THIEVES' GAMBIT
A Novel by Tanith Tyrr
pleasure@netcom.com

                               I.



     The city was full of shadows, but some were darker than
others, and contained things more dangerous.  Out of one
convenient patch of darkness, a pair of almond-shaped green eyes
gleamed and narrowed.  The hunting was going to be good tonight.
     The assassin made a brief, habitual check of the corded
leather pouches that hung from a belt at his waist.  His
delicate, long-fingered hands flew with an inhuman dexterity over
the complex knots.  Never leaving the shadows, Kelain began to
move.
     The strains of laughter and loud, off-key singing floated
down the dark alley.  He could feel the cobblestones vibrating
beneath his feet as the dray cart approached, its huge wheels
grinding awkwardly in the street's narrow ruts.  Foolish, to
bring a caravan this close to the wharves, he thought
contemptuously.   They must be new to Reshor.  The darkness
parted to reveal the faint gleam of even, white teeth.  
     With the ingrained caution of his training, he peered in the
direction of the noise.  Two 'Morph breed women and several men
were clearly visible atop the cart, sitting beneath a lantern
that they had unwisely lashed to the top of the wicker framework. 
     The wagon was swaying as drunkenly as its passengers.  Two
massive, harnessed draft kysk drew the wagon unguided, their
reins trailing dangerously close to the wheel behind them.  
     Kelain had to suppress a snort of disgust.  I'm going to be
doing these folk a favor, he thought.  Better to suffer my
attentions than to have their wagon burn with them in it.  He
darted swiftly in front of the wagon and cut the leather traces
that harnessed the huge lizards to the cart.  Predictably, the
creatures kept ambling. 
     The wagon's drunken cargo hardly noticed.  In the space of a
single Human heartbeat, Kelain leaped with preternatural
swiftness to the driver's chair.  
     He had Elvatuar blood, that much was obvious.  His upswept,
pointed ears and finely drawn features could be from nothing
else.  But the silken fall of black hair that flowed like a river
of molten darkness down his tautly muscled back, and the rough
traces of half-grown beard on his narrow, intense face instantly
betrayed his Human heritage.  
     He stood with an graceful insouciance, apparently
indifferent to the reaction his appearance caused among Humans
and Elves alike.  After nearly a century of hurled taunts and
even more savage abuse, Kelain had learned to endure. 
     The Vul stared at him goggle-eyed, her ears sadly drooping. 
"What's that?  Who're you?"  Her naturally aristocratic
appearance was somewhat spoiled by the fact that her delicately
pointed, white-splashed muzzle was hanging open in mildly drunken
surprise.  A stocky and voluptuous badger 'Morph leaned
unsteadily on the side of the wagon, her velvet dress disheveled
and her bodice torn and hanging open.  Her eyes were half lidded
in a look of drug-induced ecstasy.
     One of the men fumbled clumsily for a weapon, never taking
his eyes off of the apparition.  He came up with an empty bottle
and held it out foolishly.  "Get - get away from here."  He spoke
uncertainly, brandishing the bottle.
     The half-elf only smiled.  "I think not," he said softly. 
Faster than any of their Human eyes could follow, a metal bolt
flew from his outstretched hand and hit the bottle squarely,
shattering it among the squealing, terrified occupants.  "If you
are wise - "  He spared them a contemptuous look.  "And if you
are able, I suggest you drop your valuables and go."
     Kelain reached inside one of his pouches and murmured a
sibilant phrase.  He tossed a pinch of some sulfurous herb at his
feet and gestured briefly.  His eyes blazed up with a crimson
fire.  The half-elf glared balefully at them, his finely featured
face surrounded in an eerie glow.  It was a minor sorcerer's
trick, but he had found it effective enough for frightening such
as these.
     The four men climbed hastily down the side of the wagon and
fled stumbling into the darkness.  One of the Humans tried to
thrust a heavy leather pouch under his loose tunic as he ran,
trusting to the shadows to conceal him.
     The assassin turned and stared intently at the darkness
ahead.  His vision focused and changed in an eyeblink, and his
world became a mass of glowing shapes and eerie colors.  His
target was clearly visible to him now, limned in violet flame. 
Casually, the half-elf raised his hand and sighted down it.  He
clenched his fist once, sharply.  The man cried out and kept
running for a few more stumbling steps.  He fell with a choked
cry before he had gotten more than halfway down the stinking
alleyway. 
     Kelain leaped down in a graceful, leisurely way and walked
over to the inert form.  He quickly recovered a tiny metal bolt
from the man's shoulder.  The wiry half-elf hefted the limp body
without difficulty and tossed it back into the cart.  With a
fluid, practiced motion, he slipped the hollow dart back into the
tiny but powerful crossbow braced on his left wrist.  
     Kelain jumped back onto the wagon and turned the body over
with his foot.  "Idiot," he muttered, claiming the man's well-
filled purse.
     The two women stirred and looked at him in confusion.  The
badger nudged her companion blearily.  "Hey, you like us?  You
got any money?"  
     The half-elf shook his head.  "Your companion will awaken
shortly.  Albeit with a sore head."  He spoke courteously. 
"Collect from him, if you can."  He began to rummage around in
the comfortably upholstered wagon, systematically collecting its
valuables.   
     Behind a hidden panel in one of the storage compartments was
a large chest with a complex locking mechanism.  Intrigued,
Kelain turned his talents to it.  He pulled a set of thin metal
tools from his pouch and inserted one into the narrow slot.  It
yielded to his expert probing in seconds.
     The chest opened to reveal several wrapped packages atop
what appeared to be three large glass jars.  "Gods of the wood,
look at this!" he muttered, carefully keeping the chest a
respectful distance from his face.  "Quevas, dreamdust, sweat
salt - it's no wonder they were all playing mooncalves."  
     Most of the packages seemed to contain the grey, feathery
strands of the relatively mild narcotic, dreamdust.  Searching
swiftly, Kelain discovered that there were at least two or three
bags of sweat salt, a far more potent and illegal drug.  One of
the packets had the unmistakable reddish tinge of dust that had
been cut with a tiny amount of quevas, a rare and potent catalyst
drug.  Unusual, but not entirely unheard of in decadent Reshor,
although there were few enough dealers or users foolish enough to
traffic in quevas.  
     Kelain estimated that the pound or so of crimson-tinged dust
contained perhaps a full ounce of the highly reactive powder. 
Whoever was running these drugs into the city must have been
compensated handsomely for the risks involved, because what the
Mages' Guild would do to you for possessing even a few grains of
quevas was a subject that even the hardened assassin found
unpleasant to dwell on.  
     Pushing the parchment-wrapped bundles aside, Kelain glanced
curiously at the glass jars.
     The slender half-elf gave a short, sharp intake of breath. 
Blown glass was expensive enough for an ordinary drug courier to
be using, but these crystalline cylinders were not glass at all. 
And what they contained was a powder of pure crimson that seemed
to burn with a malignant fire.
     The hair on the back of his neck began to prickle.  This
made no sense at all.  From what he could tell by a brief
inspection, there looked to be enough raw quevas in the chest to
addict a city, at least three or four solid pounds of the stuff
encased in unbreakable, magickally crafted glassteel cylinders. 
Quietly, Kelain swore a variety of oaths in several tongues. 
This meant only one thing - trouble.  
     He snuffed the lantern and took off running down the
darkened street.  Out of habit, he stayed close to the wall. 
Clad in tightly fitting black leathers that hugged his slender
body like a lover, he was just another shadow gliding over the
roughened cobblestones of the street.
     It only took him a few minutes to catch up to the kysk. 
They had stopped to browse in a rubbish heap, wagging their huge,
knobby heads and pawing with all six of their scaly, heavily
armored legs in the odorous garbage.  
     The agile half-elf vaulted himself onto the back of one of
the great lizards, slamming his heels viciously into the
creature's tough, leathery flank.  It barely noticed.  Kelain
yanked on its bit with all of his strength, cursing fluently in
the sibilant gutter cant of his Guild.  He finally delivered a
stunning vaitho kick to its heavily armored side, and his mount
started off at an ambling pace.  The other beast followed
reluctantly.  Sweating, Kelain spurred them forward to a reckless
speed.
     When they reached the wagon, he was faced with the
unenviable task of turning the kysk around.  He threw his weight
across the head of one of the animals to slow it down, slapping
it hard on one impervious, clear-lidded eye.  The second one
responded to a solid punch on the side of its tough, scaly head,
backing up to the wagon grudgingly.  
     Kelain tied the leather traces together, his slender fingers
dancing rapidly over the complex knots.  He grabbed the chest
from beneath the wagon and approached the huge draft lizards
warily.  With great care, he reached a gloved hand into one of
the wrapped packages, withdrawing a palm full of dark brown
powder.  He thrust his hand under the first animal's nose,
waiting until it had inhaled all of the grains before repeating
the process with the other beast.  
     The kysk stirred and stomped restlessly, pawing at the
ground in their peculiarly syncopated rhythm.   Kelain peered
over the side of the wagon.  The three occupants, all of them
more or less conscious, peered back blurrily.  "I'd advise you to
hang on tight," he told them conversationally.  "You're about to
go for one hell of a ride."  With that, he delivered a stunning
blow across the rear end of each kysk with the flat of his
rapier.  The drug-hyped beasts took off at a rapid clip, bouncing
the wagon along behind them. 
     From the shadows, he watched them go, relieved that his
involvement in this mess was nearly over.  With any luck, they
would end up outside of his Guild's territory, and the loss of
the chest would be blamed on these obviously incompetent
couriers.  Come morning, he would see the chest and its deadly
contents delivered to the Mages' Guild.  The sooner it was out of
his hands, the better Kelain would feel.
     The wagon bounced rapidly away from the narrow alley, and
Kelain felt a distinct sense of relief.  His own Guild was
powerful, but dangerous drugs and the lawless, renegade mages who
manufactured them were definitely out of its league.
     A russet-furred head appeared, leaning out over the back of
the wagon.  The fox 'Morph was busily being sick over the edge,
which Kelain thought was extremely unwise, considering the
circumstances.
     He was right.  After a particularly hard jounce, her long,
slender form tumbled from the back of the wagon to land in an
ungraceful heap on the dark stones.  At almost the same moment,
his keen Elvish hearing detected several voices moving closer to
the area.  
     "Piss of the gods!"  Kelain swore quietly and explosively. 
The last thing he needed was for someone to find the woman here,
so close to his Guild's territory.  Especially if that someone
had anything to do with the reason that the drugs were in the
wagon.  While he suspected that she'd remember little or nothing
by morning, an immediate questioning might reveal something hat
would allow the theft to be traced to him.  Or worse, to his
Guild.
     Leaping fastidiously over the puddles of stinking vomit,
Kelain gathered up the slender 'Morph woman in one arm, tucked
the chest under his other arm, and began to make his way as
quickly and silently as he could away from the alley.
     The going was awkward.  The halfbreed Elf was no weakling,
but carrying a limp body and a heavy chest while trying to run
quietly through the shadows was straining his abilities to their
limits.  When he reached the sanctuary of the Guild-owned tavern
a few blocks down, the aptly-named Blood Sport, he ducked swiftly
into the back door.
     The kitchen slaves gawked at him in their chains.  "Where's
Raak?" the half-elf snapped impatiently.  "I need him.  Now." 
His voice was quietly menacing.  One of the smaller boys who had
not been chained to his tasks scurried from the kitchen into the
main room of the tavern.  He returned in less than a candlemark,
looking nervously over his shoulder.  
     Behind him, a huge figure slouched into the dimly lit hall,
causing a renewed burst of industriousness from the shackled
slaves.  It nodded at him.
     Kelain indicated his two burdens.  "Raak, I know I can trust
you," he said quietly.  "I need these put in a safe place and
guarded as well as you're able.  The girl's a dusthead, and she
might be on hype or -"  He lowered his voice.  "Possibly quevas. 
I can't let her go until I've had a chance to question her.  Can
you see to it?"
     The half-ogre nodded, reaching towards him.  Gently, Kelain
placed the fox 'Morph in the man's thick, stumpy arms.  "I'll get
the chest."  A low grunt answered him as Raak shouldered his
slight burden.  The slaves breathed a collective sigh of relief
as the pair left the room.
     He followed Raak up the stairs to a small but neatly kept
room with bookshelves crammed to overflowing on every wall.  The
woman struggled back to consciousness just as Raak was laying her
on the bed.  She tried to scream, but only managed to gasp and
choke pitifully on her own vomit.   
     "No one's going to hurt you," Kelain said quickly.  "I just
want some answers."   The half-ogre shrugged and turned away, an
odd expression on his leathery face.  "Raak, thank you.  I'll see
you downstairs."  Kelain sighed softly and turned back to the
occupant of the bed.
     The Vul wiped her muzzle with a furred hand, screwing up her
black-masked face into a grimace.  She had the typical delicate
beauty of a fox 'Morph, but her attractiveness was marred by a
hard-edged look.  Her eyes told the short and ugly story of her
life to anyone who could see.  Very few men ever bothered to look
beyond her perfect, genetically engineered body, however.  "What
happened?  Are you one of the guys who bought me out?"  She sat
up and looked around in alarm.  "Where's Rissa?  And who the hell
are you?"
     That told him a different tale altogether.  Instead of being
the free agent he had thought her, she had to belong to a tavern
or a slave brothel.  Since the 'Morph wars had ended, and with
them the existence of bred 'Morph slaves, she must have been
sentenced to a judicial slavery.  Kelain wondered briefly what
she had done to deserve the harsh sentence.  She seemed young,
but he knew how fast the streets of Reshor could age a child. 
Kelain remembered them well.
     "You're in a safe place," he reassured her.  "I need to know
who you were with tonight."
     She made a childish face.  "I didn't like them.  They said
they were going to give me to a man named Vasht, and that I would
have to tell him something important.  But I don't know what I
was supposed to tell."  She looked at him oddly, her voice
becoming slow and slurred.  "Are you Vasht?"
     Kelain nodded cautiously, sensing an opportunity to learn
something.  "Yes. I'm Vasht."  He spoke quietly, with a near-
hypnotic intensity.  "Talk to me."
     Her features assumed a total blankness, her muzzle hanging
partly open.  When a voice issued from it again, it was
completely changed, projecting a sense of confidence and power
that the young 'Morph girl had never possessed in her short and
brutal life.  "The goods I promised are in the chest.  To open
it, turn the second knob from the right, push the carved circle
all the way in and pull the latch exactly halfway out.  This
slave comes with the deal, by the way.  I thought perhaps you
might want her again."  
     Her black-tipped ears twitched nervously as consciousness
returned to her attractive face.  "I told you, I don't know
anything.  I think those men must have been kidding around or
something."  She shuddered.  "What brought me in here?  I heard
you had an ogre as peacekeeper, but I wasn't sure I believed it. 
Until now."  Raak's reputation and fearsome appearance had often
proved to be a considerable asset in keeping order in the Blood
Sport Tavern.
     Kelain frowned, his agile brain running rapidly through the
possibilities implied in the message.  "Raak is a friend of mine,
and I promise he won't hurt you.  This is his room."
     "You mean he might come back here?" she asked, frightened.
     Kelain sighed.  "I doubt it.  His feelings can be hurt
rather easily, you know.  He's smarter than he looks, and he's
half Human."  Smarter than you, lady, if you're a dusthead, he
thought.
     Her expression was contrite.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to
hurt his feelings, but he scared me.  Ogres aren't usually very
friendly, you know."  The slender fox-woman gave him a
questioning look.  "Where are the guys who bought me out?" she
wanted to know.  "They have to take Rissa and me back to the Lady
by tomorrow."
     Kelain looked thoughtful.  "You're from the Painted Lady?" 
She nodded.  "I'll see that you get back.  The men who bought you
had a bit too much to drink, I'm afraid.  Did you know them?"
"I don't think so, but I don't really remember.  They gave me a
stick, and I don't remember what we did after that."
     Kelain wasn't sure whether or not to be pleased with her
answer.  If she had been inhaling the potent smoke from a stick
of dreamdust, she wouldn't be likely to remember much of anything
at all, including what had occurred after he had intercepted the
wagon.  This meant that he wouldn't be able to get much
information out of her, but it also meant that she was unlikely
to remember enough to betray him to whoever was supposed to have
received the shipment.  "Try to get some sleep, if you can.  I'll
be back for you later."
     She lay back down obediently, giving her hips an extra
wiggle.  "Okay.  Thanks a whole lot for helping me.  If you ever
want to buy me out, ask for me at the Painted Lady.  My name's
Cheltie."  
     He paused for a moment.  "Do you remember my name?"
     Sheepishly, she shook her head.  "The dust does it to you,
you know?  Sorry.  What was it again?"
     "It's not important, Cheltie.  I'll see you in the morning." 
The wary thief locked the door from the outside as he left.
     Downstairs in the ill-lit tavern, he found Raak.  "My
friend, would you do me a considerable favor?"  The half-ogre
nodded and motioned him into a nearby alcove.  Kelain continued
in a softer voice.  "The lady's on dreamdust, so she'll have only
garbled memories of what happened tonight.  That's rather the way
I'd like to keep it, so I have an idea that might appeal to you
as well....."  Kelain finished explaining his plan.
     A wide grin split the leathery, cragged face of the half-
ogre, and he started agreeably up the stairs to his room,
chortling softly as he went.
     Outside the tavern, a slim shadow raced down the maze of
side streets and alleys to the wharves of Reshor.

II.



