And light, and darkness. 
And light and darkness. 
Andlightanddarkandtightandark as the days strobed 
past.
And then it slowed, until a brilliant sun hung 
motionless, casting bright light into the hall, with its 
empty throne.
Karl brushed a year's accumulation of dust from 
his shoulders. "Is everyone all — "
"I'm fine, in case anyone's interested," Ahira's 
voice rasped behind him.
Ahira?
Karl turned. The dwarf glared up at him, hands on 
hips, head cocked to one side. "Well," Ahira said, 
"don't I get a hello?"
"James!"
It was physically impossible for all four full-sized 
humans to hug the same dwarf at the same time, but 
they tried.
"And I have arranged some company for you.''
Karl turned to look at the empty throne. He had 
heard her voice, but the Matriarch was nowhere to 
be seen. "Nor will you see me again."
"Now wait — " he started, "What if we need 
some help? Won't you — "
"No," the voice answered, coming at him from 
every direction. "Never will the Hand aid you again. 
I'm... sorry, Karl Cullinane, but we... can't."
"I don't understand."
True. I told her you were a decent person — for a 
human, that is — but I never claimed you were 
intelligent.*
"As I said, I've arranged some company for you."
A huge, triangular head peeked in through the 
door.
"Ellegon!"
*Yes,  I'm Ellegon.  And you are Karl Cullinane.* 
A paw slapped against stone. *And this is a floor...*
"Enough. I take it you're the company."
*Very clever. I am also transportation. We will 
camp on the edge of the forest tonight. Just in case 
you're interested, I've spent a good part of the past 
year ferrying some of your possessions here, things 
you left at the base of Bremon. Including one red 
mare that emptied her bowels all the way across the 
Waste. I don't think she likes me. But she does look 
tasty.*
We are not eating my horse. And are you certain 
you can carry all of us?
*No. Actually, I just want to see how high I can 
get before we crash. Any other stupid questions?*
"Well, I wanted to ask the Matriarch about — "
*She wouldn't answer. You are on your own.*
"Isn't that we?"
*No. Not until you introduce me to the other 
three. I already know Walter Slovotsky.*
"And then?"
*Karl, it took me three centuries of being chained 
in a cesspool to learn what you found in months. 
You just may be able to do it.*
"You call that an answer?"
The dragon's head cocked to one side. *As a 
matter of fact, I do.*


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:
Profession

Give me where to stand, and I shall move the world.
 — Archimedes

Karl walked a few hundred yards from the fire 
before spreading his blankets on the damp grass.
Slipping out of his leggings and tunic, he slid 
between the blankets and lay back, pillowing his 
head on his hands. High above, a coal-black sky 
winked its million eyes.
How the hell are we going to do it? Where do we 
start? With Pandathaway's Slavers' Guild, I 
suppose, but...
He shrugged. Slavery had been alive on this 
world for millennia. He wasn't going to figure out 
how to end it tonight.
But tomorrow was another day.
And besides, I've been told that thinking isn't my 
strong suit. He chuckled, and then sighed deeply.
*Well, you're correct for once.*
Thanks.
He sighed. Doria was gone, now. He probably 
wouldn't see her again. Would she be happy with the 
Society?
*They take care of their own, Karl.*
"Probably. Do me a favor; get out of my mind for 
a while. It's been kind of a tough day — "
*Year.*
" — year, then. I could use some rest."
*I was just going to ask if you minded if I hunted 
up some food.*
"Not my department; take it up with Ahira. 
Where are you, anyway?"
*Down by the stream. I thought I might snatch up 
a few fish while I'm on watch. I can see Walter and 
Ahira and Riccetti from here, sitting around the fire, 
arguing. And Andrea's worrying — *
"Arguing and worrying? About what?"
*Riccetti's talking about going back to the other 
side for a book of tables, of all things. Why he's so 
interested in furniture, I don't know.*
"Engineering tables, Ellegon. Different sort of 
thing." Although Karl had had quite enough of 
Riccetti's arguing about books. First the spell books, 
and now this. "What's Andy worried about?"
*Parents, relatives, friends. How they'll miss her, 
not know what happened to her. And — *
"Hmm — remind her about the time differential 
on this side. It's a problem for all of us, but we've got 
a few years to figure out what to do about it. It'll be 
at least a day or so, on the other side, before we're 
seriously missed. And that'll stack up to..." He 
trailed off, too lazy and too tired to worry over the 
calculation. Save it for morning. Save it all for 
morning.
*But I was wondering about the food. I'll keep 
alert, I promise. Young dragons don't sleep much at 
all, you know.*
"Young dragons also don't stop bugging the hell 
out of me."
*True.*
Ellegon went silent. Karl let his eyelids sag shut, 
his muscles unkink. Loosen the neck, slow the heart, 
rest the mind...
Silently, she slid into his arms. He sat up with a 
jerk, bowling her over. "What the hell — "
Andy-Andy propped her chin on one hand. "If 
you're going to bounce me around the meadow, I'll 
go elsewhere." A loose strand of hair fell across her 
nose. She blew it off and moved closer to him, 
brushing the blankets aside.
No, there weren't any bikini marks. Amazing.
After a while, she pushed him away. But gently, 
and only a few inches. "Looks like you finally found 
yourself a profession — "
"This?"
" — hero."
"Don't talk dirty. "
Whether he reached for her, or she for him, he 
was never quite sure.
But he couldn't have cared less.

380