     "You.... you really won't hurt me?" the tall fox-woman asked
nervously, the covers pulled defensively up to her chin.
     "Of course not, Lady."  Raak spoke courteously, seating
himself across the room from her.  "I thought you might want to
chat awhile before you retired.  I don't often have the
opportunity to converse with guests, you see.  Can I get you some
tea or cakes?"
     Cheltie shook her head.  "I, uh, I'm not hungry, thanks,"
she said warily, letting the covers slip down a notch or two. 
The effect was amazingly erotic, considering the fact that her
thick, soft-looking fur clothed her completely.  "Naked" was not
a word often used to describe a full breed 'Morph, whether or not
they chose to wear Human-style clothing.
     "Allow me to introduce myself.  My name is Raak."  He smiled
broadly at her.  It made his face almost pleasantly homely. 
"Tell me, what do you think of the secession of the last Prefect? 
I thought it was a rather politically astute move, myself."  
     Noticing the blank look on her face, he continued his
attempts at conversation in a different vein.  "Well, I suppose
politics can be rather a dull subject.  Have you ever heard of
Temidorus the Scholar?"
     The burly half-ogre pulled down a thick volume from one of
his myriad bookshelves and began thumbing through it, trying not
to stare too obviously at the well-endowed fox 'Morph.  Her
exceptional beauty was obviously the product of a mage's
selective breeding and gengineering, and it was having a
predictable effect on him.  "I can read to you from one of his
books, if you like.  I find his recent dissertations quite
fascinating."
     Cheltie looked puzzled.  "You really are smart, aren't you?"
she asked him accusingly.  "How come you pretend you're so dumb?" 
She wriggled dexterously out from under the covers, gazing at him
with wide, liquid brown eyes. 
     Raak put down the heavy book, his huge hands dwarfing the
thick volume.  He sighed deeply.  "Remember how it was when you
first saw me, Cheltie?  People expect me to be a stupid monster. 
They wouldn't accept me as I really am, so I show them what they
want to see."
     "Why are you talking to me?" she asked.  "You don't know
me."  An odd combination of childishness and wary guile shone
from her eyes.
     Raak wondered if she was mentally impaired in some way,
beyond the drugs' effect on her.  She was either a street whore
or a brothel slave, that much he could tell.  She had obviously
experienced life at its nastiest, and was wise to the ways of the
city.  He decided to tell her the truth.  "I don't believe you
would hurt me, Cheltie, so I can talk to you as long as we're
alone.  I, ah, have a hard time talking to someone if I think
people are watching."  
     Raak looked down, already feeling his throat start to
tighten at the thought of a crowd of Humans closing in around him
and taunting him.   Fortunately, the attractive 'Morph girl
looking at him innocently stirred up no memories of his former,
Human tormentors.  He changed the subject deliberately.  "Would
you like me to read to you now?"
     Cheltie nodded.  "I always liked stories.  I wish I knew how
to read, so that I could read stories whenever I wanted to."  She
looked momentarily wistful.  The admission did not startle Raak,
as reading was a skill generally limited to mages, scribes and
high-ranking merchants.  Very few of the common folk could read
more than a few words or write more than their own names.
     "Would you like me to teach you?" he offered courteously.
     Her eyes widened.  "You would?  Really?  Oh, thank you!" 
She squealed delightedly.  Six feet of furred fox 'Morph hurled
itself at him and enveloped him in a soft hug.   "Nobody ever
thought I was worth teaching before.  They said, `go 'way, dirty
whore,' when I tried to go to the mages' school."  She blinked at
him guilelessly.  "You don't think that about me, do you?"
     Raak shook his head, dazed at the unaccustomed contact.  "Of
course not, Cheltie."  
     Abruptly, she let go of him, and her face fell.  "I forgot. 
I smoked some dust today.  I won't remember."  Her disappointment
was tragic.
     "You're going to have to quit the dust, Cheltie," he told
her sternly.  "Drugs are nothing but poison.  Can't you see what
it's doing to you?"
     She sulked openly.  "But the dust feels good.  What do you
care, anyway?  I'm just a 'Morph slave.  An animal.  That's what
they all say."
     An old emotion welled up in him, and he grabbed her slender,
russet-furred shoulders.  "Damn it, Cheltie, you're a person the
same as everyone else."  He let her go quickly, all too conscious
of his own strength.  "The same as me.  I care because you're a
real person.  What you look like on the outside doesn't have to
matter.  What you do for a living doesn't have to matter.  Don't
destroy yourself because other people treat you like you're
dirt."  He swallowed.  "Believe me, I know how it feels."  He
stopped and looked down, ashamed at his outburst.  "Cheltie, if
you'll stay off the dust, you can come back tomorrow and I'll
teach you to read so that you can remember.  I promise."
     Her eyes were wide.  "You mean that?  Really?"  He nodded. 
"I'll do you anytime you want, if you'll teach me.  Okay?"
     "No!" he roared.  She looked hurt, and he moderated his
tone.  "Look, you don't have to do anything like that with me.  I
don't want any woman to have to.... to have to do that with me."
     An understanding look crossed her face.  "Oh, you like men? 
We have some men at the Painted Lady.  Other men buy them out
sometimes."
     Raak coughed, his misshapen ears turning an intense shade of
red.  "Ah, no, Cheltie, I don't like men.  I just can't let you
do that," he explained patiently.
     "Why not?"  she asked, a wounded expression on her face. 
"Don't you like me?"
     Raak clenched his massive fists together, grinding rock-hard
nails into his leathery palms.  "I like you very much, Cheltie. 
I just don't want to force myself on any woman.  I know how I
look to them.  I know how women look at me.  I couldn't bear to
do that to anyone."  He stared down at the tiled floor, unable to
meet her gaze.
     She cocked her head and looked at him.  Her eyes were clear
amber, and utterly guileless.  "For somebody smart, you sure are
awfully dumb about some things.  You don't have to force me."
     The half-ogre shook his head.  "You don't have to sleep with
me because I'm going to teach you to read.  You're worth more
than that."
     "Actually, my price is seven orii for a half-hour.  Mages
and scribes charge a lot more than that to teach you to read,"
she told him innocently.
     "That's not what I mean, damn it."  Raak almost howled. 
"You're offering to lie with me because deep down inside, you
don't think you're worth anything.  I'm not talking about money. 
I'm talking about the fact that you're a real person and you
deserve to be treated like one."  He tried not to look at her,
knowing that if he did, he might be tempted to accept her offer. 
"I'd like to be your friend, Cheltie.  You don't have to do
anything with me you don't want to do."
     She sighed exasperatedly.  "You really are dumb, aren't
you?"  Her teasing tone took the sting out of her words, but he
winced anyway.  "I like you too, Raak.  I like you a lot."  She
moved closer to him.  "Nobody's ever talked to me the way you do. 
All the other men just get me to do what they want, and then they
go away.  I want to do you."  Her bushy tail snaked around his
thigh to tickle him intimately.  "I'm very good, I promise."
     Raak jumped at the unexpected caress.  "Uh, I'm sure you
are," he gasped hoarsely.  He fought off a wild urge to grab her. 
"Cheltie, are you sure - "
     She silenced him with a wet kiss.  Her lips were mobile and
expressive, and surprisingly human.  "I'm sure."  She reached up
to stroke his face, her touch deft and gentle.  "I really do want
to, Raak."
     He pressed her to him as gently as he could bear to,
unwilling to hurt her.  He was surprised when she returned his
hug with more strength than her delicate frame appeared to
contain.  Noticing the look on his face, she stopped.  "Did I
hurt you?" she asked, concerned.  
     "No, Cheltie."  He gave a self-deprecatory chuckle.  "It
would be pretty hard for you to do that.  You're very strong,
though."  One of his massive hands went up to stroke her softly. 
"And very beautiful."
     She giggled, squeezing him again.  "Men always say I'm too
strong.  It took me a long time to learn to control myself so
that I wouldn't hurt anyone.  I guess I don't have to worry about
hurting you, though."  She looked up at him ingenuously.  "You
look real strong."
     Raak's growing arousal was making it difficult for him to
think, but a sudden alarm went off in his mind.   By sheer force
of will, he put her aside for a moment, gently restraining her
with his hands on her shoulders.  "Cheltie, how strong are you?" 
She shrugged.  "Will you arm-wrestle with me, just for fun?"
     "Wouldn't you rather do me?"  She looked at him, puzzled.
     He coughed. "I certainly would, but let's do this first. 
Okay?"
     The attractive fox 'Morph shrugged again.  "Okay."  She sat
down at the small table, waving her soft, luxuriously furred tail
invitingly.  Raak seated himself opposite to her and offered her
his arm.  Her white-furred hand was dwarfed by his huge, thickly
ridged palm.  "Ready?" she queried pertly.  Raak nodded,
intensely aware of the softly padded, alien hand in his own.  Her
grip was firm but gentle, and he found himself enjoying the
unfamiliar sensation.  "Okay, go!"  
     She strained to push his arm down to the table, and nearly
succeeded.  When Raak began to wrestle in earnest, she screwed up
her face and pushed harder.  It took him almost a minute and all
of his strength to pin her hand, which was more than any burly-
chested, arrogant warrior had ever done in a tavern contest with
the powerful half-ogre.
     Cheltie looked at him admiringly.  "Gee, you're strong. 
Nobody's ever beaten me before.  I guess it's because you're so
big."  She smiled warmly at him.  "I usually have to look down at
men.  I like looking up at you, Raak."  
     For the first time in his life, Raak was grateful for his
seven conspicuous feet of height.  Raak had never been
complimented by a woman before, and he was rapidly discovering
that he liked the feeling very much.  But something else was
weighing heavily on his mind.   "Cheltie, are you First Breed?"  
     Most 'Morphs had a certain amount of enhanced strength and
speed, depending on the species of animal that they had been bred
from, but the First Breed, the original subjects of a mage's
experimentation, were sometimes altered to a shocking extent. 
Enhanced strength and other physical modifications were fairly
common, and many of them also had unpredictable mental abilities,
ranging from telepathy and empathy to the ability to kill with
the mind.  First Breed were hated and feared by everyone without
exception, including 'Morphs and especially mages, whose bastard
children they were.  
     Cheltie shook her head.  "I don't know what that means,
Raak."  She moved her chair closer to him and caressed his broad
back with her tail.  
     With the practice of long years, Raak held himself under
iron control.  "You're very strong, Cheltie.  Do you have any
other abilities, like being able to run very fast, or to know
what other people are thinking?"
     "I know what you're thinking," she said in a teasing voice,
pointing below his impressively muscled waist.  His normally
dusky complexion turned pink with embarrassment.
     "Will you answer my question, Cheltie?"  He was almost
pleading.  "I'm just trying to help you."
     The fox 'Morph shrugged.  "I don't think I can do anything
else.  I'm not a mage."  She screwed up her muzzle cutely.  "I
don't like mages.  They're always looking at me like they hate
me, and I never did anything to them."
     Raak sighed deeply and reached over to stroke her face with
a gentleness that belied his fearsome appearance.  "Cheltie,
mages aren't ever going to like you, because of what you are. 
The 'Morph Wars weren't over all that long ago, and most mages
still resent your kind."
     "Why?  I never did anything bad to them."  The attractive
fox 'Morph looked confused.  
     "Cheltie, mages think that all 'Morphs should owe fealty to
the Guild that created them, and the 'Morphs don't agree."  Raak
carefully bypassed the complex politics of the Wars that he
assumed she couldn't understand.  "You remember the Wars, don't
you?"
     She shook her head.  "No."
     Raak gave her a quizzical look.  "Where were you living ten
years ago?"
     "I don't know.  I don't remember."  Cheltie shrugged
uncaringly.
     Somehow, he sensed that this had nothing to do with drugs. 
"You don't remember what happened ten years ago?"
     "I don't remember anything before I started at the Lady. 
That was seven years ago.  I remember seven Year's End festivals
there."
     Raak was rapidly coming to an unpleasant conclusion. 
"Cheltie, what are your earliest memories?"
     She wrinkled up her muzzle, concentrating.  "I think....
being in a cage somewhere, and being tied down while someone
poked at me a lot.  They weren't doing me or anything, just
poking.  Some guys like to tie me up before they do me, or have
me tie them up or something, but it wasn't like that."  Cheltie
looked thoughtful.  "It hurt sometimes, though."  
     Raak put a comforting arm around her, as if he could somehow
protect her from what he knew to be true.  "Cheltie, you're
probably First Breed, whether you know it or not.  You were made
by a mage less than ten years ago to be breeding stock for
slaves.  I don't know how you ended up where you did, but the
mage that made you must have done it after the Wars."  A look of
pure anger crossed his rough-hewn, ogrish features, transforming
them into a fearsome mask of rage.  "Which means that he should
be shot."
     "Why?" Cheltie asked innocently.  
     "Because you're probably his own flesh and blood, that's
why." Raak growled.  "Most mages use their own seed in an altered
animal to grow their First Breed clone stock."  The intelligent
half-ogre was a fair scholar, and had read enough esoteric texts
to be familiar with the ways of mage-science.  "The bastard sold
his own daughter into a brothel."
     Cheltie sniffed.  "What's wrong with the brothel?  People
are usually pretty nice to me there, especially the men.  They
like me."
     Not for the first time during the course of the evening,
Raak sighed deeply.  "There's nothing wrong with the brothel, if
you had chosen to go there of your own free will.  You were sold
to them as a slave, do you understand that?  You never had a
choice."
     She looked at him with open curiosity.  "But where else
would I go?  They take care of me there, and I work for them. 
That's fair, isn't it?"
     Raak shrugged, his massive shoulders moving under the loose
tunic.  "You could stay with me, if you wanted," he said
diffidently.  He turned to the window, not wanting her to see 
the wistful look on his face.
     "You mean, you'd buy me out?"  Her gaze was thoughtful.
     He winced, turning back to her.  "I wouldn't own you, if
that's what you mean.  You could live here, do anything or go
anywhere you wanted.  If you wanted a job, you could work in the
tavern.  And I could teach you to read and write.  You could be
with people who would respect you instead of treating you like
property."  He put his hands under the table to conceal their
trembling.  
     In the ten years Raak had spent with the Guild, the young
half-ogre had well learned the value of controlling his volatile
emotions in a fight or on a job.  However, Raak had never
anticipated a situation like this one.  He had never expected to
be treated as anything but a repulsive monster by a woman, or by
any Human, for that matter.  He had found much more than he felt
he had any right to expect in the two deep friendships he had
within the Guild, but he had always felt the lack of a companion
keenly.  Raak was fully aware that becoming involved with Cheltie
was probably a poor idea, but somehow, that didn't seem very
important at the moment. 
     Cheltie thought about Raak's proposal for awhile, her sharp.
russet-furred ears pricking forward slightly.  "I think I'd like
that," she said slowly.  "I've never met anyone like you before,
Raak.  I hope I remember you."
     Raak looked as if he had been slapped.  "I hope so too,
Cheltie."  Abruptly, his craggy face brightened like the sun
appearing from behind a dark stormcloud.  "Cheltie, if you wait
here, I can try to get you an antidote to the dust so that you'll
remember.  I think I can trust you not to tell anyone that I can
talk.  Will you swear not to tell?"
     She nodded.  "I won't tell, I promise."  She favored him
with a brief smile.  "Aren't you going to do me?"
     Raak sighed, knowing how ridiculous he sounded, but feeling
obliged to mouth the words anyway.  "Cheltie, you're not even ten
years old.  You're not old enough to know whether or not you want
to sleep with me.  I really shouldn't -  Eeeek!"  The ogre gave
an improbably bass squeak as she tickled him with the tip of her
soft, brushy tail.
     "That's bullshit, Raak.  I do know what I'm doing, and I do
want to."  She used her tail to perform an intimate caress. 
"Don't you want me?"
     He stroked her face gently.  "I believe you, Cheltie.  And I
do want to make love to you, very much.  It's just that I've
spent so many years denying myself that it's become second nature
to me.  I never wanted to force myself on anybody."  He clenched
his fists together, trying to suppress the tidal wave of emotion
welling up in him.  "No one has ever offered herself to me freely
before, and I guess I'm not very good at this kind of thing."
     "I could force you, then.  Do you want me to?"  She nuzzled
him playfully.
     Raak chuckled faintly, picturing the slender fox woman
holding him down and raping him.  "That won't be necessary,
Cheltie.  Just let me get the antidote so that you'll remember me
later.  I can be back with it in a few minutes."
     She nodded.  "All right.  I really do want to remember you,
Raak."  With difficulty, Raak tore himself away from her deep,
soulful gaze.
     He touched her a last time before he hurried away, past the
lower levels of the inn and down the hidden stairs to the inner
sanctum of the Guild.
III.


     
     His knock on the door was tentative.  "Master?"
     "Come in, Raak."  The short, rather ordinary looking Human
was seated in a simple chair at a desk, poring over some
paperwork.  He looked like someone's kindly uncle, or a village
trader.  He was Alun the Bane, Grandmaster of the Reshor Thieves'
and Assassins' Guild.  "What brings you here at this hour?"
     "I need a drug-specific antidote.  For dreamdust."  Raak
kept his voice level.
     Alun replaced the sheaf of papers he was perusing and gave
Raak a searching look.   "Something I should know about?"
     The half-ogre shook his head.  "Nothing that concerns the
Guild, sir.  This is personal business.  You can take it out of
my pay, if you like."
     Alun's steel-grey eyes were disconcertingly piercing. 
"Everything that goes on in Reshor concerns the Guild.  I thought
I taught you that years ago, Raak."  He noted the intense set of
Raak's jaw, and the hidden tension in his stance.  "But if it's
that important to you, it's yours."  He shrugged.  "I trust you."
     "Thank you, sir."  Raak let out his breath, unaware that he
had been holding it.
     The Guildmaster stood and paced over to a large cabinet near
the hallway.  He opened it deftly with a small-toothed key and
bent to rummage among the multiple shelves and racks.  Potions,
packets of herbs and incense, burning bowls, glass tubing and
other alchemists' tools competed for space in the crowded
cabinet.  Finally, he straightened, a cloudy-colored vial in his
hand.  "This is the best I can do for you, unless you want to
wait until I can brew up something.  It's not specific for
dreamdust, but it should do for anything in that general class. 
It should neutralize the effects in an hour or so, more if the
drug was taken recently."
     Raak's jaw remained set.  "An hour?"
     "For all of the effects to be neutralized.  The secondary
effects should be neutralized within a few minutes of ingestion."
     The half-ogre visibly relaxed.  "Most of it's worn off
already; she's not acting euphoric anymore.  I was mainly worried
about the memory loss."
     The Guildmaster raised an eyebrow.  She?  "That should clear
up right away.  You won't be able to regain any memory already
lost, but this should stop any further effects."  He looked at
Raak curiously.  "Who is she, if I can ask?"
     Raak took the vial from him and held on to it possessively. 
"Just a friend in trouble.  If you'll excuse me, Alun, I've got
to get back to her.  Thank you, and good night."
     The Guildmaster stared after him speculatively for a long
time.  Raak had always been a special student and protege of his. 
Ten years ago, Alun had picked up the young half-ogre from one of
the wharf gangs and given him a home with the Guild, away from
the constant, savage taunts of the common people of Reshor.  Alun
had come to admire Raak's brilliant mind and his deeply felt
sense of honor, as well as his incredible physical prowess.  
     Although it would have been hopeless to try to train the
massive half-ogre as a thief or assassin, the Guild under Alun
had begun to welcome members of diverse talents, including more
conventionally trained fighters and the occasional mageborn.  In
fact, the Guild had current possession of one of the most
comprehensive libraries of magick and lore on the continent, a
library which Raak spent most of his spare time in, preferring
the company of books to that of other people.   
     After the harsh treatment he had received at the hands of
Humans, Raak had lapsed into near total silence around them,
preferring not to reveal himself to any but his closest friends. 
Raak was reticent and withdrawn at best, except when he was
putting on his genial, `dumb ogre' act at the Guild's tavern,
where he supposedly worked as a bouncer.  In actuality, he was
often the Guild's eyes and ears on the wharves, as very few
people hesitated to talk freely in front of a supposedly stupid
ogre.
     To Alun's knowledge, Raak had never been intimate with a
woman.  He was far too sensitive to enjoy coupling with a slave
or a prostitute, and too aware of his distinctly ogrish looks to
approach anyone for sex or even companionship.  His only close
friend, the halfbreed Elf Kelain, shared his self-enforced
solitude, but not his bed.  If Raak had met a woman that he
trusted enough to talk to, this would be a change indeed.
     The Guildmaster frowned, steepling his hands in front of
him.  I don't want him to get hurt, he thought worriedly.  I
protected him from the stones of an angry mob when he was a
child, and took him into the Guild.  I protected him from the
resentment of the Guild when he was older, by giving him rank and
status when he earned it, and the responsibility for the Guild
Library.  But this is one thing I don't think I can protect him
from.  I can only pray that I have made him strong enough to
protect himself. 

IV.


     
     The streets were dark and dirty, covered with a thin, oily
layer of grime.  On the wharves of Reshor, the wagons of
countless passing merchants and their cargos of fish, cattle,
slaves and other things much less savory had contributed to the
slime and stench with their leavings.
     Kelain wrinkled his nose fastidiously.  Despite having lived
in Reshor for the majority of his hundred and twenty-odd years,
he had never quite gotten used to the way it smelled. 
     "Hey, wanna buy a stick?"  The boy was young, far too young
in Kelain's eyes to be peddling drugs on a pier street late at
night.  He was a tall, thin fellow with a tousled shock of brown
hair and an impish look about him.
     "No, thanks," Kelain told him casually.  He started to walk
on, then stopped deliberately.  "On the other hand, I might want
to buy some information.  Savvy?"
     The young Human grinned easily, flicking his nails at an
imaginary piece of lint on his crimson-lined cloak.  "It'll cost
you.  What do you want to know?"
     Kelain lowered his voice.  "Who supplies you?  More
importantly, where does your supplier get his goods?"
     The boy's eyes widened, and he lost some of his cocky look. 
"Elf-man, if I told you that, it would be my ass on a stick.  I
don't even know who the main source is."
     He never saw Kelain draw his dagger, but it was up against
his throat in an eyeblink.  "If you don't tell me what you know,
it will be a much more vital part of your body that gets
punctured."  His voice was soft, sibilant and dangerous.  The boy
didn't see him put the weapon away, either; but abruptly the
dagger was back in its sheath.  "I'll buy the information, like I
said."
     The boy swallowed.  "Show me ten gold and I might tell," he
offered brazenly.
     Kelain almost choked.  Half of that sum would buy a good
horse, or a forged iron dagger.  Still, he admired the boy's
boldness.  "Ten aurii?  I think not."  He toyed meaningfully with
the hilt of his dagger.
     The boy stood his ground, though his voice shook a little. 
"No joke.  Squealing's a big risk.  I think the information's
worth it."
     Kelain slipped two of the octagonal, golden coins from his
pouch and tossed them from hand to hand expertly.  "One aurii
now, and I'll decide whether or not your information is worth
another."
     The boy thought for awhile, then nodded.  Kelain tossed him
a coin.  "I work for Kai, the wine seller on Delphi pier.   I
think he buys from a main source, because he's given me white
dust a couple of times."  Kelain remained expressionless, but his
mind was racing with the implications of the boy's statement. 
Dreamdust, pure white when first created, turned grey within a
matter of days.  "It's gotta be a mage, but I don't know which
one."
     Deftly, Kelain extracted another coin from the soft leather
folds of his pouch.  "What do you know about quevas?"
     The boy stared at him incredulously.  "Look, Elf-man, I just
deal the dust.  No hype, and I don't touch quevas.   Nobody
around here is dumb enough to buy any."  His concern was hardly
unfounded.  Although the loosely organized government that did
exist in Reshor was relatively lenient about such substances as
dreamdust sticks and even the more dangerous hype or sweat salt,
quevas was the weapon of choice for conquerors and terrorists,
and the only truly illegal drug in Reshor.  Mere possession of
the drug, let alone its manufacture, was enough to get you turned
over as a experimental subject to the Mage's Guild if you were
caught.  
     The characteristically crimson dust was instantly addictive,
and made its user utterly susceptible to suggestion as well as
enhancing his speed and strength.  An army on quevas would be
virtually unstoppable, and more than fanatic in their obedience. 
Anyone with a good supply of the drug could easily have complete
control over far too many people.  
     A few daring mages and career mercenaries were rumored to
use a derivative of quevas to be able to call upon their inner
resources and perform superhuman feats of magical or physical
strength, but it took a certain sort of mind to be able to use
the drug in that way.  Fortunately, it could only be properly
manufactured with the help of a highly trained mage, and serious
training in Force Arcane was usually available only from the
Mages' Guild itself.  It was a well-known truism that each Guild
policed its own, and the Mages' Guild was well equipped to ensure
that none of its sworn, blood-bonded members were aiding in the
manufacture of a Guild-proscribed drug.
     "I believe you," the half-elf remarked dryly.  "But who else
do you know that might?"
     "You've got me there, Elf-man.  Sorry."  There was genuine
regret in the boy's voice, though it was doubtless motivated more
by the thought of Kelain's gold than of his well-being.  
     Kelain flipped him the other coin.  "Well enough.  What
shall I call you?" 
     The young Human grinned insouciantly.  "Call me Rat.  But if
you're going to look up Kai, don't bother to give him my
greetings."
     "You're a wharf rat, eh?"  Kelain smiled wryly, remembering. 
Members of the Reshor youth gangs inevitably used that name as a
moniker when they didn't want to identify themselves to an
outsider.  He'd done it himself, a time or two.  "I used to run
with the Pack myself, when I was younger.  Skeah dru, Rat." 
Kelain used the cant phrase that roughly translated to `Luck,
friend'.  
     He tossed an extra coin to the youngster, a silver orii
piece.  It shone palely in the moonlight.  "And here's some good
luck for you."  The old street slang came easily to his lips, and
the boy grinned broadly.  
     "Thanks, Elf-man.  Want a stick?" 
     Tolerantly, Kelain shook his head.  "No, thank you.  I don't
do the stuff.  And neither should you, if you have any ambition
at all.  You look as if you might."
     The kid saluted him with the gesture of a fencer
acknowledging a successful hit.  "You're right, Elf-man.  I don't
do the dust.  I just sell it to the scum who want to buy.  I plan
to buy into the Guild when I can afford it, and they don't take
dustheads."
     Kelain regarded him thoughtfully.  "The Thieves' Guild, I
assume?"  The kid grinned at him.  "What name are you going to
apply to the Guild under?"
     "Is it worth something to you?"  He returned a wary stare.  
     "No, but it could be worth something to you.  Trust me or
not, your choice."  Kelain flipped a dagger on his thumb with
practiced skill.  The boy's eyes followed it admiringly.
     "Orin.  And I'm going to apply next year.  I'll have enough
saved by then to buy in."
     Kelain nodded.  Guild dues were not cheap, since the
organization provided room, board, training, healer's services
when they were needed, and protection for its loyal members. 
Only the most clever and resourceful were accepted, the ones who
could prove their ability to repay the Guild's investment in
them.  "I'll remember you," he said with certainty.  "I'll see
you next year."
     The slim youth grinned infectiously.  "Thanks, Elf-man.  See
you."  He sauntered off along the wharves, seeking other buyers
for his wares.
     Kelain smiled politely and walked away.  Once he judged that
the boy could neither see him nor hear him, he began to race
towards the pier.
     As he expected, the area was pretty well deserted.  The
covered stall of the wineseller had a pale light within it,
flickering and barely perceptible behind the thick canvas. 
Kelain moved closer, gliding silently across the slatted wooden
boards of the pier.  He crouched motionless beside the closed
stall for what might have been hours, listening for any traces of
conversation.  His perfectly disciplined body made no demands on
him, and his mind was free to wander into a state of timeless
calm.  Kelain began to mentally review the Seventeen Classic
defense positions for broadsword in minute detail, replaying them
in his mind and searching for the perfect counter to each of
them.  He had gotten as far as Number Eight, the Crossed Rivers
block, before he was interrupted. 
     Finally, he heard voices.  "- had better have sent us some
useable goods this time, Kai."  It was a woman speaking.
     A deeper voice this time.  "Vasht knows what he's doing. 
Just pack it along with the rest, Tanya."
     "Even if it's got the other stuff in it?" 
     "Love, don't ask questions.  Just pack it up. "
Shuffling and other small noises.  "Don't think I'm going to
smoke any, Kai.  I know what this stuff is."  The woman's high-
pitched voice grated on Kelain's sensitive ears.
     "Hush.  Not another word about that."  The man's voice was
angry.
     "No one's listening, Kai," she said, a whining overtone to
her words.  "I don't know why we're getting mixed up in this,
anyway."
     "If Vasht cuts us off, we're out of business, love.  He made
that very clear."  The man gave a long-suffering sigh.
     "If they catch us, we're more than out of business, damn it! 
Do you want to be a slave?  Do you want to be turned into an
experiment for the black robes?  I don't!"  There was real fear
in her voice.
     "It'll be all right, love.  Please don't worry."  He tried
to comfort her, but she would have none of it.  Her strident
tones split the air.
     "I don't know why I stay with you, you arrogant bastard. 
You're going to get us both killed before long."
     Kelain decided that he'd heard enough.  His felt-bottomed
boots padded as soundlessly and gracefully as cat's feet over the
salt-roughened boards as he left the pair to their arguing.  It
didn't take him long to travel his accustomed route of side
streets and little-known pathways back to the Guild.

V.


     
     Raak moved with surprising speed and agility up the curving
stairway.  He had been delayed along the way by a minor brawl in
the tavern that had started in his absence.  He had taken care of
it in such a way that there would not, in all probability, be any
more brawls in the Blood Sport that evening.  
     Cheerfully, he mused that the eight or so fellows that had
put him to the trouble of bouncing them could almost certainly
hope to walk again, possibly even without the aid of a cleric. 
Raak most definitely did not want to be disturbed that night.
     The door to his quarters was slightly ajar, and he knew that
he had left it closed and locked.  "Cheltie?" he called, alarmed. 
He opened the door.
     Kelain was sitting on the bed next to Cheltie.  The tall
'Morph woman seemed nervous, shrinking almost imperceptibly away
from the black-clad assassin.  Before Raak could make a move,
Kelain casually handed him a small packet of dusky red powder. 
"See if you can get her to see reason, Raak.  She doesn't want to
take her medicine."  
     A deep growl rumbled involuntarily through Raak's massive
chest, and he clenched the tiny packet in one fist.  "What are
you trying to give her?"  Protectively, he moved closer to the
slight fox 'Morph.  
     "Insurance, my friend.  You surely don't want her talking
about tonight's activities."  The half-elf leaned indolently
against the thick feather pallet, looking as slim and dangerous
as the rapier he carried.
     The half-ogre's eyes narrowed.  "She won't talk.  I'll take 
responsibility for that." 
     "You can't be sure.  This way's better.  I'll give her a
little cut quevas, and tell her to forget -"
     He was cut off midsentence by the half-ogre's bellow.  "No,
damn it!  You're not going to give her that poison."  Raak knew
as well as Kelain did that a haphazard dose of the potent drug
was a sure if slow death sentence.
     Cheltie spoke up.  Her voice was subdued.  "I don't want to
take any more drugs.  I promise I won't tell."
     Kelain ignored her, speaking directly to his friend.  "Raak,
are you crazy?  Trust a brothel slave?  You'd better let me give
her the drug."  He chuckled bitterly.  "We'll be doing her a
favor at that, Raak, since she's already a dusthead.  I hate the
filthy stuff as much as you do, but we can't let her go without
some insurance.  The safety of the Guild as well as both our
lives are at stake here, in case you haven't figured that out."  
     Damn it, Raak, we can't let her go alive, Kelain thought
fiercely.  Don't you realize that?  Quevas was an unclean way to
kill, but it was the only safe way as far as Kelain was
concerned.  A whore dead or brain-burned from overdose would
attract little comment, while an obvious slaying might be
investigated.
     Raak growled.  "Don't talk about her that way.  You don't
understand her at all.  Any more than Humans understand
halfbreed."  His words were short and clipped, as if he was
forcing them through painfully gritted teeth.     
     Kelain was rocked.  He had shared a tacit bond with Raak
ever since the half-ogre had joined the Guild, forged at least in
part of their shared shame.  Although Kelain had found an uneasy
peace with his heritage in his years of respect and acceptance in
the Guild, Raak still felt the prejudice of Humans and other
purebloods keenly.  Kelain had never heard him make any reference
to his racial origin, let alone speak the word "halfbreed."  That
he had done so told Kelain that something had affected him
deeply.  
     "You're right, my friend.  I don't understand her."  He
forced himself to apologize.  "Do you understand her well enough
to trust her with my life, and with the safety of the Guild?"
     In answer, Raak strode into the small washroom and tossed
the tiny packet of dust down the water-filled privy.  "I trust
her, Kelain.  Aeonor help me, I trust her."
     Kelain gritted his teeth.  When he had asked Raak to keep an
eye on Cheltie for an evening, he hadn't planned for him to fall
for her.  Love was blind, and blindness was something no one
could afford with the safety of the Guild at stake.  "You know
she belongs to the Painted Lady, Raak.  Are you planning to buy
her out?"
     Raak winced.  "Not buy her out.  Buy her free, so she can do
what she wants with her life.  If she wants to work here waiting
tables, I told her she could do that.  If that's what she wants." 
He repeated himself unnecessarily, staring fixedly out the small
window.
     Kelain took a brief glance out at the night sky.   The Great
Wheel's constellation was still visible over the horizon, and the
Maiden and Dragon had barely begun to appear.  "They might still
be open, if you wanted to do it now."  His voice was questioning. 
     The massive half-ogre had not spoken intelligibly in public
for many years.  He couldn't bring himself to reveal his Human
qualities to someone whom he believed would simply mock him for
them, and he literally could not speak at all in front of a
crowd.  
     Kelain and Cheltie were friends and nonHumans like himself,
but Raak was literally unable to talk in front of most people. 
He preferred to be no more than what Humans expected, a stupid
ogre.  It was a lot easier than trying to convince them that he
was a real person.
     Raak bowed his head.  "I can't, Kelain.  They just wouldn't
understand what I wanted."  
     Kelain looked for a long time at his friend.  And at
Cheltie.  Finally, he nodded.  "I'll negotiate for you, my
friend.  When I take her back in the morning, I'll bargain."
     "Thank you.  Thank you with all my heart."  The naked
gratitude in Raak's eyes made Kelain want to turn away in
embarrassment.
     "It's nothing, Raak.  Don't worry about it."  Gracefully,
the half-elf rose.  "I'll see you in the morning, my friend."
     Behind him, he shut the tall door.  Already, he could hear
them laughing together.

VI.


     
      Raak was as silent as ever when Kelain came in the morning,
but the smile on his cragged, leathery face and the tender look
in his dark eyes for his companion made it clear that he was not
at all unhappy.  Cheltie was amazingly pert and vivacious when
she wasn't on dreamdust, and Kelain could see immediately what
had attracted his friend to this woman.
     Kelain suspected that her affection for Raak was genuine. 
The attractive fox 'Morph was entirely guileless and almost
childlike in her trust for the gentle half-ogre.  Kelain also
sensed her potential for becoming much more intelligent and
mature if she was given a chance to learn and grow, something she
had never had in the brothel.  He was certainly glad that he had
not had time to give her the drug.  She would be good for Raak. 
Extremely good.  
     An unfamiliar pang struck him as he watched the two of them
from the hall.  The thought came unbidden and swiftly: will there
ever be one such as that for me?  Almost as quickly, he dismissed
the thought.  No Human or Elvatuar woman would desire a
halfbreed, especially a halfbreed assassin.  And he doubted that
any self-respecting 'Morph would, either.  A sad, self-
deprecatory smile flickered briefly across his finely drawn
Elvish features.  
     Raak gave him a perfunctory glance as he entered the room. 
Reluctantly, the half-ogre let Cheltie go, squeezing her hands
gently in his own.  "I'll see you soon, Cheltie.  My friend is
going to take you back now."  
     Raak glanced meaningfully at Kelain.  He had not wanted to
let Cheltie out of his sight, but the wary half-elf had insisted
that the valuable courtesan would be searched for if she turned
up missing.  It would be safer, though more expensive, to buy her
outright from the inn.  A shipment of highly illegal drugs was
far more difficult to trace than a living woman, especially if
Cheltie's aura had been imprinted by a Guild mage as a safeguard
against her escaping or being stolen.
     Cheltie gave the half-ogre a friendly nuzzle.  "'Bye, Raak. 
See you."  She turned and looked at Kelain questioningly.  "You
look different today."   
     Kelain was surprised.  "You know me?"  He had gotten up at
dawn and taken several painstaking hours to insure that his
disguise was quite thorough.  Instead of having distinctly
pointed ears, they were now round.  His complexion was dark and
swarthy, and his hair was a curly mane of vivid auburn.  He
currently sported a reddish beard and a mustache, as well as
several more subtle facial alterations to his nose and chin.  
     After having known Kelain for well over a decade, Raak could
usually recognize him by his general build and mannerisms, no
matter how he was disguised.  Kelain had not expected the 'Morph
to do so, however.  Briefly, he cast a nervous glance in the
small mirror.  
     Cheltie nodded earnestly.  "Of course.  You look different,
but it's still you under all of that stuff."  
     Kelain shrugged, never noticing Raak's speculative look.  So
she's got a sharp nose.  I'll have to remember to disguise my
scent the next time I want to fool a 'Morph.  "Follow me,
Cheltie.  I'm taking you back to the Lady for now."  Obediently,
she followed Kelain downstairs, through the kitchen and out the
back exit to the alley.  
     They walked through the streets of Reshor, its familiar
sights and smells assailing their senses.  They passed street
vendors with strings of dried vegetables, pungent heaps of
crushed peppers, bright-plumaged fowl with their scrawny feet
trussed together, and sizzling haunches of deer and chevral
dangling and smoking over clay firepots.  Old women hawked plump
pale tubers of sweetroot and mallows, holding up their wares and
screeching its virtues in strident tones.  More sober merchants
stood behind mats laden with bright-colored jewelry, glazed pots
and wooden utensils, bartering with sturdy-looking peasants for
coins and sometimes script or staters in trade.  
     Kelain courteously offered to buy their morning meal with
one of his Guild staters.  Cheltie headed enthusiastically for a
small vendor's wagon with savory-looking spitted squabs, honeyed
dates, and dishes of rice and slivered nuts on the counters. 
Cheltie polished off three of the small birds, crisp-skinned and
golden brown, licking the last of the pink juices off of her
muzzle with her long tongue.  Kelain breakfasted on the rice and
dates and found them delicious.   
     Cheltie turned her bright gaze on the half-elf.  "Thank you. 
I don't remember your name, though."  
     Kelain groaned.  If she was questioned, and if she talked,
her story would lead inevitably to him, whether she had his name
or not.  "My name is Kelain.  But if you value your life, say
nothing about what happened to you last night.  If anyone asks, 
tell them that you had too much dust and drink, and you don't
remember who you were with.  Do you understand?"  
     Cheltie nodded seriously.  "I understand.  I don't remember
anything about last night."  She bubbled over with sudden
laughter.  "But I do remember.  I had so much fun!  Your friend
is real nice.  Nobody's ever been nice to me like that before."  
     Kelain suppressed his curiosity.  It was really none of his
business, anyway.  But the tall fox 'Morph continued talking. 
"He's so big, I thought he might hurt me, you know, but he's
really very gentle.  He let me -"
     Embarrassed, Kelain coughed loudly, all too aware of the
passers-by on the crowded street.  "Uh, Cheltie, maybe we'll talk
about that later.  Tell me what you remember about the two men
who hired you and Rissa."
     As he hoped, he succeeded in distracting her.  A fleeting
expression of worry crossed her face.  "I wonder if Rissa's all
right.  Do you know where she is?"
     Kelain felt a momentary twinge of conscience, an oddity for
any long-time denizen of Reshor.  In Reshor, you learned quickly
that no one was his brother's keeper.  Or you learned, even more 
quickly, how to die.  "I don't know," he told her honestly.  "I
left her with the men that hired you.  She should be all right."
     Cheltie offered him a tentative smile.  "I guess so."  They
continued to walk through the city.  The attractive fox 'Morph
drew an appreciative whistle from more than one of the jaded
denizens of the streets as they passed by.  Staying in character,
the disguised half-elf turned to glare at the most obvious
admirers.
     They arrived at the Painted Lady in about twenty minutes. 
The doors to the lavish entry hall stood open, and a number of
men and women were milling about or drinking at the elaborately
carved rosewood bar in the central room.  A young Human woman
came out from behind the bar to greet them.  "Ah, hello,
Cheltie."  She turned to Kelain.  "I'll have your deposit back in
a minute, sir."   
     Kelain was hard put to suppress a grin.  It seemed as if the
profits from last night's job were going to take a rapid
increase.  If the inn had demanded a deposit against the return
of the obviously rare and valuable 'Morph courtesan, it should
have been quite a healthy one. 
     The girl returned with a small wooden box of a dark, smooth-
grained wood.  "Here it is, sir."  She waited while Kelain opened
it, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.  
     As he had suspected, it was stuffed with small packets of
powder.  He tried not to groan aloud.  Granted, the stuff was
undoubtedly valuable, but Kelain definitely drew the line at
peddling illegal drugs for money.  It was a longstanding policy
of his Guild not to get involved in the drug trade, even the
semi-legal one.  Drugs were traditionally a mage's business, and
the Thieves' Guild preferred not to trespass.  
     Kelain shut the box and stuffed it into one of his pouches
without even bothering to glance further at its contents.  "Is
everything there, sir?" she asked brightly.
     Kelain sighed in resignation.  "It certainly is.  May I see
the owner, please?"
     The girl's face darkened.  Barely out of her teens, she was
gaudily painted and made up to look like a butterfly, with
delicate wings of woven silk sewn onto the back of her brief
robe.  "Mavin's not in right now.  Was something unsatisfactory,
sir?"  
     She had a faint, pleasantly exotic rhythm to her speech, and
Kelain wondered cynically if it was something she had
deliberately cultivated.  "Quite the contrary, miss.  I'm 
interested in purchasing Cheltie's contract.  For a reasonable
price, of course." 
     She put a small, delicately manicured hand over her mouth in
consternation.  "Oh, I'm so sorry, I do not think that she is for
sale.  Oh, no.  You see, Cheltie is a special favorite of His
Lordship's, and she brings us so many other noble patrons as
well.  And she's like a daughter to Mavin.  Truly, you should
pick another."
     Kelain gave Cheltie a wary, questioning glance.  The fox
'Morph was wide-eyed and guileless, but Kelain could see the
suppressed mirth in her expression.  He turned his attention back
to the girl, his eyes narrow and suspicious.  "Right.  And I
suppose she's shacking up with the royal mage-princes of Revan as
well?  Do you pull this one on everybody who asks a simple
question, or do I just look like a yokel today?" 
     The girl returned his look coolly, dropping the exotic
accent faster than a takh-vine picker with a venomous snake in
hand.  "My advice to you has nothing to do with your, ah, unique
appearance."  She looked at him as if he were an insect she had
found floating in her soup.  "I am merely informing you that this
one won't sell cheaply, if you can buy her at all."  She put a
slight emphasis on the pronoun.
     Kelain grinned insouciantly, amused.  This fresh-faced young
girl was obviously wise in the ways of haggling as well as subtle
insult.  "I don't doubt that she's valuable.  All the same, she's
the one I'm interested in."  
     "If you say so, sir."  Her lips tightened into a thin, sharp
line.  "Mavin won't be back until after dark.  You may return and
speak with her then, if you wish."
     The tall half-elf nodded curtly.  "That I will do.  Please
reserve her this evening for me, in any case."  Regretting the
ostentation, Kelain tossed the girl a heavy golden coin. 
"Consider this a deposit."  He turned back to Cheltie.  "Goodbye,
my dear.  I'll be back for you at sunset."
     He sauntered off insolently, blowing a kiss at the
attractive fox 'Morph as he went.  She returned the gesture with
enthusiasm.  Kelain wasn't sure how much she understood, but at
least she wasn't likely to mention that Kelain was actually
negotiating on Raak's behalf.  If she did, it would probably just
about double her asking price, as only lordlings, mages and the
idle rich sent others to do their negotiating.  
     Sunset.  That would give him just enough time to get rid of
his current disguise and have a talk with Alun, before he had to
attend to the rest of his Guild duties for the day.  And Kelain
had a guilty feeling that it was high time to let the Guildmaster
know what was going on.  
     Taking a circuitous route, he backtracked to one of the
secret entrances to the Guildhouse, in the bottom of an abandoned
quarry just outside the city.  It didn't take him long to get to
Alun's office.  He knew the way well enough.

VII.


     
     "Alun?"  The door was half ajar, but Kelain knocked on it
anyway before he went in.  The underground chamber was cool and
damp, a welcome change from the merciless glare of the day
outside.  
     "Come in, Kelain."  The voice carried clear tones of
disapproval.  "I've been expecting you."
     Kelain sighed and nerved himself for a confrontation.  "I
have a report to make, Guildmaster," he began, seating himself in
a chair of polished ebony.
     Alun gave him a penetrating look from across his desk. 
"Does it have something to do with a drug shipment, perhaps?" 
His deceptively long, slim fingers tapped impatiently on a sheaf
of papers.
     Kelain nodded.  "What have you heard, sir?"  The half-elf
did not afford the title of respect to many men, but in his eyes,
this Human had earned it.  
     The Guildmaster's voice was calm and level.  "Five known
couriers and a brothel slave found dead in an alley, throat-cut. 
In our territory, I might add.  Rumors of a massive shipment of
dreamdust intercepted.  Your friend Raak came to me last night
for a drug-specific antidote.  For dreamdust.  This morning,
three longtime addicts destroyed a stall on the wharves because
they couldn't obtain the drug.  Two are dead, the third in the
custody of the City Guard for questioning."  
     He smiled thinly at Kelain for a long moment.  "God damn
it," he shouted, slamming a taut fist down on his desk. 
Inadvertently, the half-elf twitched.  "Will you tell me what the
hell is going on here?" 
     Kelain swallowed.  "I intercepted that shipment,
Guildmaster.  The couriers had been dipping into their own wares,
and I thought them fair game.  But I didn't kill them, I swear. 
And I would have left the drugs where they were, but - "
     Most of the time, Alun was a rather nondescript man.  He was
medium-short, with medium-brown hair, pale grey eyes, and he ran
slightly to pudgy.  He could blend into any crowd with
astonishing ease.  Few people could describe him with any degree
of accuracy five minutes after he walked out of a room.  But when
he rose from the desk, he was no longer a nonentity.  There was
hard tension in his stance, his solid musculature apparent under
the deceptive layer of padding.  He was a coiled spring, a cobra
waiting to strike.  His eyes transfixed the young half-elf like
twin steel blades.  "Couriers are never fair game, Kelain."  His 
voice was quiet and clear.  "You have endangered the Guild by
involving us in this business.  Nothing should have induced you
to take the drugs.  Nothing."
     Kelain spoke one word.  "Quevas."
     It was enough.  The Guildmaster sat back down heavily. 
"Gods help us.  How much?"
     "About three pounds of it."  Kelain replied shortly.  "It's
in Raak's quarters, if you want it."
     Alun whistled quietly through his teeth.  "Enough to addict
a city."  His gaze softened.  "I'm sorry, Kelain.  I didn't
know."
     Kelain was silent for a long time, his face impassive.  He
knew perfectly well what the Guildmaster was apologizing for. 
     Although they had been friends for several decades, he knew
that Alun would almost certainly have killed him if he hadn't
explained.  It was a Guildmaster's duty, first and foremost, to
protect the interests of the Guild.  No matter what it cost him. 
     "So you understand why I took the shipment," Kelain said at
last.  "Anyone controlling that much quevas could take Reshor and
everything in it by putting it in the city's wells."  He forced a
small smile.  "You taught me that Reshor belongs to the Guild.  I
did what I thought best to protect it."
     Soberly, Alun nodded.  "You were right, my friend.  You were
absolutely right.   About this quevas - "
     "I'd rather it be in your hands than in mine."  Kelain gave
him a wan grin.  "I thought it would be safe enough in Raak's
quarters, though."
     The Guildmaster shook his head negatively.  "I'm turning it
over to the Mages' Guild as soon as I can reach them.  It's
rightfully their business, not ours."
     "You're right."  The half-elf nodded, relieved.  "We'll let
them deal with their own renegades, and pray that they get the
bastard before he makes any more."
     Alun rose from his chair.  This time, he wasn't being
menacing.  He extended his hand to Kelain, who gripped it firmly. 
"You pick up the package.  I'll dispatch a messenger to the
Mages' Guild along the way and meet you in the Blood Sport in two
hours."
     "I'll be there."  Kelain turned and left the room with a
swift and silent efficiency, the Guildmaster a few quick strides
behind him.
VIII.


     
     Raak was waiting for him, seated on an oversized chair near
his desk.  "Where's Cheltie?"  He looked at Kelain anxiously.
     The half-elf gave him a wry grin.  "I'm still negotiating. 
All I managed to do was insult a flunky; the real owner won't be
in for a few hours yet.  She's at the Painted Lady, for now."
     "What if someone buys her out?  What then?  She could be
gone the whole night."  Real worry showed in Raak's face.  
     Kelain clapped his friend reassuringly on the back, a blow
that would have felled most Humans.  Luckily, neither of the two
men were quite Human.  "Relax.  I made it clear that I wanted to
buy her contract, and I put a deposit down to reserve her for
you.  They won't lose that kind of money for an evening's profit,
as much as they'd like to have me believe that she's not for
sale."
     Raak groaned.  It was not a nice noise.  "Not for sale? 
Kelain, what if they won't let me buy her?  What will we do
then?"  He rose and began to pace nervously.
     Kelain sighed.  "I'm sorry I ever said that, Raak.  Look, it
was obviously a bargaining trick.  They also told me that Cheltie
was `a favorite of His Lordship's.'"  Kelain imitated the girl's
sing-song voice almost perfectly, and snorted.  "I happen to know
that the Lord Mayor doesn't like girls, even furred ones."
     "And just how did you come by this bit of pertinent
information?"  Raak eyed him suspiciously.  
     As Kelain had hoped, the half-ogre was distracted.  "I was
asked to take out a contract on him, once.  I like to know as
much as possible about a man before I agree to kill him.  It
seems that the fellow who tried to hire me was actually a rather
vindictive ex-lover.  He'd tried his best to blackmail His
Lordship, and when that didn't succeed, he decided to have him
killed."
     "So what did you do?  You obviously didn't kill him."  The
half-ogre gave him a curious look.
     Kelain yawned elaborately.  "Oh, no.  I paid the Mayor a bit
of an informative visit after I found out what was really going
on."  The half-elf's expression was positively angelic.  "And you
know, the son of a kysk hired me.  Offered me quite a bit more
gold, too.  Now, I already knew that my first client was hardly
an upstanding citizen, so I didn't have a single qualm about
killing him."
     Raak shook his head admiringly.  "Kelain, you're a bastard. 
Just the kind of man I want on my side." 
     "I am on your side, Raak.  You can count on that."  The
half-elf's gaze was serious.  "If I can help you, I will.  I
swear it."
     Raak nodded, accepting the truth of what Kelain said.  There
were few that the halfbreed Elf had ever called friend, but his
loyalty to those few was unshakable.  "How is she?"
     "She's fine, Raak.  Try not to worry.  I'm going to get her
for you tonight, I promise."   Kelain moved over to the wide bed
and flipped up a corner of a down-filled quilt to reveal a carved
wooden chest.  "I think I owe you an explanation about what
happened last night, Raak."  
     This isn't going to be easy.  "Your friend Cheltie was
bought out for the evening by a crew of drug runners." 
Judiciously, Kelain did not mention that she had been intended as
part of the shipment.  "I picked her up out of the
alley they left her in.  The couriers wandered into our territory
with a fat caravan and a drunken driver, and I decided to lighten
their load a bit."  
     Raak's face darkened.  "You intercepted a drug shipment?" 
His voice carried overtones of disbelief.  "What in Ashara's name
possessed you to do that?  Does Alun know?"
     Kelain favored his friend with a wry grin.  "A less
charitable fellow would have questioned my motives, if not my
sanity.  To answer your question, I had no idea that they were
runners when I caught them.  And yes, the Guildmaster knows."
     "Why did you take the chest?  I would have left it there." 
The half-ogre's homely, deeply creased brow wrinkled even further
in confusion.  
     In answer, Kelain kicked open the chest.  "Good enough
reason, my friend?"  Inside three wizardlocked, glassteel
cylinders, the scarlet grains whirled and settled.
     "Ye gods."  Raak stared fixedly at the chest, mentally
estimating the volume of its contents.  "What are you going to do
about it?"
     Kelain grinned.  Only someone who knew him well could have
noticed that his usual cockiness was almost entirely absent from
his smile.  "I'm handing it over to Alun, who's handing it to the
Mages' Guild.  Our Guild's well rid of it."
     "There's enough quevas there to addict - "  The half-ogre
did some rapid calculations.  "About sixty thousand people, if
those cylinders are all full."
     "Oh, they're full all right."  Kelain stretched a mocking,
skeletal grin across his aristocratic features.  "We could take
the city while she sleeps, eh, Raak?  Just a breath of this in
the deepest wells...."  He let his voice trail off suggestively,
and chuckled.   
     Raak looked at Kelain tiredly.  "If a man other than you had
said that to me, he would be dead now.  You and I are both too
loyal to the present order to even jest about cutting our own
throats."
     "Having all of this in my hands makes me think, Raak, even
if it doesn't tempt me."  Absently, the half-elf trailed a
delicate, long-fingered hand over the cut crystal surface of the 
unbreakable containers.  His narrow, hawklike face wore a cynical
look.  "Reshor has enough unprofitable addicts in its populace 
already.  Addicts do no business and can't be robbed or made to
pay for protection.  And they tend to compete with Guildmembers
when they get desperate.  However, the Guild tolerates them
because addicts breed dealers, who do pay handsome sums to be
allowed to operate in our territory."  
     The assassin gave a short, bitter laugh.  "The sellers of
mind-fog are the Guild's fat cattle, and addicts their green
fodder.  Aeonor forbid that we should starve our herds."  Kelain
looked down at the crystal cylinders with an intense loathing,
pulling his hand away abruptly as if it had burned him.  "This
stuff is filthy, Raak.  I've seen men die from want of it, as if
it were some wholesome stuff instead of poison."  He shuddered.
     Raak made a rare gesture of sympathy, putting a large, sun-
browned hand on the slender half-elf's shoulder.  "You still
remember Falerna, my friend."  Quiet compassion was in his tone.
     "Aye," Kelain replied bitterly.  "Falerna, and Nabor, and
Darjac."  The names were a litany that Raak suspected were etched
indelibly in Kelain's mind.  "None of them should have died. 
They could have gone to the Guildmaster for help.  Ashara's name,
they could have come to me!  I was their teacher....."  His voice
was tightly controlled, but Raak could hear how close it was to
breaking.  Kelain was silent for a long moment.  
     He finally let out a long sigh.  "It was a waste," he said
flatly.  "Too much talent gone to waste."  He made a cutting
gesture with one hand, signifying the end of the discussion.  
"In a few hours, it'll be dusk.  Mavin should be in by then, and
I can conclude the negotiations.   In the meantime, I've business
to do.  I trust you'll take my advice and stop worrying about her
for now.  She's in good hands, I promise.  The Painted Lady's
known for keeping tight security on their exotics."  Closing the
small but weighty chest, Kelain tucked it carefully under one
arm.
     "I'll be here.  Waiting for you."  Raak settled himself
solidly behind a burnished oak desk that was built to accommodate
his massive frame.  Sprawling shelves of books covered the walls
behind him, and stacks of parchment meticulously covered with
writing in a large but neat hand lay in sheaves on the desk.  It
was an incongruous setting for the burly, blunt-featured ogre,
but it was his preferred domain.   Usually, however, his hands
did not idle nervously with the elegantly plumed quills and ink-
scrawled manuscripts.  Usually, his eyes did not stray repeatedly
to the eastern window.  "I've got enough to keep me busy until
you get back.  I won't even have time to worry."  With feigned
enthusiasm, he picked up a sheaf of papers at random and began to
peruse them.  
     "Raak."  Kelain spoke gently, after a few minutes spent
quietly observing his friend.
     "Eh?"  He looked up.  He had apparently been absorbed in his
manuscript, a pen in one ink-stained hand.
     Kelain chuckled wryly. "Raak, you're holding that upside
down."
     His only response was to blush deeply as Kelain made a
graceful exit.

IX.


     
     The knife flew with deadly precision towards its target. 
Her back was turned, her attention focused entirely on the deeply
slashed practice pell.  The sword and dagger in her hands wove in
intricate patterns in the air as she thrust and parried at an
invisible opponent.   
     "Khai!"  A short, sharp cry split the air as she whirled,
her twin blades a blur of motion.  Her sword bit into the hurled
weapon and sent it clattering in splintered pieces to the tile
floor.  She looked up at him, grinning.  "Hello, Kelain.  It's
nice to see you, too."  Sweating, she tossed an unruly lock of
dark hair out of her eyes and smoothed back her braided leather
headband.  
     Kelain eyed the fragments of the wooden practice dagger with
disapproval.  "Use the flat of the blade, Alea."  He kept his
voice stern, although he was privately pleased at her
accomplishment.  "If the knife had been steel, you would have
spoiled the edge of your sword.  As it is, you're going to have
to carve another practice dagger."  He paused deliberately. 
"Balance it for throwing, and make it out of bollwood."
     She winced, but to her credit, she did not complain.  "I
will, Teacher."  She gave him the half-bow his rank required, and
sheathed her weapons in a single, economical motion.  "Spar with
me?"
     He noted a certain confidence in her voice that had not been
there the day before.  "As you wish."  He strode with an easy
grace to the hanging rack and drew out a set of practice weapons. 
He tossed her two of the flexible, well-oiled lengths of wood. 
"What would you like to practice against?"
     "How about your rapier?"  She looked at him guilelessly, but
Kelain could see the laughter behind her wide brown eyes.  She's
planning something.
     "Live steel?"  He questioned her with a lift of his eyebrow.
     "Why not?  I trust you."  She smiled openly at him, and he
was warmed by her confidence.  "I'm not nearly good enough to be
sure of pulling a blow, so I'll stick to these."  She hefted the
practice weapons thoughtfully, trying their balance. 
     Kelain nodded.  "Well enough."  He caught and held her gaze
firmly.  "Is it a new spell, then?  One that only works on
metal?"
     Alea was one of the few mageborn in the Guild, having come
from an old and powerful family of hearthwitches.  Her talents
were thought to be relatively minor, since she had chosen to
learn the sword instead of her clan's magic.  Still, they could
be turned to a considerable advantage in combat.  Kelain had
taken over her training almost entirely, since he was the only
weapons teacher in the Guild who was also mage-gifted.
     She grinned impishly and shook her head.  "No; we can
practice spells later.  But I do have something to show you." 
She brought the slender lengths of wood into a guarding position. 
"Spar with me?"
     The rapier whispered out of its black leather sheath like a
serpent uncoiling.  Kelain saluted her briefly with it and
attacked.  
     She parried his first feints easily, her mock sword and
dagger whirling in tight circles around her in a defensive
pattern.  Her compact, powerfully built form was poetry in motion
as she danced with him, weaving intricate and deadly patterns in
the air.
     Kelain fought expertly and coolly, assessing her stance and
motions automatically as he thrust and feinted.  His
concentration was intense and total, since he was fully aware 
that any miscalculation on his part might result in an injury to
his student.  Her pattern's good, but I think I see an opening -
there.  He sidestepped and struck forward confidently, intending
to thrust the rapier a hair's breadth past her thigh.
     Instead, his blade met a stout length of wood.  Her dagger
whipped around in a lightning strike down at the rapier, and the
impact bent the well-tempered blade nearly double.  Kelain could
feel the backlash in the handle as he hastily pulled his weapon
away and attempted to dodge several swift and well-timed blows. 
One of them scored lightly on his side before he could ready his
sword.
     "Hold."  Kelain nodded at her, and she pointed her weapons
towards the floor.  He tapped his shoulder in the gesture that
acknowledged a successful hit.  "Good.  Very good.  Have you been
practicing that move?"
     Alea shook her head.  "Only on the pell.  If you'd had a
worse blade, I might have disarmed you, I think."  
     The half-elf looked at her wryly.  "I think you're right.  I
also think you took advantage of the fact that most of my
attention would be taken up in making sure I didn't hurt you."
     Alea tapped her shoulder deliberately, a rueful expression
on her heart-shaped face.  "You've got me.  But I couldn't think
of any other way to beat you."  The hints of a smile were tugging
at the corners of her mouth.  "Didn't you teach me yourself to
use every trick, trap or advantage I could find?"    
     "True.  But I think I will use practice weapons against you
in our next bout.  Then you may try again to disarm me."  
     "It'll be next to impossible with practice weapons.  They
aren't flexible enough."  Alea groaned.  
     Inwardly, Kelain chuckled.  "We shall see."  He allowed
himself to smile at her, a rare concession.  "You did well,
Alea."
     Her face lit up like a dozen candles, transforming her
normally attractive features into something truly special. 
"Thank you, Kelain.  I appreciate your telling me that."  
     For a moment, he couldn't look away from her.  There was
something in her eyes that seemed to invite him to move closer,
and he wanted to lose himself in their depths.   Kelain almost
took a step towards her, and a cold fist closed around his heart. 
She doesn't want a halfbreed assassin.  Don't disgrace yourself
in front of your student.
     He turned and clasped his hands behind his back.  "You're
welcome, Alea."  His voice and manner were perfectly correct. 
"Your next lesson is scheduled two days from now.  Until then,
practice what you have learned."  
     Alea nodded, looking slightly forlorn.  "I'll see you then,
Kelain."  
     The half-elf left the room without further comment.  When
she was sure that he was gone, she spoke aloud.  "Gee, Kelain,
maybe we could have dinner together sometime.  It's a hot day;
why don't we go down to the tavern after the lesson and cool off
with a couple of mugs of ale.  So what are you doing tonight? 
Damn it, it can't be that hard to ask him!"  She slashed angrily
at the leather-covered bars of the practice pell.
     Alea launched into a furious attack routine on the wooden
bars, snapping and spinning the rattan swords with dizzying
speed.  By the time she was done, one of the blades and two of
the practice bars were broken.  
     She contemplated the damage ruefully.  "He'll probably want
bollwood replacements for these too, the bastard.  Thank the gods
I'm more than just a simple hearthwitch, or I'd be carving wood
for the next week."  
     Carefully making sure that there was no one in the hall to
see her, Alea fitted the shattered ends back together and
murmured a hasty High Magick spell of Repatterning.  The pieces
seamed together as if they had never been broken.  Muttering
rudely to herself, Alea left the spacious practice hall for the
tavern below. 
X.


     
     Downstairs, they were betting on one of the events that gave
the Guild-run tavern its name.  Kelain watched as a matched pair
of pit wyrms fought viciously on one of the side stages, their
fury contained by faintly glowing, translucent walls of magickal
energy.  Three wizards concentrated nearby, one to direct each
wyrm and one to hold the wards that prevented them from escaping.
     Although the handlers retained enough control over the wyrms
to direct their fighting strategies, nothing could entirely damp
their ferocity.  Kelain knew that there would probably be a
fourth mage nearby to drop a sleep spell on the valuable beasts
after the fight was over, so that they could be put safely back
in their kennels.  If there was no fourth mage, the handler of
the losing animal would have to drop control and cast the spell
himself, which was a riskier proposition.  
     Kelain paused for a moment to assess the fight with a
professional eye.  The smaller wyrm was a meld of brilliantly 
blued metallic scales and emerald feathers.  His beak had the
rich, pale-amber sheen of burnished gold, and his spurs were the
dull grey of living steel.
     In the past, one of the wyrms' progenitor species had been
made to fight with razors tied onto their natural spurs.  These 
products of genetic engineering were hatched with bones of mages'
metal and bright scythes of living steel projecting from their
clawed feet.  How they could fly was a mystery only mages
understood.  
     When Kelain was still an apprentice, he had cleaned the
stages after such fights and had once had to dispose of the body
of a loser.  He had managed to lift the body of the dead wyrm
only with great difficulty, although it was a small armful for
even the slight half-elf.  It was rare but not unheard of for the
valuable wyrms to be killed in a fight, although a mage always
stood ready with a sleep spell once a clear victor had been
established and bets paid.  Only sometimes, the wyrms were
faster. 
     The larger wyrm in the circle was not as brilliantly
colored, with scales and feathers of a muted orange-brown.  He
was slower to react, though more powerfully built than his
opponent.  Thick cords of muscle were readily visible in his
smooth, whiplike tail, and his wingspan might have been
equivalent to the height of a tall Human.  A few bleeding
scratches showed clearly down his back, dripping a greenish
ichor.  He reared and cawed his defiance in a classic challenge
stance, his massive wings held ready.  
     Unwisely, the smaller beast dived in to attack.  There was a
muffled curse from the blue's handler as both of the larger
wyrm's wings lashed forward to slam into his opponent.  Dazed,
the younger animal failed to dodge the powerful crack of the
orange's thick, scaly tail.  He was thrown hard against the
invisible energy wall, only a few feet from one startled patron's
face.  
     "Sleep'em, Terell!" yelled the blue's handler, as the
victorious wyrm unsheathed his spurs to their full, impressive
length and began to stalk towards his fallen opponent.  There was
a tangible ripple in the air as the spell went off, and the
orange fell heavily where it stood.  Groans, cheers, and other
noises arose from the surrounding tables.  Money changed hands,
the largest share of it going to fee the mages who owned the
wyrms.
     Kelain turned away from the spectacle of the handlers and
their beasts, searching for Alun in the crowd.  The Guildmaster
was sitting unobtrusively at a table near the hearth.  Flames the
color of new butter danced up and down the yellow quathwood logs. 
     Kelain slid gracefully into the seat next to him, setting
the chest down under the table and resting a seemingly casual
foot on it.  "Are we to meet the mages here or in the Guild
proper?"  Kelain asked quietly.  They both knew that he was not
referring to the beast-handlers in the corner, who were mageborn
but not talented enough to be full Guildmembers.  
     Hedgerow wizards, hearthwitches and minorly gifted Talents
who hired out their abilities to the highest bidder were common
enough, but Guild mages were the true masters of Force Arcane.  
Much as the Thieves' Guild of Reshor held a monopoly on the
city's vices, the Mages' Guild jealously guarded the secrets of
their School and shared their spellbooks of High Magick only with
sworn members of their Guild.   
     "The envoy should be here shortly,"  Alun replied, picking
up an earthen pot of ale from the table.  The sides of the clay
cup were cool and sweating, and Kelain found himself tempted by
the rich, tangy odor of the dark brew.  He caught the eye of one
of the serving slaves and nodded meaningfully, indicating the pot
in front of the Guildmaster.  
     The slight, redheaded girl hurried over immediately,
grabbing a rough ceramic mug from her tray.  She placed it
swiftly in front of Kelain and scurried away just as fast, not
stopping to ask for payment.  Only a few folk recognized Alun as
the Guildmaster, which was the way he generally preferred it. 
But Kelain was more than distinctive.  
     Kelain motioned the girl back to the table.  Trembling and
wide-eyed, the slave performed a hasty obeisance.  "C'n I get you
summat more, Master?"  She could not have been older than
fourteen of fifteen, but her body was the legal property of the
tavern, and had undoubtedly been made available to its guests. 
Slavery in Reshor was a harsh reality.
     The half-elf smiled reassuringly at her.  "You forgot your
coin."  He tossed a copper irii piece to the slender girl, who
caught it reflexively and stared down at it.  In her worn, dirty
hands, it shone as brightly as her long auburn hair.
     She looked at the coin disbelievingly.  "Thank you, sir,"
she said in a small voice, and scampered off hurriedly towards
another patron's table.  
     Alun grinned broadly.  "I think the girl was afraid of you,"
he remarked, with a slight emphasis on the last word.
     "Indeed," said Kelain, his Elvish features completely
impassive.  "She didn't seem to notice you at all."
     The Guildmaster chuckled.  "I'll give over swift service in
a tavern to avoid a knife in my back, thank you.  I prefer not to
be recognized."  He took another pull at his ale pot.  "What
tales have the kitchen slaves been spreading about you, Kelain?"
     "The usual.  That I'm a monster who eats babies from their
cradles and tortures maidens for my amusement."  He sighed
deeply, and Alun could hear the true regret beneath his light-
hearted words.  "I suppose I should expect women to fear me, with
death as my profession."  The half-elf lifted his ale pot in a
cynical toast.
     The Guildmaster felt a swift, surprising surge of anger. 
"Not death, Kelain.  Justice.  We never accept contract on an
honest citizen.  Have some respect for yourself, man!"
     Kelain regarded his Guildmaster soberly.  "Have you
forgotten?  I am no man."  He drained his pot in another deep
draught and signaled the slave to bring another.  
     The girl hurried over, dripping tray in hand, ignoring the
loud protests from the table she had been about to serve.  She
placed a mug in front of him and left with a quick, frightened
curtsy.  "Look at her."  Kelain gestured towards the redheaded
girl's rapidly disappearing back.  "She's afraid that I might
want to use her for more than tavern service.  The very thought
of it frightens her."  His voice was bitter with self-hatred.  
     "Do you want to?"  Alun's gaze was piercing.  Kelain shook
his head.  "Then don't trouble yourself over a slavegirl's fancy. 
There's women here who'd be glad enough for your attention. 
They'd boast of it afterward."
     Again, the tall half-elf shook his head.  "Slaves, Alun. 
Slaves who have no choice in the matter, or women who must earn
their coin with the only skills they have.  The thought of
forcing myself on a woman who does not choose me freely makes me
sick."  His slim hand tightened inadvertently on the earthenware
mug.  
     The Guildmaster shrugged.  "As you will."  Kelain suspected
that Alun did not truly understand his revulsion, but said
nothing.  "Why does it trouble you so tonight?  I've always been
sure that someday you would find a woman to share your time with. 
Raak seems to have found a companion, and I must say that I think
you better-favored than he."  
     A sharp sound from the clay pot in Kelain's hand caught
Alun's attention.  It had apparently developed a large crack down
the middle, as the fragile cups sometimes did under accidental
stress.  Expressionless, the half-elf began to mop up the dregs
of spilled ale on the table.  Alun paused, and continued in a
quieter tone.  "I see.  They seem happy together?"
     "They are happy together, Guildmaster.  I am glad for them." 
He finished getting the last of the ale off the table with the
thick linen cloth just as another serving slave, a slim lad,
replaced the pot and napkin.  Like the girl, he hurried off
without a word.  
     Alun turned a penetrating gaze on the young half-elf. 
Although Kelain was physically older than the Human Guildmaster,
his mere century of age marked him as a youth by Elven standards. 
The canny and insightful Human had been a mentor and father
figure to Kelain more than once in his troubled past.  "Glad for
them and sorry for yourself, Kelain?  I sympathize with you
deeply, but you should know that your loneliness is self-imposed. 
You're as silent as your friend Raak around most folk, so few
have ever gotten a chance to look behind the professional
assassin and see the man.  Those of us who have gotten to know
you like and respect you, Kelain.  Keep that in mind."  
     The Guildmaster gave him a small, wry smile.  "I always
prescribe action before self-pity.  I suggest you try talking to
more people and see what happens before you start moping all over
the Guild because your best friend's taken a lover and you have
none."
     There was a sour look on Kelain's face when the Guildmaster
had finished speaking.  "I suppose you're right, Alun, but you
can't understand what it's like to be looked at with fear and
loathing day after day.  You can blend into any crowd; you'd
sooner be taken for a shopkeeper than an assassin.  But I'm a
marked man anywhere I go."  An idle hand stroked the fine,
delicately upswept curves of his ears, then moved thoughtfully
down to the thin lines of his neatly trimmed beard.  "When I go
in disguise, I am accepted as merely another Elf, or Human, or
'Morph for that matter.  People talk freely to me and drink with
me.  But the acceptance of a false face means nothing.  This is
who I am.  This is how I wish to be known."  
     Alun knew that Kelain could probably pass as a full Elf if
not for his long fall of fine, straight black hair and the beard
he had inherited from his Human parent.  On the few occasions
that Kelain had needed to disguise himself as an Elvatuar, he
simply shaved his face and changed his hair color.  Kelain
habitually wore a beard to flaunt his halfbreed status, not
because he was proud of it, but because he refused to hide what
he was.  Despite his profession, Kelain was a fiercely honest man
who preferred to be open in his dealings with others.  
     The Guildmaster took another sip of the dark, tangy ale.  "I
can respect that.  And your deadly reputation has been an asset
to the Guild for years.  You only need appear to quiet a brawl or
convince a merchant to pay our tithes.  When you're in the
tavern, there's never any trouble."  Alun gestured expansively
with the mug in his hand.  "You've gained us a great deal of
revenue with the contracts you've carried out, and you've always
been scrupulous about your clients.  You're much in demand, my
friend.  I must say that your reputation has done the Guild a
great deal of good."
     Kelain snorted.  "It has done me as much harm as good,
Guildmaster, if I cannot drink in our own tavern without sending
women screaming before me."  He took a long drink from the pot in
front of him.  "I'm beginning to wish you'd find another legend
to figurehead the Guild."
     Alun was honestly surprised.  "Truly?  I thought you content
as you were.  You're the Weapons Master of the Guild, and you
have the respect of everyone in your profession for your talents. 
The recruits compete to be allowed into your classes.  You've all
the city's wealthiest begging to hire you for their causes, and
you can pick the contracts that suit you and name your fee in
gold.  I thought you had found all you wanted in the Guild."
     Slowly, the half-elf shook his head.  "Not everything, Alun. 
Not by far."  His emerald eyes, inhumanly bright and clear, were
pensive as he gazed into his mug.  
     Alun looked up in time to see the robed envoy approaching
their table.  "We'll talk later, my friend.  For now, we've
business to do."
     Kelain nodded, his alien eyes still reflected in the dark
cup.  His Human friend and Guildmaster could only wonder what
they saw there that he could not.
XI.
     


     The black-robed figure seated itself across from the pair. 
One pale, long-nailed hand came out of a voluminous sleeve to
lift the heavy hood.  The woman smiled politely, showing teeth
that were only slightly too sharp.  "Greetings, Guildmaster.  I
am here in the name of my Guild.  My name is Tavane."
     Kelain looked up from his drink, affecting a neutral
expression.  He twitched his fingers on the cool, slick surface
of the pot with seeming casualness.  His message to his
Guildmaster, in the silent code of thieves: Black Robe.  Why?  
     Alun glanced down once, with equal casualness, and spoke. 
"Your Order is representing the Guild in this matter?"
     Tavane smiled again, somewhat less politely.  "I am the head
of my Order.  It was deemed wiser by our Guild that we deal with
you directly.  The other Orders know little of the drug."
     Kelain set down the mug and put a hand to his chin,
scratching idly at his neatly trimmed beard.  His fingers danced
with more precision than any outsider could guess as he chased a 
nonexistent itch across his face.  What will they do with it? 
Who made it?  Have they caught him?
     "I assume you will destroy the drug, then?"  Alun questioned
delicately.  Silently, with deft fingers:  Not our problem. 
Leave it alone.
     "It will be reclaimed to Guild-sanctioned use by our Order,
Guildmaster."  She emphasized his title, a subtle reminder that
his domain was quite separate from hers.  "May I have it?"  Her
lips were full and red, and they formed the request sweetly and
reasonably.  However, Alun did not doubt her power to obliterate
them all in a conflagration of black magefire, if she chose to be
unreasonable.  He reminded himself that it was he who had called
this meeting, and forced himself to smile.
     "Of course.  That is why I requested your presence,
Guildlady."  He turned to the half-elf.  "Kelain?"
     "Of course," Kelain echoed smoothly, his foot firmly on the
chest.  The appearance of the black-robed envoy had triggered in
him a feeling of increasing uneasiness, and some pieces of the
puzzle were starting to slide together in his agile mind.  He
decided to risk a rash question.  "What do you know of a man
named Vasht?" he asked, leaning forward over the table.
     If she was startled, it never showed in her expression. 
"Nothing.  Should I?  I hardly find this relevant to the business
at hand.  Guildmaster - " Again, she emphasized the title.  "May
I have the chest?"  Her voice held the chill of an ice serpent's
breath.
     Kelain smiled, deftly bending beneath the covered table to
retrieve the chest.  He ignored Alun's wrathful gaze.  "You know
how to open it?" he asked, again leaning subtly forward and
holding her gaze.  His slim fingers played meaningfully across
the ivory knobs and catches on the front, but this time there was
no hidden message for Alun.
     She stared stonily at him.  "I am certain that the resources
of my Order will be sufficient to the task."  She picked up the
chest and tucked it into one billowing sleeve, where it appeared
to completely vanish.  "Thank you for your courtesy,
Guildmaster."  Pointedly ignoring Kelain, she turned and walked
from the tavern, casting her folded black hood back over her face
as she went out the door.
     "What in the nine Hells were you trying to do?"  Alun
exploded quietly.  "Mages' Guild business is none of our
business!  You had no right to question her.  Were you trying to
scry her mind with witchery?"  His voice was utterly incredulous. 
"Didn't you hear her say she headed the Black Robes?  Your skill
at magecraft is admirable for a thief, but it hardly makes you a
match for a well-trained hedgerow wizard, let alone the head of
an Order!"
     Unbelievably, Kelain laughed.  "I swear I used no magic,
Alun.  Did you notice her Price?"  The Price was a mages' term
for the physical changes that tended to afflict Humans who used
Force Arcane too heavily and too long.  The Price varied from
slight impairment or enhancement of some sense to total genetic
mutation.  It was whispered that in the depths of the Mages'
Guildhouse, monsters lived.
     Alun nodded reluctantly.  "Photophobic.  Sun-sensitive skin
and eyes.  Possibly vampirism, latent or otherwise.  It's the
most common Price for black-robes."
     "Her eyes, Alun.  Her pupils changed visibly each time I did
or said something she reacted to.  She could shield her mind, but
not her eyes.  She reacted to Vasht's name as well as when I
tapped the correct opening sequence on the chest."
     Alun had not risen to his position as master of the
deadliest Guild in Reshor by being slow on the uptake.  "If
you're right, she's involved in this business.  The only question
is, is her Guild involved."  Alun stared at the wiry half-elf for
a long moment.  "If you are right, that is.  She might have
reacted poorly to being questioned, which could explain the eyes. 
If you're wrong, you've managed to offend the Black Robes for
nothing."
     "I'm sure about this one, Alun.  I've had other suspicions,
but this confirms them.  I think the Black Robes are definitely
up to something."
     "But not necessarily the rest of their Guild."  Alun looked
thoughtful.  "Is that possible?  I thought the Orders had been
unified under Guild law."
     Kelain shrugged.  "Who did you originally contact at their
Guild?" he asked.  "I'd bet gold that it was a Black Robe."
     Suspicion was beginning to grow in the Guildmaster's eyes. 
"I'd not bet against you, my friend.  Not even a copper bit." 
The two men exchanged long, worried glances.  "Dissent in the
Mages' Guild is bad business, Kelain.  I don't think we want to
get involved."
     "We're already involved." Kelain stated coolly.  "They know
who returned the drugs.  If mages are involved, they could easily
know who found them and why.  And there's Cheltie."
     A frown furrowed the man's brow.  "True.  How deeply is she
involved in this business?"
     "Well, she wasn't a courier."  Alun looked momentarily
relieved.  "She was cargo."  The Guildmaster's features tightened
again.  "She was supposed to be handed over to a mage named Vasht
as part of the deal.  I don't know if Vasht is a Guild mage, but
if he is, I would wager a fair sum on the color of his robes.  In
any case, he's deeply involved in the drug trade on the wharves."
     Alun groaned, very quietly.  "If Raak wasn't in love with
her, I swear I'd deliver her to this Vasht myself, if it would
keep our Guild out of this mess.  Tavane never mentioned her,
though; so perhaps she's been forgotten."
     Kelain nodded in acknowledgement.  "If we're lucky, the deal
might have been just for the evening.  I hope so, for Raak's
sake.  He's planning to buy her out and give her a job here at
the Blood Sport."  
     Alun groaned again, somewhat less quietly.  "You're bloody
kidding.  If she's in dispute with another Guild, we can't flaunt
her in our tavern."
     "True enough.  She'll have to get a place elsewhere after
she's bought out."  Kelain sipped lightly from his clay mug.
     The Guildmaster's stare was chilling.  "If she lives,
Kelain.  Don't count on it."
     Kelain shrugged, elaborately casual.  "I would say that Raak
will do everything in his power to ensure that, Guildmaster."
     Alun did not let up on the intensity of his gaze.  "And you. 
Will you endanger the Guild for your friend's sake?"
     Again, Kelain shrugged.  "I'll do as I think best for all
concerned, Guildmaster.  As you taught me."
     Their eyes locked and held for a long moment.  "The Guild
first, Kelain.  Remember that."  Alun sighed heavily, looking ten
years older.   "I took Raak into the Guild when he was an
orphaned boy, and raised him to be a respected Guildmember.  I'm
the only father he knows, and I think you know how I feel for
him.  But I am a father to all the Guild as well, and my
responsibility is to protect us all.  Merciful gods help me if I
have to choose."  He massaged his deeply creased forehead with a
strong, brown hand, leaning his elbow on the worn tabletop.  
     Kelain looked sober.  "Alun, I believe you won't have to. 
Raak can keep Cheltie out of harm's way while I smooth things
over with whoever originally bought her, if she's been sold at
all.  Enough gold, and he'll forget a 'Morph concubine."
     The stocky man shook his head, looking infinitely weary.  "I
don't know if I can let you take that risk.  You could endanger
the Guild just by trying to find him.  We can't risk incurring
the enmity of the Black Robes."
     "I'll go renegade, then."  Kelain spoke up instantly. 
Noting the look on the Guildmaster's face, he added, "Not in
truth, but if I am caught, you will have already disowned me from
the Guild and you take no blame.  The risk will be mine alone."
     "There are mages involved.  This can be no deception." 
Alun's tone was deadly serious.  "You're willing to be a
renegade, fair game to your Guild brothers and sisters for the
duration of your task?"
     Slowly, Kelain nodded.  "I swore to help him, Alun.  I
must."
     "I respect your loyalty, Kelain.  But you'll be a tempting
target to those seeking advancement.  You may have to kill some
of them.  Students.  Are you prepared for that?"  Alun regarded
the half-elf assassin levelly. 
     Kelain snorted.  "If I'm not good enough by now to evade an
overambitious apprentice without harming him or her, then I
deserve a knife in the back.   As for the more skilled - " 
Faster than a Human eye could follow, a slim poignard appeared in
his hand, balanced neatly on the tip of one finger.  He gave it a
casual flip, and it reversed effortlessly in the air and smacked
down hilt-first in his palm.  Just as swiftly, the dagger
disappeared into his tunic, with barely a crease to show where it
was hidden.  "They'd best be the ones to worry."  
     Kelain gave his Guildmaster a grim smile.  "I'll try not to
deplete the ranks too sadly, but if they're foolish enough to try
me, they'll die."  He downed the last of his ale in a single
swallow and faced the Guildmaster.  "When shall I be thrown out
of the Guild?"
     "Very shortly, since you've already begun your rather
awkward course of inquiry."  Alun put his empty ale pot down, a
grim look on his face.  "But first, something you might have
missed.  The Guild representative - you noticed her Price?" 
Kelain nodded.  "Think about it.  The Price gets steeper the
longer you pay it.  How long would the head of an Order have been
practicing?  A century or more?  How old did she look?  Perhaps a
quarter-century at the most?"
     The slim half-elf raised a delicately arched eyebrow.  "What
are you saying?"
     "I don't think that was a living woman we were talking to. 
Not anymore.  Robes who pay that Price usually end up among the
Unliving sooner or later."  Alun favored his protege with a
small, wry smile.  "Lich, or queen vampire at the very least, if
she heads her Order.  I hope you know what you're up against."  
     Alun sighed regretfully.  "A Guildmaster has to do many
things for the good of his Guild.  Few of these duties are
pleasant, despite the assumptions of the envious.   What has kept
me alive and Guildmaster these many years is the fact that a
thief skilled enough to kill me and take my place is generally
also wise enough to know that he doesn't want to.  I do the best
I can by my Guild, and I think most of them know it.  I hope they
do."  He looked at Kelain sadly.  "There are few duties which I
could count more unpleasant than this.  Walk with the gods,
Kelain.  Come back to us when you can."  
     Kelain nodded.  "Thank you, Alun.  I will."  They sat in
silence for a few moments, waiting for the crowd to shift nearer
their table.  
     When Alun judged that the moment was right, he stood.  "If
you persist in your folly, you will be outcast from this Guild!" 
His normally calm face was a mask of rage.  "Swear to me that
you'll leave it alone, or you'll leave the protection of the
Guild!"  His gaze was as cold and deadly as only an assassin's
can be.
     Kelain had to remind himself that his friend was only
acting.  He forced himself to rise and give Alun a cruelly
mocking bow.  "As you wish, Guildmaster.  I go."  With the grace
of a dancer, or a trained fighter, he slipped from the booth and
exited the tavern to astonished stares.  
     From a shadowed corner of the tavern, a slim shape clad in
indigo leaned forward into the firelight.   The pure yellow
flames that danced over the quathwood logs on the main hearth
limned his long, pale hair and delicate features in a golden
light.  He looked like an angel, or a young god.  His jerkin was
the deep blue of the night sky over a calm sea, and his tunic of
the palest violet silk.  He was unmistakably an Elf, his tall,
pointed ears adorned proudly with rings of silver.  A chilling
smile crept across his inhumanly perfect features as he listened
to the Guildmaster speak.
     Alun slammed a heavy fist down on the worn tabletop, and the
sound of breaking wood echoed through the tavern.  "Kelain no 
longer stands under the protection of the Guild.  Ashara have
mercy on him.  For I surely shall not."  The Guildmaster spun on
his heel and left the ruined table to the astonished serving
slaves.  He strode angrily toward the stairs that led to the
hidden, underground sanctum of the Guild.
     The Elf's smile grew wider and colder, and he stood. 
Tossing a tarnished copper bit to the frightened serving slave,
Quorl the assassin slipped back into the shadows as he followed
Kelain out of the tavern.

XII.


     
     Kelain ducked hastily into an alleyway, already cursing his
impetuousness.  If only he had been able to delay for a few
hours, he would have had more time to prepare for the hunt that
would doubtless follow.  If he were lucky, it would take a while
for the word to spread that the Weapons Master of the Guild was
now going to be a much easier target.  
     The prestige that could be earned by killing the nearly
legendary half-elvish assassin would be enough to raise any
competent journeyman to master rank, and to gain any full
Guildmember the status of Weapons Master.  Not to mention that by
Guild law, his killer would inherit his protected underground
quarters and possessions.  While Kelain had chosen to stay in his
rather Spartan journeyman's room, his collection of finely
crafted weapons was well known even outside the Guild, and it was
the envy of many.  Kelain snorted in disgust.  He'd be lucky if
he had an hour before every ambitious slayer in or out of the
Guild was hot on his trail.
     That meant he had to work fast.  He didn't dare re-enter the
tavern, for if the Guildmaster were still there, the situation
would be somewhat awkward.  Technically, he was banished from 
Thieves' Guild territory, and Alun might feel compelled to try to
enforce that edict.  
     From his narrow alleyway, he watched the traffic go by while
he pondered, automatically eyeing their garb for richness and
their purses for weight.  He almost missed the tall, lanky boy in
the patched crimson and russet cloak.   "Orin!" he called out
quietly.  
     The youth turned.  "It's you, Elf-man.  What can I do for
you?"  He seemed very self-assured.  
     Kelain marked that he had money, although it was nowhere
visible on him, from the way that he carried himself.  That might
make things a little harder, Kelain thought.  "I need a favor. 
I'll pay."
     A broad grin spread across Orin's boyishly handsome face. 
"You're a regular gold mine, aren't you, Elf?  What's your
favor?"
     "You know the tavern's peacekeeper?"  He indicated the tall,
wood-thatched building.  "He lives upstairs, in the second room
to the right. I need you to get him for me."
     "The ogre?"  The boy chuckled uneasily.  "Right, Elf-man. 
Suppose he doesn't want to be got?  A body might get hurt that
way."
"Don't worry."  Kelain spoke confidently.  "Just tell him who
sent you.  He'll come quietly."
     "What's the deal?  Did you take a thorn out of his foot once
or something?"  The youth's expression was incredulous.  "I
thought the skagger was a fair dim glow."
     Kelain managed not to wince.  "Will you do it?"
     "What's it worth to you?"  
     Kelain reached into his pouch and drew forth a silver orii
piece.  "It's a simple errand, I'd say.  One silver."  A single
orii would buy a night's lodging in a good inn, a meal in the
finest one, or many days of plain provisions.  Kelain considered
it an outrageous overpayment for five minutes of work, but he
didn't want to waste time dickering with the opportunistic wharf
rat.
     Orin laughed brazenly.  "Gimme three of them.  I don't risk
my ass for ten copper."
     Kelain smiled through gritted teeth.  "Two.  I don't have
time to argue."  He dipped again into his pouch and came up with
another round white coin.  
     "Three, Elf-man.  There's got to be a reason you aren't
going in and getting him yourself.  Wanna tell me about it?"
     For a long, satisfying moment Kelain thought about how good
the skinny youth's neck would feel under his hands as it snapped. 
Then he thought about it some more.  Finally, he reconsidered. 
"Three then, but make it fast."  Kelain pulled out another of the
thick coins and looked down regretfully at his fast diminishing
purse.
     Grinning, Orin snatched them from his hand.  "I'll be back,
Elf-man."  
     Kelain snarled quietly, feeling a grudging admiration for
the sharp youth.  "You had better be, my friend.  You had better
be."
     The tavern was not dimly lit, as taverns go, but it took
Orin a moment to adjust his eyes to the colored firelight.  The
main hearth was glowing with the golden flames of quathwood, but
the torches on the walls were of ordinary wood, and there was at
least one spelled globe of blue magelight fixed above the bar.  
     Shadows abounded.  The place was abuzz with hushed voices,
and Orin was able to catch only snatches of the various
conversations as he made his way to the back of the tavern. 
Still, snatches were enough.  The halfbreed had apparently gotten
himself slung out of the Thieves' Guild for some stupid reason,
and now wanted the help of the dim-witted ogre.  For what, Orin
wondered, as he climbed up the sturdy, curving stairwell.  Well,
it was none of his affair.
     When he reached the door that the half-elf had described, he
knocked on it firmly.  "Uh, Kelain sent me."  In a moment the
door had cracked open, and an immensely ugly face peered out. 
This was the first time Orin had actually seen the ogre up close,
and he grew understandably nervous.  "Uh, me friend.  You friend
Kelain want you come with me.  Savvy?"
     Raak's face underwent some interesting contortions, and the
youth blanched.  Actually, the massive half-ogre was trying hard
not to laugh.  He nodded and grunted as dully as he could manage.
     "Down stairs.  Follow me."  Orin began to back down the
hall, never taking his eyes off of the ogre.  "Follow. 
Understand?"  In response, Raak just grunted.  
     Orin made his way gingerly down the twisting stairs, feeling
his way with his feet before he stepped.  Raak didn't bother to
hide his grin; he just made it a large and stupid one.  Watching
the small Human tiptoe backwards down the stairwell was
definitely making his day.  
     Raak wondered briefly why Kelain had sent a messenger.  Then
he thought he knew, and his grin vanished.  He bellowed loudly
and urgently, sending the youth scuttling rapidly ahead of him.  
     Orin made his way out of the tavern and into the dark
alleyway.  The half-ogre followed close behind.  As soon as
Kelain stepped into Orin's sight, the boy saluted him briefly and
vanished into the lengthening shadows.  When Orin was gone, Raak
spoke quietly.  "What kind of trouble are you in?  Why didn't you
come for me yourself?"
     Kelain grimaced.  "Long story, Raak.  I've had to go
renegade to protect the Guild from conflict of interest, at least
until I make sure Cheltie's safe.  There's a problem, and I
suspect the Black Robes are involved.  Certainly some higher-ups
in their Order are.  I need you to get my brown trunk and as many
of my good weapons as you can carry concealed to the Orc's Head
Tavern.  I'll be checking in tonight."
     The Orc's Head was one of the roughest spots in the city. 
It was an old tavern, originally built by a retired adventurer
who used to bring home fresh trophies from the outlands to adorn
the iron spike outside the door.  After some truce had been
achieved in the lowlands between the Humans and the warring
tribes of Orcs, the inn had kept the name but not the custom.  
     Almost a century later, the inn was purchased by a cheerful
Orc merchant who went by the appropriate sobriquet of Grog.  His
method for stopping the not infrequent bar brawls was the least
costly and most envied of all the tavern keepers in Reshor.  He
merely threatened to sing.  Some nights he actually had to make
good his threats, but more often, any patrons who had ever been
treated to Orcish singing in the past rushed in horrified to stop
the fight before Grog had a chance to perform.
     The powerfully built Orc rarely had to resort to violence in
order to stop the brawl, which was a good thing.  As genially
drunk as he always seemed to remain, his strength was said to
almost equal that of the Blood Sport's ogrish but stupid bouncer. 
In truth, he had sent more than one large and argumentative
patron flying, literally, out the door.  
     Grog claimed not to enjoy being violent.  However, being
thrown a dozen feet or more, as he sometimes explained gently to
a potential troublemaker, never hurt anyone.  It was the coming
down that was a wee bit hard on fragile Human bones.
     The half-ogre looked at Kelain in disbelief.  "Gone
renegade.  Checking into the Orc's Head tavern.  What are you
planning on next?" 
     Kelain gave his friend a small, tight smile.  "Raiding the
Mages' Guild.  What else?"
     Raak eyed Kelain suspiciously.  "I hope you're kidding."
     "I wish I was.  Look, you know where all my room traps are. 
Arm them.  I don't want anyone in my quarters while I'm gone."
     Raak shook his huge head.  "I'll do better than that.  I'll
move in for the duration and arm the traps from the inside.  No
one will disturb your room, I promise."  
     "I don't think you want to do that.  You'll be setting
yourself up to face my would-be assassins."
     Raak reached out and clasped one of Kelain's slim, delicate
hands in a massive paw.  "You're being hunted for my sake, my
friend.  This is the least I can do."  He grinned fearsomely. 
"Perhaps I can give one or two of them second thoughts about
hunting you."
     Kelain returned the half-ogre's grip strongly.  "Thank you. 
I'm headed for the Lady to get Cheltie.  I'll take her with me to
the Orc's Head and meet you there.  If I have my trunk, I can
disguise her so that she can go back with you without being
recognized."
     Raak's brow furrowed in concern.  "It's that bad?"
     "Could be.  That's what I'm trying to find out.  If we're
lucky, I can just buy her out of whatever trouble she's mixed up
in.  If we're not - "  Kelain gave a heartfelt sigh.  "Some mages
will have to die.  Hopefully not too many.  I'm betting that the
Mages' Guild itself isn't backing the wholesale manufacture of
quevas, so I'm not too worried.  No one avenges renegades, or
traitors."
     His longtime friend regarded him soberly.  "And if you bet
wrong?  I'd hate to lose you."
     The last of the fading light gleamed off a set of even white
teeth as Kelain flashed him a cocky grin.  "If I'm wrong, I die. 
But I'll be in good company, for if the Mages' Guild has actually
decided to use quevas as a weapon, Aeonor help us all."  The
assassin laughed softly.  "It's been years since my skills have
been seriously challenged, Raak.  This will test me to my
limits."
     "I pray it does not test you beyond them, my friend." 
Raak's homely face showed worry as he pulled his leather purse
from his belt and handed it to Kelain.  "You'll need this to buy
her out, and to keep you going until you can rejoin the Guild.  I
don't suppose Alun could cash your staters now."
     Kelain grimaced.  Any wealth of his that was not in weapons
and magick he generally kept in Guild staters, paper bonds that
had value only when vouched for by the head of a Guild.  Instead
of being comfortably wealthy, he was now a virtual pauper. 
"Thank you for the reminder, my friend.  And thank you for the
purse."
     "No.  Thank you, Kelain."  Raak looked at him seriously. 
His brown eyes were huge and expressive.  "I know you're doing
this for my sake.  I love her, you know.  I know she isn't
perfect, but Cheltie's the only woman ever to accept me and care
for me as I am.  And you're the only man I trust to bring her
back to me safely.  Be careful, please.  For both of your sakes."
     Kelain clapped the tall half-ogre on one brawny shoulder. 
"I promise.  I don't fancy dying any more than the next fellow. 
Less, perhaps, since I've stared Death in the face so many times. 
I'll meet you at the Orc's Head."  
     He turned to go, then hesitated.  "Good luck.  Don't forget
to disarm all the traps before you go in.  Oh, the crossbow in
the privy nearest my room is armed, too; so I suggest you check
it before you step in.  The bolt's only tipped with greased
cloth, but you won't like the results if you trigger it."  
     In the close quarters of the underground Thieves' Guild, its
members often played outrageous practical jokes on one another to
pass the time.  The Guildmaster unofficially turned a blind eye
to the pranks as long as no one was seriously hurt, since he
believed that it helped a thief's wits to have to remain on the
alert.  
     Kelain grinned and melted casually into the shadows.  "Take
care, Raak.  Especially with that privy."
     The ogre's deep, bass chuckle followed him all the way down
the alley.
XIII.


     
     He didn't have either the time or the equipment to work up a
complex disguise, but he did his best with what he had in his
pouches.  Extracting a few lumps of tinted putty and a small,
hollowed kysk horn filled with a swarthy-colored makeup, Kelain
applied these substances to his face and ears with deft and
practiced fingers.  
     He checked his results briefly in a tiny mirror of beaten
silver and turned away satisfied.  He had tried to approximate
his earlier disguise as closely as possible, but without the wig
and the rest of the prosthetics, it was a difficult job.  He only
hoped that he wouldn't have to come too close to the girl he had
spoken to earlier at the Lady.  She was uncomfortably sharp, and
might be inordinately curious if he didn't look like quite the
same person.  
     Kelain decided that he would assume his foppish merchant
character for the negotiation, which could comfortably explain
why he changed hair color and makeup twice in one evening.  He
grinned.  If he were lucky, he might even be able to pass his
long, fine black hair off as an expensive wig and makeup job.  
Hell, Kelain thought, if I actually looked like the skagger I was
disguised as this afternoon, I'd damn well buy a decent-looking
wig.  
     As he slipped the mirror back into one of his more spacious
pouches, his sensitive fingers encountered the inlaid wooden box
that he had been given at the Painted Lady as Cheltie's deposit. 
Kelain briefly considered using the undoubtedly valuable though
illegal goods to negotiate privately with the head of the house,
but he decided against it.  Raak had given him plenty of gold,
and the less complicated this transaction was, the better.  He
fastened the intricately carved staghorn catch on his purse and
started on his way to the inn.
     The entry hall to the Painted Lady had been done with a
lavish but tasteful hand.  Tones of aqua and green predominated
in both the plush carpet and the elaborate velvet hangings and
tapestries on the cream-colored walls.  The faint blue of
magelight washing down on the room from a row of expensive
spelled globes on the arched ceiling completed the impression of
entering an underwater palace.  
     A waft of savor from the delectable-looking appetizer trays
on the bar drifted tantalizingly into the hall, inspiring Kelain
to walk faster.  It had been some time since he had last eaten,
and the cuisine of the Lady was justly famed throughout Reshor.  
     Kelain stepped forward into the main room.  'Morphs and
other exotics of both sexes mingled freely with the mostly Human
clientele, exchanging conversation and flirtatious glances.  A 
stocky Human in a conservatively cut blue jerkin emblazoned with
the Lady's emblem stepped discreetly but firmly in front of him.  
"Can I help you, sir?"  There was a faintly disapproving look on
the man's face.
     Kelain wasn't surprised at the doorkeeper's less than
enthusiastic welcome.  The wiry half-elf was clad in loose,
fighting style trousers and a sleeveless black leather tunic that
showed his tautly muscled chest and arms to their full advantage. 
He looked quite formidable, but hardly formal.
     Kelain smiled politely, turning his hips subtly so that the
man could see the weight of his well-filled purse.  "I'm here to
see Mavin.  Is she in?"
     "She is.  Is she expecting you?"  The sour expression did
not leave the man's face.  
     Kelain grinned easily.  "She should be.  I'm here to buy one
of her girls.  And I do mean buy her.  For good, you know."
     The doorman looked faintly surprised.  "I see.  Please wait
here; I'll bring her down."  He made his way up one of the spiral
staircases to the upper level.  
     Kelain didn't feel like waiting in the entry hall, as lavish
as it was, so he stepped into the main room.  He surveyed the 
nearest silver tray, which was laden with delicacies.  Thick
slices of a rich cream cake decorated with sugared violets vied
for space with chocolate truffle squares so dark they were almost
black, sprinkled with bitterbean shavings and plump redberries. 
Translucent slices of deep blue nightblossom melon covered with
thick clotted cream and honey lay on sticky, pale circles of
layered pastry on the center of the tray.  Kelain was tempted,
but he moved on to look for more substantial food.  
     His patience was quickly rewarded when his nose led him to
the long tray that was sitting on the polished rosewood bar.  It
was laden with savories of the most appetitious sort, and it was
constantly being replenished by tastefully clad serving slaves. 
Small boneless game birds wrapped in lemongrass and stuffed with
pearl-white grain and tiny sour berries steamed deliciously on
the tray.  Chunks of wild chevral swimming in a tart green sauce
were nestled delectably in small boats of puffed pastry.  One
entire section of the tray was devoted to grilled duck breasts,
sliced and artistically fanned, garnished with fresh herbs and
walnuts and a roasted apple-garlic chutney.
     Kelain smiled widely.  This was more like it.  Picking up
one of the carved wooden plates on the bar, he began to collect
and sample the succulent morsels.  He ate neatly and quickly, and
managed to finish his modest repast before the doorman returned.  
"She'll be down when she has time," he told Kelain pointedly, and
sniffed.
     Kelain dipped his deft fingers into Raak's purse and came up
with a silver orii piece.  He flipped it to the stocky Human, who
snatched it out of the air with practiced ease.  "Thank you for
your time, my good man.  I do hope my attire isn't completely
unsuitable, but the swordmaster I hired to teach me just insisted
that I couldn't wear my best robes to learn in."  Kelain giggled,
shifting completely into his `foppish merchant' persona.  "So I
had a copy of the famous gladiator Hargal's costume made for me
to practice in.  You know, the fellow with the simply marvelous
jeweled sword.  I thought that since I had to dress like a
gladiator, I might as well dress like the best."  
     In reality, Kelain did affect the dress of an arena fighter,
primarily because of the freedom of movement it afforded. 
However, he was not quite fashion conscious enough to dress like
any particular one.  He was betting that the doorman was not the
sort to be a regular attender of the pit fights.  "I've just come
from a lesson, you know, and I decided I rather liked the way the
outfit looked on me."  Kelain struck a self-admiring pose for a
moment, then leaned forward confidentially.  "I even bought a
potion from a cleric to make my arms look like a real fighter's. 
Worth every gold, too, even though it'll only last another week
or so."
     The doorman's expression unfroze by a few degrees.   Perhaps
this fellow was foppish and eccentric, but he had clearly
established himself as one of the wealthy elite.  "Perhaps I
could check again with the Madam.  I shall return shortly."  He
began to ascend the second of the twisting spiral staircases with
a slow, dignified walk.
     Below, Kelain smiled wryly at himself.  For once he was glad
that his ogrish friend wasn't here to back him.  Raak would never
have let him live this one down.
     The doorman returned shortly down the elaborately carpeted
stairs, followed by a tall, slim woman with silver-streaked hair. 
She was either in her late twenties, or had paid some cleric a
fair sum to appear that way.  Kelain strongly suspected the
latter.  "What can I do for you?" the madam asked politely.
Kelain gave her his best foppish smile.  "I was simply delighted
with one of your 'Morph girls, and I decided that I just had to
have her.  Her name's Cheltie.  Is she here?"
     Mavin blinked.  "No, she's not here right now.  Have you
bought her out before?"
     Kelain thought fast.  Chances were, Mavin would have checked
out the valuable exotic to the clients personally, and might
recognize who had and had not seen her before.  "No, I met her
last night after the men who bought her out left her all alone in
a perfectly dreadful alleyway.  I, uh, took care of her and saw
to it that she got back safely.  I'm afraid that I've become
simply enchanted with her.  How much for her contract?"
     Mavin remained expressionless, apparently with some effort. 
"She's no longer available.  She's already been spoken for.  We
do have a few other 'Morphs here, however."
     Kelain began to bluster.  "I reserved her with one of your
attendants just this afternoon!  How dare you sell her out from
under my nose!  Tell me who's bought her, and I'll buy her from
him!  I'll pay you twice as much for her contract."  
     The woman's face took on a closed, frightened look.  It was
obvious that she was hiding something that terrified her.  "I'm
terribly sorry for your inconvenience, but I simply can't give
out that information.  Perhaps I could interest you in one of our
other girls?  I'd be glad to check one out to you for the
evening, on the house, of course."
     Kelain had planned to keep complaining, but something
stopped him.  "Weeell," he drawled craftily, "Perhaps I might try
another at that, since you're offering so generously.  Cheltie
was the first 'Morph I've tried, you see.  Are they all as good
as her?"
     Mavin nodded eagerly.  She seemed more relaxed, now that it
was obvious that he wouldn't insist on finding out where Cheltie
had gone.  "Oh, yes, my lord.  'Morphs are quite a special
experience.  There's another Vul I could recommend, if you wish."
     Kelain thought for a moment.  "What about an Urs?  Cheltie
mentioned that she had a badger 'Morph friend.  I might want to
try her."
     The silver-haired woman trembled imperceptibly.  "I'm afraid
that our only badger is taken for the evening.  But I'd highly
recommend Sacha to you for a truly unique experience.  She's one
of our other Vuls, and she's very well trained."
     "But the badger will be here tomorrow?  Perhaps I could come
back then."  Kelain watched closely for her reaction, which was
painfully obvious to the trained assassin.  Mavin was
tremendously frightened and doing her best to conceal it.
     "I'm afraid I can't extend the offer of a complimentary date
to tomorrow evening," Mavin said smoothly.  "If you'd like to try
someone like her, Candi is available for the evening.  She's a
lovely, half-blood wolf 'Morph, voluptuous and not too tall."  
     Kelain could hear a slight tremor in her voice, and marked
the grief that lay beneath it.  So it was Cheltie's friend who
died in the alley.  I thought as much.  His grim suspicions
confirmed, Kelain replied.  "Oh," the disguised half-elf said
easily, "I suppose I'll try the Vul.  If she's as good as
Cheltie, perhaps I'll even buy her.  It's a shame I couldn't get
the one I wanted right away, but I guess it's for the better. 
Maybe I should sample a few more of your 'Morphs before I settle
on buying one."
     Mavin nodded, relieved.  "That's a tremendous idea, my lord. 
We've also some Elvatuar, full and half breed, if you'd like to
try one of those."
     Kelain deliberately refrained from wincing.  "No, I think
I'll take the fox."
     "Very well, sir.  I'll bring Sacha over right away."  The
well-built madam walked purposefully to one corner of the room,
and talked quietly for a few minutes to a fashionably dressed
female Vul.  The fox-woman rose to her feet and began to approach
him.  Staying firmly in his "foppish merchant" character, Kelain
began to preen ostentatiously.
     The fox 'Morph looked at him appraisingly with hard, yellow-
green eyes.  "I hear we have a date, j'yasha.  Do you have a room
here, or are we going out?"
     Kelain forced himself to smile.  "I'm getting a room in
another inn.  We'll go there."  He turned to Mavin.  "Well, thank
you kindly.  I think she'll do just fine.  I'll have her back by
noon tomorrow, of course.  Do you need a deposit on her?"
     "Well, if you would.  Ten gold is the usual deposit for a
first-time customer without sponsoring by a formal creditor." 
Deftly, Mavin took the gold he counted out of his pouch.  Kelain
did not miss the fact that the 'Morph's eyes marked the heft of
his purse with avid eyes, and made a mental note to stay
especially alert.  
     Although thievery was supposedly the exclusive domain of
those who gave fee to his Guild, it was common enough practice
among some whores to quietly lift some extra coin from such
customers as they thought could afford it.  Since businesses of
vice paid dues to the Thieves' Guild already, this was officially
ignored.  Kelain would remain wary.
     "Shall we go?"  He extended his arm to the pretty 'Morph,
who took it possessively.  Together, they exited the inn.
     "So what inn are you staying at?  Don't tell me, it must be
the Dromedary," she said, naming the most expensive inn in
Reshor.  She gave him a look that was so cute she had to have
perfected it in front of a mirror.
     "Afraid not, my pet.  You see, I'm an adventurous sort, as
I'm sure you can tell.  Do you like the gladiator's costume and
the muscles?"  Kelain preened inanely.  "You wouldn't believe
what I paid for them.  Anyway, I thought I'd, you know, dress
kind of rough for awhile and see how the other half lived.  We're
getting a room at the Orc's Head."
     She grimaced.  It was not a pretty expression on a 'Morph
with a long, delicate muzzle and sharply pointed teeth.  "You're
joking," she stated uncertainly.  Kelain shook his head.  "You're
crazy.  You'll be robbed in a second."
     "Not to worry.  I've had training from the best swordmasters
money could buy."  Kelain smiled confidently.  Actually, the
half-elvish assassin had had his instruction from the best
swordmasters that money couldn't buy, as part of his extremely
thorough Thieves' Guild training.  "Shall I hire a wagon for us?"
     Sacha looked at him dubiously.  "That's a good idea." 
Privately, she wondered just how eccentric this man was.  Mavin
had warned her that he might be a bit strange, but this was
ridiculous.  "Do we actually have to spend the night there?"
     Kelain shrugged.  "Nah.  We can go back to the Lady in a few
hours.  Do you want to smoke a stick?"
     "Sure.  You got some?"  Her eyes brightened.
     He leaned closer to her and spoke in hushed tones.  "I got
better than that.  I'll share it with you when we get there." 
Kelain's conscience pricked him more than a little at the idea of
encouraging anyone, even a hard-bitten whore, to use drugs.  
Predictably, his more pragmatic side won over.  If she isn't an
addict already, I'll eat the stuff myself.  And I can't afford to
have her remember me too clearly, he reminded himself. There's
more than one life at stake here.   
     Kelain flagged down a passing kysk-drawn wagon, and it
slowed to a halt beside them.  The two beasts hitched to the
wagon's stiff wooden traces were small for their breed, only
about fifteen feet from nose to tail.  Still, Kelain could see
the corded muscles rippling under their grey, scaly hides as the
six-legged reptiles effortlessly supported the heavy wagon.  They
were about the height of ponies or small horses, with the
characteristically knobby, small-horned heads of most draft kysk. 
     The Mages' Guild had originally bred a dozen or so different
species of the lizards, including the savage war kysk and an
empathically enhanced, intelligent breed that served their chosen
mage masters as steeds and familiars.  However, only a few
species were currently in popular use.  Draft kysk were the most
common, since the incredibly strong though stupid beasts remained
a cheap and effective means of transport.   Few of the war kysk
and fewer of the intelligent mage-steeds were bred nowadays,
since they were thought to be too hard to control.  Certainly,
they were more dangerous.
     The driver was a squat and ugly Human who appeared to be
missing a foot.  It hardly handicapped him in driving the wagon,
though.  "Fee's a copper to get on and five bits a mile.  That's
for each o' ye.  Good enough?"  The man held the reins in one
clenched hand, and Kelain noticed that it had only three fingers. 
     He looked at Sacha and spat noisily over the side of the
wagon.  A grey glob of phlegm plopped disgustingly on the cobbled
stones near the fox-woman's silk-shod feet, looking like an
opened oyster.  Kelain drew back dangerously, and the woman
glared, but the man offered no open comment.  "Are ye getting in,
or wat?" he demanded impatiently.
     The half-elf stared him down with eyes of hard bright
emerald.  "You have dirty habits, driver.  I don't want to see
them while we travel.  Is that clear?"  His voice was quiet and
final.  For just an instant, his soft merchant facade dropped
away to reveal the face of a killer.  
     The driver shuddered.  His instincts told him that this was
not a man to cross.  "Right.  Where ye going?" he asked as the
two of them were climbing into the padded back of the wagon.
     "Orc's Head.  Put us behind it, not by the front way." 
Kelain handed the man two irii.
     "Right enough."  He snapped the reins, which were
ingeniously run through a series of welded steel rings on the
wooden traces.  The kysk felt the familiar signal and began
ambling forward.
     Sacha snorted as loudly as she dared.  "Veterans.  They
think that every 'Morph fought in the damned Wars.  I spent the
Wars as a wealthy mage's mistress, not a soldier.  And I was well
content to be so."
     Kelain was mildly disgusted, but he gave no visible sign of
his emotions.  "Why are you not there still, my lady?"
     The Vul tossed her delicate head.  "He died.  'Morphs killed
him and `freed' me, only to sell me back into slavery when I
wouldn't fight in their army."  She shuddered.  "I hate fighting
and violence.  It's so messy and uncivilized."
     "Let's not talk about that, shall we?"  This time, Kelain
could not restrain a sigh. 
     Sacha nodded readily.  "Okay.  What's your name, anyway?"
     "Trevor Marcellani.   My father's a Merchant Prince of the
Guild."  Kelain used his prepared identity as a rich merchant.  
     Predictably, Sacha was impressed.  "Oooh, a head of the
Merchant's Guild?  And what do you do?"
     Kelain looked slightly abashed.  "Well, I help my father,
sometimes.  I've been on two voyages to Revan."  The near
legendary, faraway desert continent was almost impossible to
reach safely without the most modern of ships and equipment, not
to mention a mage or two on board.  
     The wealthy and powerful Merchant's Guild, which spanned
three continents and was instrumental in the governing of a
number of large cities, had a near-monopoly on the only regular
trade to Revan.  This was a widely known fact.  What was not
widely known was that the Thieves' Guild had a small base on
Revan, in the port city of El Jhazeer.  
     The Guild had some interests in the legitimate merchant
trade, as well as a market for the information that could be
gathered in the city.  So they maintained several of their own
ships in Reshor, albeit with a tacit approval from the Merchants'
Council that was helped by substantial yearly bribes.  Kelain had
actually spent some time at the Revani Guildhouse, and had
learned enough about the desert culture to support his identity
as a member of the Merchant's Guild.  
     Sacha smiled and wrapped her tail around him invitingly. 
"So what's a Merchant Prince like yourself doing in Reshor? 
Other than slumming."
     "I don't think of it as slumming, sweet lady.  I think of it
as an adventure."  The wagon was just pulling up to the back
entrance of the dimly lit tavern.  The noise and reek coming
through the door competed for their immediate attention, neither
quite gaining the upper hand.   
     Sacha wrinkled her black velvet nose.  "Some adventure," she
muttered under her breath.  More audibly, "Shall we go in?" 
Dodging an unidentifiable lump of detritus that came flying out
the door, they made their way into the tavern.
     Kelain wended his way over slumped bodies and spilled beer
to the sturdy but plain-looking bar.  A broadly grinning, homely
man greeted him warmly.  "What'll it be, my friend?"  Oversized
canines protruded fearsomely from his sloping jaw, and the fierce
shock of long, black hair that draped down over his massive
shoulders rivalled a griffon's mane.
     Kelain had seen some exceptional Orc pelts decorating tents
in merc camps now and then, but this one's skin could have hung
there with the best of a soldier's trophies from the wild Orc
tribes.  Grog was carpeted in a coarse black hair that crawled
from the backs of his knuckles to his thick neck.  He was notably
clean-shaven in the facial area, though; which provided an
interesting contrast.  Of course, he was nowhere near as furry as
even a 'Morph quarterbreed, but for a natural humanoid, he was
exceptional.
     "A room, if you please."  Kelain laid six pieces of
tarnished copper on the bar.  The hirsute proprietor scooped them
up with a practiced hand.  
     "I'll give you numba two.  Dat will be anodda foah as a
deposit on de room."  Kelain handed him another stack of coin in
exchange for a rather battered-looking room key and a sputtering
oil lamp.  Grog spoke Common as well as any Human, save for a few
sounds that he had difficulty pronouncing because of his
characteristically Orcish palate.
     Kelain casually tossed an extra coin onto the bar.  "I've
paid a porter to carry in my baggage, so you can send him right
up when he gets here.  Shall we go?"  The last statement was
addressed to his 'Morph companion, who was already looking
slightly faint.  
     They climbed up the ancient staircase to the room that the
proprietor had indicated.  When Kelain opened the door, he heard
a faint groan from his companion.  Apparently, she had never seen
a room in such an inn before.  The bed, if one could call it
that, was a small cot with a ratty-looking bundle of straw
ticking piled haphazardly on top.  The washbasin was a leaky, 
slatted bucket half-full of a brackish substance that might or
might not have been water.  The privy pail looked nearly
identical to the washbasin.  In fact, Kelain was quite certain
that at the room's last inhabitant must have gotten their
functions mixed up at least once.  
     The slender fox 'Morph looked queasy.  "Do we really have to
stay in this dreadful place, Trevor?"  She attempted a smile. 
"I'm sure we'd have a much better time somewhere else."
     Kelain was feeling more than a little disgusted himself, but
he mastered his nausea and replied.  "Think of this as an
adventure, my lady."  She looked unconvinced.  "Besides, once we
light up a stick, you'll never notice the room."  
     At that, her eyes brightened.  "Sounds good to me.  How much
have you got?"
     "Plenty," he said confidently, reaching into his largest
pouch.  It belatedly occurred to him that he didn't actually know
what was in the box, other than some small, random packets of
powder that someone had considered valuable enough to take as a
deposit on the return of an exotic slave.  Still, Kelain felt
confident in assuming that there would be something both
relatively harmless and suitable for loosening the tongue and
blurring the memory.  
     He pulled out the small, beautifully carved chest, and Sacha
watched eagerly as he opened it.  A neat row of tiny packets
containing a fine, reddish-brown dust made up the top layer of
its contents.  Kelain nearly groaned aloud.
     The 'Morph made a small, pleased sound in the back of her
throat.  "Oooh, redhype.  If we do some of that, we'll really be
burning it.  Is there anything else?"
     Kelain's mind was working swiftly.  Redhype?  He had never
heard that name used for the potent combination of quevas and
sweat salt before, probably because the drugs had never been sold
together before.  The fact that it now had a street name told
Kelain a frightening story.  
     Hype, also known as sweat salt for its characteristically
salty taste and its tendency to dehydrate the user, could boost a
person's strength and speed to superhuman proportions for the
space of a few hours.  Quevas allowed the inner resources of mind
and body to be called forth and spent, with the potent side
effect of making the user intensely susceptible to suggestion. 
Both drugs debilitated the user tremendously, depending on how
much the drug-increased abilities were used.  Both drugs made 
their user an unimaginably deadly foe.  The effect of the two
together was frightening to contemplate.  
     Kelain held his breath as he rummaged quickly through the
multiple layers of packets.  Dragonweed, laced heavily with
scarlet grains.  The dried, milky juice of the takh pod, dyed
crimson with the addition of raw quevas.  And finally, grey,
feathery strands of dreamdust, apparently untouched by any of the
deadly red taint.  Carefully, he removed the dust and closed the
box on the rest of the packets.  "You've used redhype before?" 
Kelain kept his voice casual.
     Sacha shook her head.  "No, but I've heard about it from
some friends.  I hear it really makes you fly.  You can do
anything."
     Kelain coughed.  "Maybe we'll do some of that later.  For
now, we can do some dust.  It isn't wrapped on a stick, but we
can breathe the smoke from a dish or something."
     The fox 'Morph prostitute looked interested.  "Raw goods,
huh?  Are you a dealer?"
     He shook his head briefly.  "Do you know any other dealers?" 
Kelain began to dole out the soft lumps of powder onto a battered
clay plate that a former occupant had left in a corner of the
room.
     Sacha shook her head, but Kelain caught a hint of
uncertainty.  Taking a slightly bent black candle from one of the
small silken pouches at his waist, he lit it in the flame of the
oil lamp and touched it to the plate briefly.  He held it under
her muzzle so that she could breathe the potent smoke.  A shame
to waste a mage-blessed spell component on this filth, Kelain
thought, but I'm not exactly in the habit of carrying a smoking-
pot.  
     "Come now."  The half-elf put all of his talents of smooth
persuasion into his words.  "If you know about redhype, you must
know a dealer or two."  He touched the candle to the dish again,
sending another cloud of sweet blue smoke up towards her face.  
     "Well, there's Kai."  The dealer on Delphi pier, Kelain
thought.  He kept listening.  "And Morgan, I guess.  He's a wharf
rat."  Sacha's eyes were half-lidded as she luxuriated in the
smoke.  She opened them and looked at him directly.  "Aren't you
going to have any?"
     Kelain grumbled mentally.  Part of his long and intensive
training as an assassin had included familiarity with poisons and
drugs, from the most common to the obscure, from supposedly
harmless to deadly.  He knew enough about most street drugs to
convince him that there were very few which were entirely
harmless.  
     Dreamdust was notorious for having long-term effects on a
user's memory, which was definitely not something that Kelain
wanted to risk.  Neither a professional assassin nor an even
occasional user of Force Arcane could afford to have his memory
impaired, and Kelain was both.  Luckily, a substantial part of
his training had been devoted to making him immune to many of the
drugs and poisons an assassin might be expected to use.  
     With feigned eagerness, he took the dish in both hands and
pretended to inhale, pushing out his tightly muscled chest
impressively.  Kelain actually breathed as shallowly as possible,
trying to avoid the smoke.  "Here, you can have the rest of this
batch.  I've already had plenty."  Kelain affected a contagious
giggle, and the 'Morph's eyes lit up with avarice.  There had to
be at least an ounce of the grey powder left on the plate.  "So
about Kai and Morgan - do they sell redhype?"
     Her face bathed in pungent pale smoke, Sacha nodded and
giggled hilariously.  "Yes.  They get it from some mage person. 
He sells 'Morphs, too."  Her long tongue swiped out of her muzzle
and scooped up a mound of powder that had not yet been touched by
the flame.
     This was a new one to Kelain.  Although 'Morph slavery had
not been entirely outlawed, very few merchants dared to sell them
regularly.  'Morph clans tended to be militant about challenging
the legality of the capture or enslavement of any of their kind,
necessitating long and expensive battles fought not with swords,
but in the city's courts. 
     Less than a decade ago, the battles were not bloodless. 
During the 'Morph Wars, bands of savage, combat-bred 'Morphs
waged a vicious guerilla warfare against the Mages' Guild for
their rights and freedom.  Innocents were slaughtered in numbers
and cities put to the torch until the powerful Guild finally
capitulated on the issue of 'Morph slavery.  The Merchant's Code
was hastily amended to make it illegal to enslave 'Morphs without
fair judicial cause, and the Mages' Guild placed a general ban on
the making of new 'Morphs for sale.  
     Currently, the only 'Morph slaves were First Breed and
sentenced criminals, of which there were relatively few.  'Morphs
were occasionally captured illegally for private sale, or for
shipping to other continents, where the Merchant's Code did not
rule.  But on Heth Aamon, 'Morph slaves were hard to come by. 
"Is he a slaver, then?"  
     Sacha giggled, apparently finding Kelain's remark unbearably
funny.  "No, he's a mage.  He makes 'Morphs, I think.  The son of
a bitch."  Again, she laughed uncontrollably and took another
lick off the plate.
     Kelain wasn't laughing.  A mage powerful and resourceful
enough to gengineer 'Morphs on his own was no one to interfere
with casually.  Although he certainly wasn't a Guild mage, since
no wizard blood-bonded to the Guild would be making more First
Breed, he would be a foe to reckon with.  
     Sacha's revelations tied in neatly with what Kelain already
knew.  Chances were good that the mage called Vasht, who was
apparently a key supplier of the wharf's drug dealers, had
claimed Cheltie.  Chances were even better that he had made her
in the first place, which would explain why she was a slave. 
Kelain had thought it unlikely that the innocent, ebullient
'Morph girl could have committed any crime serious enough to
warrant judicial slavery.  If she was First Breed, she would
still be legal property.  
     Inwardly, Kelain groaned.  If Cheltie was First Breed, that
would create even more serious problems for her.  If he let the
Mages' Guild deal with the renegade, chances were good that Vasht
and all his works - including Cheltie - would be destroyed.   His
only chance to save her would be to deal with Vasht himself.  
This was hardly an easy task by itself, but it also seemed that
the head of the darkest Order of the Mages' Guild was somehow
involved as well. 
     Kelain had never considered himself a hero.  He was an
assassin and a thief, hardly a moralistic profession.  But his
code of honor and his loyalty to his friends was unshakable.  For
the sake of his friend, and his Guild, he was resolved to do what
he could for Cheltie, no matter what it cost him.  Or anyone
else.
     "What's his name, Sacha?  Is it Vasht?"  Kelain asked with
some urgency, knowing that the 'Morph woman would become
completely incoherent within the hour under the influence of the
drug she was breathing.  He intended to get as much information
as possible out of her before he left her to sleep it off.
     "Vasht.  That's right."  Her words were uncertain,
punctuated by giggles.
     Kelain shook her.  "Are you sure?"  She nodded solemnly. 
"Where could I find him?  Where is Vasht, Sacha?"  
     There was a long pause.  "He always uses wharf rats.  They
sell for him."  She chuckled.  "No one sees Vasht.  He's too busy
playing with his pets.  He makes them all grown up so he doesn't
have to wait.  Cheltie...."  Her voice trailed off and her eyes 
were beginning to glaze.  Too late, Kelain noticed that the dish
was almost empty.
     The half-elf swore.  He should have monitored her intake of
the drug more carefully.  He'd rarely seen anyone ingest the dust
directly, and he had apparently miscalculated its effects.  He
slapped the side of her muzzle sharply, but she hardly blinked. 
"What about Cheltie?  Tell me about Cheltie."  Kelain commanded.
     She stared at him sleepily.  "All grown up.  Always knew a
mage did her.  He's got her now.  Killed Rissa."  A faint giggle. 
"Poor Rissa."  Her yellow eyes closed, and Kelain could get no
more out of her.  
     Still, what he had gotten would have to do.  He wouldn't be 
able to question her in the morning, when the memory-destroying
drugs had worn off.  He didn't want to risk anyone finding out
about his judicious inquiries.
     Kelain checked her pulse with strong, slender fingers at the
base of her russet-furred throat.  He peeled her eyelids back and
passed a candle flame near them to peer at her widely dilated
pupils.  Finally satisfied that the woman had taken no serious
harm from the overdose of the drug, he left her where she lay and
began his methodical study of the room.  
     It did not take him long to determine that the boarded walls
were rough enough for him to climb with ease, and enough slats
and cross-boards supported the ceiling to give him an excellent
footing.  The presence of a trapdoor on the ceiling suggested
either an attic or storage area, either of which might prove
invaluable.
     Kelain reached into his largest belt pouch and removed a
pair of thin, tough gloves of black lizardhide, handling them
delicately.  The rare and valuable pieces were made from the skin
of a creature that lived on almost inaccessible, sheer mountain
cliffsides.  Kelain valued them enormously for their special
properties.  
     When magickally treated and preserved, svath-hide had
thousands of rough, wickedly barbed scales that would bite and
grip hard into any surface they were pressed to.  It took special
training to use the climbing gloves with any degree of skill, as
they had to be placed with the correct amount of directional
pressure to grip and could only be safely removed by mirroring
the same motion that had placed them.  Kelain had owned this
particular pair of gloves for almost three decades, and he had
learned to use them quite well.  Like a great black spider, he
swarmed up the wall and crawled rapidly along the ceiling until
he reached the trapdoor.  
     It was the work of a moment to unlock the simple catch that
held the door shut.  His sensitive fingers tapped over the metal
tumblers with practiced skill, and it opened almost at once.  He
didn't even need to resort to the extensive collection of
lockpicks that he habitually carried in one of his belt pouches. 
He moved silently into the small loft.
     After assessing its contents, Kelain could see why the
innkeeper had not seen fit to put a more costly lock on the
attic.  Stored here were a few extra mattress bundles, some rusty
buckets, a coil of rope, and some moth-eaten and dirty blankets. 
The simple lock, which might sell in a trading store for perhaps
five copper orii, was likely to be the most valuable item here. 
However, profit was not Kelain's current motive.  He tugged the
coil of rope between his hands to check for fray, and when he was
satisfied, he threaded it through a beam and left it there.  The
slender half-elf tossed an extra mattress bundle and two blankets
down the trapdoor, and presently he followed them.
     The 'Morph was still asleep on the floor when he returned. 
Kelain continued his painstaking survey of the room, checking
each board in the floor, walls and ceiling for creaking,
memorizing the location of each object in the room and setting up
a minor obstacle course between the door and his bed.  An
inexperienced assailant in the dark would have a good chance of 
stumbling on the chipped plate, the buckets, the broken chair or
the clay mug that he had carefully arranged on the floor.  The
more serious traps he would set elsewhere, since he had no
intention of actually sleeping in that bed.  These small
precautions would warn but not harm an unskilled attacker.  
     Kelain had no stomach for killing students, although many of
them would not return him the same courtesy.  Fortunately, actual
slayings within the Guild were rare.  Few made it to high rank
without the active support of other ranking members, and most
Guildmembers were aware that assassination always invited
reprisal.  However, in every crop of new trainees, there was
almost always at least one brash and ambitious recruit willing to
try for the coveted title of Weapons Master.  
     Kelain in particular was resented, because he was halfbreed. 
He had an inborn talent for magick, a longer lifespan and swifter
reflexes than any Human could hope for.  The advantages that
allowed him to rapidly outpace most of the Humans in the Guild
also insured that he would be resented by those he surpassed. 
The highly skilled half-elf had had many decades to learn his
craft to perfection, and he had wasted none of these long and
lonely years.  Kelain was hated and feared for his prowess as
much as he was respected for it.
     Kelain had always preferred to frighten rather than kill, if
he could.  A few times, there had been Guild members good enough
to force him to a real fight, and these incidents always scarred
him deeply.  He had once been forced to kill a man whom he had
begun to consider a friend.  Early in his career, he had killed a
young woman who had tried to garrotte him as he slept.  She was a
Human no older than twenty, and no match for him.  She was
skilled enough to surprise him, and his reflexes had done the
rest.  He had barely known her, but her death stung him all the
same.  
     Kelain resolved that there would be no more unnecessary
deaths.  Taking a ball of greased black thread from one of his
endless belt pouches, he began to lay it delicately about the
room and through the broken-paned window.  
     Translucent helmfish scale, the notoriously tough 
alternative to the more fragile and expensive glass, was very
difficult to break.  However, an earlier tenant of the small and
unpleasant room had apparently managed the feat.  Kelain pushed
bits of blanket and straw from the mattress into the hole in a
vain attempt to preserve the fading warmth of the room.  There
was a fireplace of sorts, but he preferred not to use it.  Warmth
was a luxury, but darkness might be a critical ally. 
     The window was well laced by the time he was done.  Kelain
left a long end of thread trailing into the middle of the room. 
He would have a use for it later.  
     As he was finishing his task, a knock and a low grunt
sounded at the door.  Kelain recognized the voice at once and
went to let his friend into the room.
     The half-ogre was stooped under the weight of the heavy
chest and slung leather bag.  With more delicacy than most
observers would have expected, he placed the items in front of
Kelain and grunted again, casting an oblique look at the sleeping
'Morph.  Although the sensitive half-ogre was usually able to
talk in front of nonhumans, it was obvious that he had decided to
be prudently wary.  "We're private here, Raak.  She's dosed out
on dust and won't wake till late tomorrow."  
     Immediately, Raak began to speak, worry and concern in his
face.  "Who is she?  And where's Cheltie?"
     Kelain sighed deeply.  This was not going to be fun.  "She's
not at the Lady.  The madam told me that she'd already been
bought out for good, but she wouldn't tell me who.  She was
scared spitless of something, or more likely someone.  I got this
one to pump her for information."  Kelain paused, not really
wanting to continue.
     "Damn it, man, where is she!"  Uncharacteristically for the
normally gentle half-ogre, real anger suffused his countenance.
     "Do you know anything about a mage named Vasht?  From what I
could get out of this one -"  He indicated the furry form slumped
next to the cot.  "I think he's got her.  Cheltie was originally
part of the shipment that I intercepted, according to the message
she was spelled to speak.  I assumed she'd only been bought out
for the evening, but it looks like I was wrong."  Kelain stopped
and eyed his friend warily.  "Raak, did you know she was First
Breed?"
     "I suspected.  Now I know."  Raak looked serious.  "But it
doesn't change the way I feel about her, Kelain.  She'd never
hurt me, or anyone else for that matter.  I don't think she has
any special powers anyway."  Lines of worry etched themselves
deeply into his homely face.   "I only pray she's safe."
     "I'm sorry."  His apology was heartfelt.  "I should never
have let her out of my sight.  I swear I'll do everything in my
power to find her."  Their eyes locked and held for a long
moment, pale tourmaline to liquid brown.  "Do you think you were
followed?"
     The half-ogre grunted.  "I probably was, but I didn't see
anybody."
     Kelain swore blasphemously.  "Piss of the gods.  A clumsy
student is one thing, but someone who could shadow you might be
trouble."  The lean half-elf wasn't being sarcastic.  Raak had
the rare and useful ability of being frighteningly alert and
aware of his surroundings while presenting the appearance of
being completely dull and oblivious.  Only a superbly skilled
assassin, or one cautious to the point of paranoia, could fail to
underestimate the supposedly stupid half-ogre.  "You'd better go. 
Stop at a few other places before you get back to the Guild. 
It'll help throw them off, if anyone did follow you."
     Raak smiled grimly.  "I'll lead them a wild chase.  Do you
mind awfully losing the chest and bag?  You can keep the
contents, of course."  His roving eyes cast around the room. 
"I'll need to stuff the bag.  How badly do you need this bed?"
     "I hadn't intended on sleeping in it myself, but I did
intend to keep it in the room as a decoy.  I'll be spending most
of my time upstairs."  Kelain pointed at the trapdoor with a slim
finger.  "A fortunate discovery."
     A frown creased Raak's craggy face.  "I'll need some long
pieces of wood to stuff the bag with, so it still looks like I'm
carrying the same load.  Is there anything up there I can use?"
     In reply, Kelain donned his black climbing gloves and moved
easily up the wall, gracefully sliding his lithe form into the
narrow entrance.  After a few minutes of quiet shuffling from
above, parts of another wooden cot bound up in thick rope
appeared on the edge of the trapdoor.  Raak intercepted the
bundle as it was lowered to the floor.  "This will do nicely." 
He grunted, stripping the long poles and slats from the frame
neatly and efficiently.  
     While he worked, Kelain was busy rigging another rope
harness for the heavy chest.  Both chest and bag were drawn up
into the small attic and lowered empty to the floor, where Raak
promptly refilled them with parts of the long-defunct cot.  He
shouldered his burden easily.  "I'll be hiding them near the Pits
as a dead-end for any trailers.   Hopefully, whoever's following
will assume that you'll be coming to pick them up."
     Kelain smiled grimly.  "And they'll watch the hiding place
until the end of the next moon-cycle, if luck is with us.  Good
thinking, my friend."   
     "If luck is with us," Raak echoed.  Lines of worry etched
themselves deeply into his homely face.  "Let's pray that it is." 
He turned and left the small room without another word, knowing
that each moment he stayed was a danger.  
     Kelain began the familiar preparations absently, his mind
racing ahead as he tied knots, wound springs and strung wires in
a dozen intricate and deadly ways.  He would sleep in the well-
protected loft tonight, but not quite yet. 
     Kelain changed his disguise thoroughly and expertly, using
the extensive resources of his thieves' kit.  It didn't take him
long to finish his tasks and depart through the narrow window for
the wharves of Reshor.

XIV.
     


     The trader's dock was all but deserted at this hour.  The
shadows cast by the half-finished, skeletal hulls of ships
wavered uneasily on the white-capped waters.  A fierce wind from
the sea whipped darkened clouds across the round yellow moon.  
     Kelain shivered and drew his cloak closer to his slender
frame.  If he remembered correctly, the entrance was under the
pier, through a narrow crawlway.  If the place still existed at
all.  It had been eighty years and more since Kelain had run with
the pack, and to Humans, that was twice a life's span.  No one
would remember him.  Kelain could only hope that the signs had
not changed.  
     The stair to the lower docks was broken in places and looked
rotted and worm-eaten.  It had been kept this way for years,
mostly to discourage the casual explorer.  Kelain put his feet to
the worn boards with the delicate grace of a padding cat, ready
to shift his weight if the stair gave way.
     The boards were firm beneath his felt-covered feet, despite
their appearance.  Kelain smiled slightly.  Some things, at
least, hadn't changed.  He made his way swiftly down the dark
stairs and passed under the pier.  
     It was utterly black beneath the massive structure, without
even the pale and uncertain light of the cloud-covered moon. 
Kelain paused for a moment.  He focused his eyes hard on the
darkness, straining to see.
     His vision changed, and shapes came into focus, limned in
the faint iridescent glow of heat-traces.  The heavy wooden
pillars that supported the pier were a soft cold white.  The
beach below him was tinged with faint wisps of violet, its
quartzite sands slowly releasing the heat the sun had baked into
them during the day. 
     Kelain walked directly towards a narrow, wedge-shaped gap
between the cement-filled barrels and blocks of quarried stone. 
He crawled cautiously down the dark passageway.  There was a
faint, violet haze at the end of the short tunnel, and as he drew
closer to it, his keen Elvish ears caught the sound of Human
laughter.  He reached the round door and pushed it open
cautiously, pausing and blinking for a moment to re-adjust his
vision.
     The hall was as massive as he had remembered.  It extended
nearly the length of the pier, and it was lavishly if haphazardly
furnished.  Multicolored piles of contrasting carpets and
draperies softened the plain wooden floor and walls in a dozen
places.  Pieces of furniture, beds and chairs and rough-hewn
benches, were arranged randomly in the single, huge room.  They
were mostly worn or broken, although some had been skillfully
mended by small, dexterous hands.  Light and warmth came from the
hearth.  The furnace was made of sheets and pipes of rare and
precious iron that cunningly drew the smoke away from curious
eyes, out to the sea.
     As soon as he entered, they stared at him.  Hands went into
boots and tunics in the familiar gesture, groping for the bits of
sharpened steel or wrapped glass that were their weapons.  "Skeah
dru, rats."  Kelain gave the greeting in the gutter cant common
to wharf rats and thieves.  "I'm one of you."
     One of the older girls looked at him with a jaundiced eye. 
"He's too old to run with the pack." she commented.  Kelain had
the uneasy feeling that she was appraising him in careful detail. 
Her face was narrow and foxlike, and her eyes held the sharp
gleam of feral intelligence.
     "I left eighty years ago.  I was a member of the Stormbow
pack, when it was led by Darokin."  Kelain deliberately kept his
hands still and visible.
     A young boy, no more than six, burst out laughing.  "How
come you're not an old man, then?"  He giggled and nudged his
neighbor with a grimy elbow.  "Old man, old man!"
     He was hushed by another boy, probably his pack leader. 
"He's an Elf, Gelli.  That's why he's not old."  Kelain heard the
whisper clearly.  
     "Elf-blood never ran with the pack."  The girl's voice was
sullen.  "What do you want with us, Elf-blood?"  She was good,
but Kelain saw her subtle signal.  Several of the older rats
crept out of the ring of firelight, undoubtedly for one of the
hidden tunnels that let out behind him.
     Kelain's voice carried a long way in the dim, smoky hall. 
"Please don't make me hurt anyone, chela."  He used the
respectful cant term for a female pack leader.  "I'd rather not
have to.  I swear, I come in peace.  Does no one remember that a
halfbreed was once raised by the pack?"
     Glances were exchanged, and quiet murmurs beyond the
firelight.  The girl looked around the room.  "Anybody know
anything?" she demanded.  No one responded.  "Looks like no one
remembers you, Elf.  How did you find us?"
     Kelain replied, exasperated.  "I told you, I ran with the
pack.  I used to live here."  He had a sudden, chancy
inspiration.  "Look on the wall over there - " He pointed. 
"Behind where that pallet is now.  The Stormbow names are carved
there.  You'll find my name under Darokin's."  If it's still
there, he added mentally.
     The girl signaled curtly, and a teenage boy dressed in a
cast-off merchant's tunic went to look.  "My name is Kelain.  All
I want from you is information."
     Her eyes narrowed.  "That's what we sell, Elf."
     She was interrupted by the boy.  "His name's there, just
like he said."  The straw matting was tugged aside to reveal a
set of old and worn carvings.   
     The pack leader shrugged elaborately.  "What do you want to
know?"
     "A rat named Orin.  I need to find him.  Now."  
     The girl sucked air in through her teeth, sharply.  "That's
tricksy, Elf.  How do I know you won't give him the wrong end of
your dagger when you find him?  Why should I give him to you?"
     Kelain smiled thinly.  "Chela, if I wanted to kill him, he
would already be dead.  I want to offer him a job.  A good job,
with a good price on it, if that's of interest to you.  If he's
not available, I'll hire one of you.  But I've dealt with him
before, and I know him.  Help me find him, in the name of the
Pack."
     "Say the name of the Pack," she challenged.
     Kelain began to recite.  "The name of the Pack is
protection.  We help the youngest and look out for one another. 
The name of the Pack is survival.  We do what we must to live,
and the leader's word is law.  The name of the Pack is strength. 
The one who hurts any of us will face a hundred knives in the
dark."  He finished and looked at her steadily.  "Now, in the
name of the Pack, will you tell me where to find Orin?"
     She nodded slowly.  "He sleeps in the new hideout, behind
the pastry shop on Healer's Row.  You can find him there, if Yros
will let you in.  He's the man who owns the shop."  The girl
cocked her head at him, her eyes gleaming orange with reflected
firelight.  "A word to the wise, Elf.  Yros feeds us and helps us
when we need it.  Never lift from his shop.  Never beg there. 
Yros is a friend of the Pack."
     "I promise, pack leader."  He inclined his head respectfully
towards her.  "May I?" he asked, walking towards the far wall. 
She nodded, though her eyes followed him carefully.  
     Kelain stopped in front of the wall and ran his long,
delicate fingers gently along the crude carvings.  The names were
all there: Daro, Kelain, Refa, Quen, Meredith, Leslif, and a
dozen others.  The lowest names were obscured by other carvings,
but the first six were clearly legible.  For a brief moment,
Kelain looked around the room with the eyes of long memory and
saw other, familiar faces around the fire.
     Kelain had watched all of his Human packmates die or leave
the Pack as they grew too old to risk being caught by the Guard
or by irate citizens.  Kelain had run with them for nearly three
decades before he looked old enough join the Guild. 
     Most Elvatuar and halfbreed Elves aged normally until
puberty, and then began slowing down.  But Kelain had proved an
exception, and an invaluable asset to his pack.  His size and
dexterity made him well suited for entering windows and grates,
and his years of experience were at least as helpful.  He had
even led a pack briefly, until he discovered that leadership was
not his preferred vocation.  
     Kelain had left the Pack for the Guild the first night they
had accepted him, and he had never looked back.  Until now, he
had never had a reason to.  Although he had won the grudging
respect of the Humans in his pack, he had rarely been liked. 
Kelain went into the Guild determined to make a name for himself
and to leave his old life behind.  He had not returned to the
sanctuary beneath the wharves in nearly a century, and the
memories it revived were painful.  
     The half-elf decided to leave, and quickly.  "Thank you,
chela.  Perhaps we will meet again."  She nodded again,
acknowledging him.  
     Kelain took a golden coin from his purse and gave it to her. 
It glinted softly in her soot-smudged hand.  "If anyone comes to
buy news of me, consider it already sold."
     She made the coin vanish into the folds of her faded dress. 
"It's sold, vedru."  Brother rat.  "I'll make sure everybody
knows it."  Their eyes followed him as he turned and walked out
the door.
     Kelain padded swiftly out from under the pier, taking the
ruined stairs two at a time in his haste.
     The journey to Yros' shop was uneventful, and the tumbler
locks on the back gate took only a few moments of Kelain's time
to defeat.  Since there was nothing of any great value to steal
in a pastry shop, the owner apparently took few precautions.  
     Kelain entered the small, fenced lot cautiously.  A
structure that looked like a large storage shed leaned against
the walls of the shop itself.  However, storage sheds rarely had
chimneys that still trailed wisps of smoke into the crisp, cold
night air.  
     Kelain walked over to the shed and opened the door.  Inside,
a dozen pairs of small, bright eyes looked up at him in panic. 
"Skeah dru," he said quickly.  "My name is Kelain, and I'm a
friend.  I'm looking for Orin."
     A tall, lanky figure emerged from behind a pile of tattered
horse blankets, a roughly sharpened length of steel in his hand. 
"Hello, Elf-man.  I didn't recognize you till you started
talking.  You got a different face on."  He yawned, rubbing the
sleep from his dark eyes with a grubby fist.  "You got another
job for me?"  He bent carelessly to tuck his small weapon back 
into his boot.  Behind him, smaller children clustered and peered
out from between his legs.
     "A fair job, with a fair price.  I'll need to speak to you
outside."  
     One of the boys tugged urgently on Orin's tunic.  "Doan go,
chelo.  Maybe he kill you."
     Orin patted the boy's head reassuringly.  "It's all right,
Gren.  I've done deal with him before.  He's skelly."  Warily,
the boy retreated a few steps into the musty darkness of the
shed.  "How'd you find us, Elf-man?"
     "A girl at Shark Wharf told me where you were."  They walked
through the narrow door into the yard, Orin's self-conscious
stride a sharp contrast to Kelain's silent, graceful padding. 
     "They let you in?"  Orin looked at the half-elf with new
respect.
     "I used to live there," Kelain replied shortly.  "I gave
them the Pack oath, and the chela told me where to find you. 
Now, I need your help."
     "What's in it for me this time, Elf-man?"  The canny young
wharf rat settled himself in for a session of serious bargaining.
     "A place in the Guild and personal training for your
apprentice year by the Guild Weapons Master.  That's the deal; no
barter.  Are you interested?"  Kelain kept his voice casual.
     Orin returned him a wary look.  "Of course.  Can you give? 
Last I heard, you got yourself slung out of the Guild."
     Kelain cursed the young rat's cleverness.  Orin had
obviously kept his ears open in the Blood Sport tavern, when
Kelain had sent him in to fetch the ogre.  "I had to leave the
Guild because I can't involve anyone else in what I'm doing.  I'm
going back as soon as the job's over."
     "What if you can't?"  Orin countered.  
     "I can." Kelain spoke confidently.  "But if you think I
can't, I'll give you enough coin to buy you a place instead of
sponsoring you.  Whether I return to the Guild or not, you'll be
in."
     Orin continued to look skeptical.  "What about the other
part of the bargain, Elf-man?  I don't think you can call in a
favor from the Weapons Master if you're out of the Guild."
     In answer, Kelain gave him a frightening smile.  Few men
would describe the slim half-elf as physically imposing at a
casual look, until he chose to be.  His black-clad form was
limned in the silver moonlight, his tightly muscled arms bared to
the night air.  Kelain looked as slender and graceful and deadly
as a cold-forged dagger.  Involuntarily, Orin shivered. 
"Ratling, I am the Guild Weapons Master.  I will train you, if
you help me."
     His eyes brightened, and he licked his lips nervously. 
"That's a good deal, Elf-man.  What do I have to do?"
     "Do you know a mage named Vasht?"  Kelain assumed a more
relaxed pose, leaning casually against the larger building.
     "Yeah.  Worked for him, once.  Not for long; the bastard's a
damn nevvy pervo.  I heard about it just in time, and I skipped
out before he could get around to a closer look at his new toy."
     "Do you think you could get around him again if you had to
go back?"  
     Orin thought for a moment.  "I dunno, Elf-man.  But I guess
I'd try my best."
     Kelain nodded grimly.  "You'll have to, for this job."
     "What do you want with him?  If you want him dead, I'd be
glad to help."  Orin turned and stared at the rough stone wall as
if he were seeing through it, an odd expression on his boyish
face.  "He likes children, the younger the better.  I hear he
snuffs some after he's through.  He usually leaves rats alone if
they say no, because he uses us a lot for other things.  But the
Pack knows he gives gold if you say yes."  He shuddered again. 
"He gives us other things, too.  Drugs, sometimes; when he makes
us deal for him.  I didn't tell you before, but I think he's
gotta be the main source."
     "That's what I thought.  He's been running quevas, and I
think that one of the Orders of the Mages' Guild is in on it." 
     The boy's eyes goggled.  "Elf-man, are you on drugs?  No
one's that crazy."  Kelain lifted an expressive eyebrow, and Orin
relented.  "Well, maybe Vasht's that crazy.  But I can't believe
that a whole Guild is involved.  Especially the Mages' Guild."
     "Just the Black Robes.  And I'm not even sure of that yet." 
He waved a slender, long-fingered hand in a dismissing gesture. 
"In any case, it's not the drugs I'm after.  Vasht has a 'Morph
slave named Cheltie that I want back.  I'll buy her from him if I
can, but if he won't sell, I'll have to take her.  She's a Vul,
and probably First Breed."  Kelain looked at the boy sharply. 
"None of this is to be repeated."
     Orin grinned easily.  "Elf-man, do I look stupid?  I
wouldn't jump our deal."  He sobered again. "It's dangerous stuff
we're playing with here.  Quevas, Guild mages, First Breed.  Jobs
don't get any tougher than this."
     "The price is more than fair."  Kelain's voice was tight.  
     "I didn't say it wasn't.  I just wanted to be sure you knew
what we were getting into."  The young wharf rat's smile was
infectious.  "So when do we start?"
     "Right now.  Can you take me to where Vasht lives?"
"Sure.  He lives down on Wharf and Lamprey, in a big mansion. 
This way."  They moved through the shadows together, the lanky
youth leading them.
     Kelain watched him carefully as they walked down the city
streets.  "Orin."  His tone was commanding, and the boy stopped
and turned.  "Where is your center?"
     Orin stared at him as if he had lost his wits. "What are you
talking about, Elf-man?"
     "Your center.  Your kari.  Where is your physical balance
centered at?"  Kelain folded his arms, looking at the boy
impassively.
     "I don't know what you mean."  Orin shook his head in
puzzlement.  "Hey, I thought you were in a hurry.  Don't you want
to get going?"
     "Not until you learn to walk properly.  You'll never get
past the patrols as you are."
     Orin looked hurt.  "I'm not so bad at sneaking around.  I've
never been caught yet."
     "You've never tried to hide from the Ironclaw Guild before. 
Or didn't you know that they patrol there?"  Kelain's voice was
flat and final. "Now, WHERE IS YOUR CENTER?" 
     Uncharacteristically, he was almost shouting.  As Orin
looked at him blankly, Kelain charged with a sharp cry.  His hand
stopped about a foot away from Orin's midsection, and the
surprised youth fell back and landed hard on the cobbled stones.
     "Hey!  What did you do that for?"  Orin pulled himself up
indignantly, brushing futilely at his begrimed trousers.
     "To show you that you have no balance.  If your center was
where it should be, you wouldn't have fallen."
     Astonishment was beginning to creep across Orin's features. 
"You never touched me, Elf-man, but you knocked me on my ass. 
Are you a wizard?"
     Kelain shook his head.  "I know some hedgerow tricks, but
what I just did has nothing to do with wizardry.  The art of the
assassin is more than just lockpicking and swift slaying.  You
must master yourself before you can hope to master others, and
knowing your center is just the beginning."   Ignoring the boy's
confused look, he pointed to a space in front of him.  "Stand
here.  Mirror everything I do."  Obediently, Orin stepped in
front of him.  "Flex your knees.  Now breathe in, deeply.  Feel
your center."
     Orin struggled valiantly to follow, copying the half-elf's
graceful, flowing motions as best he could.  Finally, he stopped
and looked Kelain squarely in the eye.  "Look, I can move and I
can breathe, but I still don't understand this center thing. 
What does this wizard skag have to do with skedoing, anyway?"
     Kelain sighed deeply.  "I told you, this isn't magick. 
Anyone can learn centering.  Let me show you."  His voice took on
an intense, hypnotic quality.  "Close your eyes.  Breathe in
deeply....one, two, three, four.  Let it out....one, two, three,
four.  Very good.  Just relax."  Slowly, but with immense
strength, Kelain brought his hands together in front of his
chest.  A faint glow seemed to surround them, but it might have
been only a reflection of the moonlight on his pale skin.  He
reached out with his left hand and lightly touched Orin's
forehead.
     The boy jumped as if stung.  "Ow!  Hey, what did you hit me
for?  I feel - "  He shook his head rapidly, as if to clear it. 
"I feel strong.  Real strong.  What did you do to me?"
Kelain wiped a tiny bead of sweat from his brow.  "I gave you
your center.  Tell me, where do you feel the most strong?  Where
does that feeling of being strong come from?"
     Orin considered for a moment.  "Right here, I think."  He
pointed to a spot in the middle of his stomach, just below the
diaphragm.  "Are you sure you're not a wizard, Elf-man?"
     "I'm sure," Kelain said dryly.  "Now, let's run through that
exercise again.  Flex your knees.  Turn.  Now, feel your center."
     The youth assumed his position in front of Kelain, and again
began to copy his complex motions.  This time, there was a
definite improvement.  "Hey, Elf-man, I feel it!  I feel
balanced.  I feel like I ought to be moving lower to the ground. 
Is that right?"
     Kelain permitted himself to smile briefly at his pupil. 
"That's right.  Now, walk down that alley, and don't let me see
you.  Hug the wall."
     Orin began to walk, slowly at first and then with more
confidence.  His tall, lanky form seemed to melt and flow with a
new grace.  Kelain could still see him as he slunk from one patch
of darkness to another, but Kelain doubted that a casual observer
would be able to spot the boy.  
     Moving like a black cloud over the moon, the wiry half-elf
glided quietly over to join him.  "Good.  Remember this lesson
and it will serve you well.  Now, let's go visit a mage."  
     The smile on the boy's face was radiant.  "Thanks, Elf-man,"
he whispered.  The wonder and gratitude on Orin's face made
Kelain feel surprisingly good, and he smiled back silently at his
student.
     They reached Wharf Street in less than half an hour, with
Orin practicing his newfound skills on the way.  Kelain's sharp
eyes marked the street signs as they approached.  "Here's where
the Ironclaw patrols begin," Kelain said quietly.  "No more
practice time.  If we're caught, I want you to run while I
distract the guards.  Meet me at the alley we stopped in, if that
happens."
     "And if you're not there?"
     Kelain grinned, showing even, white teeth.  "If I'm not
there, I'll be dead and the deal's off.  Good enough?"  Orin
nodded.  "Heads up.  We start now."
     The art of skedoing, or walking unseen, was practiced by
thieves and wharf rats everywhere.  Kelain was obviously a master
of that art, and Orin watched admiringly as the half-elf seemed
to vanish behind the slender branches of a tree or a narrow
fence, his body moving and contorting as fluidly as an acrobat's
as he melted into the shadows.  The tall youth did his best to
copy his teacher, bending himself as best he could around corners
and pressing his thinly clad form tightly against the cold stone
walls as they moved closer to their goal.
     A hand pressed down on his shoulder, and he shivered with
more than the cold.  He crouched and turned to see Kelain putting
a finger over his mouth and pointing ahead of them.  Orin
strained to see through the darkness, but he saw nothing.  He
kept silent and waited.
     Three figures were moving down the dimly lit street in the
distance.  They carried no torches, but they moved with the
assurance of the fully sighted.  "Ironclaw," Kelain whispered
directly into Orin's ear.  The name sent another shiver down his
spine.
     Every citizen of Reshor knew that the Ironclaw Guild was a
clan of Specialist 'Morphs, mage-bred and sorcerously enhanced
for their fearsome combat abilities.  Although First Breed were 
hunted without respite in most cities, this group had come to the
Reshor Council after the 'Morph Wars and begged sanctuary in
return for their services in guarding the city.  The Council
members had accepted.  Predictably, the Council had put them to
patrolling the wealthier sections of the city, where their own
homes and children were.  The Ironclaws did their job with
frightening efficiency, and even Kelain's own Guild tended to
avoid the Wharf Street district when they wanted to transact
their brand of business.
     Orin froze, suddenly realizing that the figures were moving
steadily and purposefully towards them.  "Relax.  Begin the
breathing exercise I taught you."  Kelain's voice was barely
audible as he reached into one of his pouches and tossed a few
pinches of an odd-smelling powder in the air.  Orin got a good
whiff of the stuff, which had a sharp, chemical tang that seemed
to dissipate almost immediately in the chill night air.
     We're about to be torn apart by a gang of combat-bred
'Morphs, and he wants to do drugs?  Orin looked at Kelain in
disbelief, but his instincts told him to trust his teacher.  He
started to breathe slowly and regularly, four counts to a breath.
     "Give up your thoughts.  There is no mind, only Center." 
Kelain's bare whisper was insidiously hypnotic in his ear.  Orin 
found that his thoughts were beginning to slow as he continued
breathing regularly.  In and out.  In and out.  He focused his
attention as best he could on his center, blocking out all other
thoughts.
     The three massive 'Morphs passed by them, looking from left
to right as they walked casually down the middle of the street.  
The leader of the patrol was a massive Urs, his bearlike, shaggy
body bulging with an impressive musculature.  His oddly vivid
blue eyes held the sharp gleam of intelligence, belying his
bestial appearance.  The patrol second was an almost equally
large wolf 'Morph who sported a bandolier of daggers down the
front of his leather jerkin.  The thing that followed behind,
nostrils distended and twitching, had scales as well as scabby
pale fur.  Orin didn't get a good look at it, since it tended to
slink through the shadows as much as it could, but its round pink
eyes glowed like smoldering coals in the darkness as it passed.  
     Kelain waited a full five minutes before he nodded at Orin
to indicate that he could start breathing normally.  "What was
that thing?"  Orin whispered, still cowed.
     "Lizard-rat, probably."  Kelain's voice was casual.  "Some
mage made a fair lot of them just before the Wars, and a few
survived.  They're for scouting and surveillance.  They've got an
incredible sense of smell, even if they're not too bright."
     Orin, never a slow learner, looked pensively at Kelain.  "So
that's what the dust was for."
     The half-elf nodded. "Tarva powder.  Numbs the nose right
away.  Neither of us is going to be able to smell anything for
awhile."  Kelain quirked up the side of his mouth in a small, wry
smile.  "Which is more of a blessing that anything else in this
city."
     "Why did you make me breathe like that?"  Orin wanted to
know.
     "Think about it, Orin.  Smell and sight aren't the only
senses they could have used."
     Orin's brow wrinkled briefly.  "I don't get it, Elf-man."
     "Half the Ironclaw Guild is First Breed.  I'd bet that at
least one of them was wizardsighted, and a still mind is harder
to sense."  Kelain stood and stretched, easing the knots of
tension in his hard, wiry body.  "Which way?"
     Orin looked around and pointed.  "Down there, over by
Lamprey Street.  His place is the three-level merchanthouse with
the courtyard."  The two thieves strode into the shadows, side by
side.  They walked silently and companionably forward, with
Kelain taking the lead when the shadows grew narrower.  
     "There."  Orin's voice was a whisper as he pointed
unerringly towards one of the elaborate mansions that lined the
block.  "That one's it."  Expensive and fashionable, spelled
glowglobes were fastened to several posts near the awning that
covered the entrance to the mansion.  They spilled an eerie blue
light onto the smoothly paved street.
     Kelain flashed Orin the ghost of a smile.  "Stay here and
watch.  You might learn something."  He glided away smoothly, his
feet seeming to move without touching the ground.  The slender
half-elf disappeared swiftly around the side of the house.  He
reappeared as a blot of inky darkness inching its way up the
wall.  Orin whistled softly through his teeth in amazement and
admiration as Kelain climbed easily up to a barred window and
appeared to vanish.  
     Orin looked carefully, straining his eyes to catch the least
hint of movement.  He finally realized that the iron bars of the
window were casting a rather strange shadow, and when he looked 
more closely, he could just barely make out what had to be a tall
man wrapped in a black cloak clinging just below the projecting
ledge.
     The figure started to move, crawling slowly over to the
other window.  To an observer, Kelain might have appeared to be
the shadow of a tree branch moving in the wind.  In fact, Orin
was not entirely sure that he had not lost sight of his mentor
altogether.  Kelain settled himself next to yet another window,
and again clung invisibly beneath it for a few moments.  He
repeated this process with all of the windows that were visible
from the street before Orin lost sight of him altogether.
     About twenty minutes later, Orin felt a light tap on his
shoulder.  He gasped and spun around, his heart pounding fiercely
in his small chest.  Kelain stood there, grinning.  "You scared
me!"  Orin hissed reproachfully, trying to slow his rapid
heartbeat.
     "You shouldn't have been surprised."  Kelain's voice was
stern but not harsh.  "Keep your eyes and ears open and your
other senses alert, and you won't be.  Next time I surprise you,
it'll be more than a tap you feel."
     Orin groaned.  "I haven't got any other senses.  I'm not
wizardsighted!"
     Kelain only chuckled.  "I keep telling you, it isn't
wizardry.  Learn to reach out with your center, and you can
always feel someone sneaking up behind you."  He grinned at his
pupil.  "But that lesson can wait for another day.  Tonight, go
to Vasht.  Learn what you can about Cheltie.  Tomorrow at the
third bell, meet me in the alleyway."
     Orin nodded.  "It's a deal, Elf-man."  He stuck out his
hand.
     Kelain winced.  "I'm adding another condition to the deal,
ratling."
     "What's that?"  Orin looked at him warily.
     He smiled wryly.  "Don't call me Elf-man.  You can call me
Kelain, or Teacher.  Understand?"
     "Got it, Teach."  There was an infectious twinkle in his eye
and a cocky grin on his boyish face.  "Uh, Kelain."
     Kelain tried to glare at the impertinent youth, but somehow,
he could only manage a mildly reproachful look.  He grasped
Orin's hand briefly.  "Tomorrow in the alley."
     "You got it, Teacher.  I'll see you there."
     Orin started walking boldly towards the house.  By the time
he thought to look over his shoulder, Kelain was long gone.

XV.


     
     A single knock on the heavy, crossbarred door resounded
loudly in the underground corridor.  "Alun?  It's me.  Can I come
in?"  Her normally calm and level voice held a note of urgency.
     Alea heard the distinctive creak of the old, wool-stuffed
chair that the Guildmaster kept behind his desk.  It was one of
the few luxuries he allowed himself in the small but functional
office.   "Just a minute."  Light footsteps moved closer to the
door, and it swung open.  "What can I do for you, Alea?"  The
short, stocky Human settled himself back into his chair and
invited her to seat herself with a broad gesture.   
     She remained standing.  "I'm worried about Kelain," she said
flatly.  "There's a freelancer after him, and from what I've
heard, he's pretty good.  He wants to be the Guild Weapons
Master."
     "Who is it?"  The Guildmaster's face revealed nothing.
     "Quorl Freewind.  He's an Elf, if that matters."
     Alun sighed.  "It doesn't, but I know the man; and he's
definitely trouble.  He has the face of a god and the morals of a
dog, with the temper of a devil thrown in for good measure."  He
looked at her soberly.  "There isn't a thing we can do about it,
Alea.  Kelain's gone renegade."
     She fixed him with a penetrating stare.  "So I heard.  But I
don't believe that for a minute, Alun.  The Guild is his life." 
     "You're right,"  Alun conceded with a sigh.  "He's involved
in something dangerous right now, and he chose to go his own way
for awhile to protect the Guild.  He'll come back to us when he
can."  The Guildmaster looked at her searchingly, wondering how
much she already knew, and how much he could wisely tell her.
     "Something to do with my Guild, perhaps?"  She tapped her
fingers lightly on his desk.
     Alun winced.  Alea was the Mages' Guild liaison, sworn to
keep faith with both of her Guilds, and to keep relations smooth
between them.  She had never hesitated to put her special talents
at the Guildmaster's disposal, sometimes even before he needed to
ask her.  But Alun had never doubted that Alea had loyalties that
were older, and perhaps more binding, than her oath to his Guild.
"Something like that."  His wry expression told her that she had
hit on the truth.
     "The Black Robes are up to something, aren't they?"  She
confronted him directly.
     He decided to be open with her.  "That's apparently what
Kelain thinks, and I'm starting to believe him.  What have you
heard?"
     "That the Head of the Order's been trying to revive the
science of making illegal 'Morphs, and that she's buying the
knowledge from a renegade mage with drugs.  We can't be sure at
this stage, but that's the rumor.  Are we right?"  
     After the 'Morph Wars, all mages blood-bonded to the Guild
had consented to have their minds wiped clean of the knowledge of
how the complex, animal-human crosses were engineered.  None of
them wanted any more of the powerful and unpredictable First
Breed in existence, and they were willing to go to almost any
lengths to insure that.  
     Only mages from Schools that had no link to formal Guild
magick, such as shamans, hedgerow wizards and hearthwitches, were
unaffected by the great Unpatterning.  However, few of them had
ever been interested in the scholar's Path of studying and
altering living creatures.  Only full mages of the Guild School
would have ever had knowledge of the 'Morph's creation, and only
a renegade who had never had a link to the Guild itself could
have retained it. 
     Alun nodded slowly.  "That would make sense."  Quickly, he
told her what he knew.  "But none of that is our business. 
Kelain's only involved because of a 'Morph slave.  She's a Vul,
formerly owned by the Painted Lady, and her name is Cheltie.  His
best friend's in love with her.  She was apparently part of a
drug shipment that was supposed to go to a mage named Vasht."
     Alea gave a visible start at the name.  "Vasht?  The Mages'
Guild has been wanting to take him down for years, but we never
had enough of an excuse.  He's a renegade; his teacher was a
disaffected Black Robe who retired off-continent.  He got his
revenge by never registering his students, so there would be at
least a few full mages out there with no possible Guild controls
on them.  Kind of like unleashing a Summoning with no Binding,
but a little more permanent."  
     Alea grimaced.  "Vasht was the worst of that crew.  We can't
read him and we can't discipline him because he's not blood-
bonded.  He doesn't tap into the Guild overmind to set his
spells, so no one's completely sure of what he's doing.  He's a
damn pedophile; that much we know.  He's got extensive
connections with the wharf rat gangs.  Rumor has it that lately
he's been trading in 'Morphs as well as drugs -"  
     She shut her mouth and opened it again.  "Oh, Goddess.  He's
the renegade Tavane's been dealing with.  He's been giving her
back the spells for creating First Breed in exchange for the
drugs that she can make.  I heard there was quevas involved." 
She let the statement hang delicately in the air, not quite a
question.
     "You heard right."  Alun crossed his arms over his chest and
exhaled deeply.  "And Kelain's in the middle of this, gods help
him."
     "I don't think we can afford to wait for the gods, Alun.  I
have a feeling they aren't planning to intervene."  There was a
determined look on her face.
     Alun leaned forward in his chair.  "Alea, he's gone
renegade.  We can't help him."  He looked piercingly at her for a
long moment, and then his face softened.  "Look, Kelain can take
care of himself.  He's one of the best fighters on the continent. 
He's the Weapons Master of our Guild, for Ashara's sake."
     "And he's up against an assassin, a renegade mage and the
head of an Order."  Alea shot back at him.  "He needs help.  And
I intend to give it to him, even if I have to go renegade myself
to do it."
     Alun looked at her with frank disbelief.  "You can't. 
You're the Guild liaison."
     "Try me, Guildmaster."  Her stare was challenging.
     Alun sighed.  "Never mind, Alea.  I can see you would."  His
gaze was thoughtful.  "Are you on orders from the Mages' Guild? 
If so, I understand and I'll do my best to cooperate.  But I hope
you realize that I can't have any member of my Guild helping a
renegade.  And as far as the rest of the Guild is concerned,
you're fully one of us."  
     At Alea's specific request, no one save Alun was aware of
the fact that she was the Mages' Guild liaison.  She felt
strongly that she could do a better job if people felt free to
speak of how they felt about mages and the Mages' Guild when she
was around.  
     "No."  Alea looked at him frankly.  "The Council told me the
same story you did.  The robes don't want anyone to move against
Vasht until it's official, and they don't dare accuse Tavane yet. 
It's just a matter of time until they get proof, but until then,
the word is to stay clear."
     The Guildmaster noted that she used the popular and mildly
derogatory slang term for Guild mages when she spoke.  Popular,
that is, among anyone but the mageborn.  Along with the way she
walked and carried herself, it told him a lot about where her
allegiances lay.  She thinks of herself as a fighter or a thief,
not a mage.  He filed the bit of information away for future
reference.  "Alea, this is a delicate situation.  I don't claim
full jurisdiction over you because I respect the needs of your
other Guild.  I suspect that Guildmaster Ardath feels the same
way.  But according to your own report, you're being ordered by
both of your Guildmasters to stay put.  I hate to put it this
way, but are you planning to disobey?"
     Alea sighed heavily.  "I suppose I could lie to you, but
that would serve no purpose.  Yes, Guildmaster.  I'm going to
help Kelain in any way I can.  I can't let him get himself
killed."
     Alun had not risen to the position that he had by being a
poor judge of people.  "Do you care so much for him, then?"  He
spoke quietly, but his voice echoed in the still room.
     "Gods help me, Alun, I think I love him."  She looked away
abruptly.
     "Have you told him?"  Alun asked her the question gently,
already knowing the answer.  
     "No."  She shook her head, her eyes downcast.  "I can't.  I
don't think it would matter to him."  
     "I think it would."  His voice was firm and confident,
startling her into meeting his gaze.  "Try it and see."  
     "It isn't that easy, damn it!"  She burst out angrily. 
"He's always so damn cold and formal when I even hint that I
might want to talk to him about something besides swordplay and
trap-springing.  I haven't even been able to ask him out for a
drink, let alone tell him how I feel."  
     Alea gave a small, bitter laugh.  "It's kind of funny,
actually.  I'm a trained assassin and a ranking Guild mage.  I
can face up to almost any challenge with a sword and a spell in
hand, but I can't even work up enough nerve to invite someone to
dinner."
     The Guildmaster nodded sympathetically.  "He's not cold,
Alea, believe me.  And I don't think he's indifferent to you.  I
think he's very much afraid of being rejected."  
     "But I wouldn't reject him!"  She almost cried out in
frustration.
     "He doesn't know that, Alea.  He's a good man, but he's been
hurt too many times by people who can't see past his heritage. 
All he's ever known in his life has been hatred and prejudice."  
There was a regretful look on his kindly, careworn face.  "Give
him a chance before you judge him, Alea.  For his sake as well as
your own."
     Her expression hardened.  "I'm planning to give him a
chance, Guildmaster.  A chance to survive.  Are you going to
throw me out of the Guild for it?"
     Alun shook his head, a carefully bemused expression on his
face.  "Now, why would I do that, Alea?  I can't think of a
single reason, especially since you didn't have anything to
report."  He smiled casually at her.  "You've been working pretty
hard for us lately.  Why don't you take a vacation?  Say, two or
three days.  How does that sound?"
     Alea let out her breath in a sigh of relief.  "Thank you,
Alun.  Thank you very much.  Yes, I think I'll take a vacation. 
If you need to find me, I'll be stopping in at the Mages' Guild." 
Her tone was pointed.  "After I take care of a few things, that
is."  She started to leave, then hesitated.  "Alun?  You'll keep
this in confidence?"
     He nodded reassuringly.  "In confidence, Alea.  I promise
you."
     She turned and left the small room.  Behind her, the
Guildmaster smiled into the empty air.
XVI.


     
     Kelain stopped in a convenient alley to change his disguise,
and it was a casually dressed Trevor Marcellani who walked into
his room at the Orc's Head.  He took a brief moment to check the
pulse of the sleeping 'Morph, who was still deeply unconscious
from the effects of the drug.  
     The assassin considered leaving her on the small, straw-
palleted bed as a decoy, but he decided against it.  He pushed
her limp form under the wooden frame of the cot, and covered the
bed over with the largest of the rough, brown homespun blankets. 
It might not be the most comfortable sleep that she had ever had,
but this way, there was less chance that she would become an
accidental victim.
     Kelain walked over to the window and took the dangling end
of the carefully strung black thread in his teeth.  It took only
a moment for him to don his gloves and climb to the attic loft,
where he fastened the thread carefully to an overhanging beam. 
     Selecting several items from his disguise kit, he descended
once more to the ground and placed them carefully on the
blanketed bed.  A lifelike, flexible mask, a coil of artfully
arranged wire, and several pillows and rags for bulk completed
the illusion that a half-elvish assassin slept peacefully on the
small cot.  
     Kelain smiled in satisfaction and retired to the tiny loft
for a few hours of much-needed rest.  Morning would be soon
enough to continue his pursuit.  He curled up under his cloak
like a great black cat, and quickly fell into a light slumber.
     Kelain was awakened sharply by a faint jingling sound.  He
came out of sleep all at once, like an animal does, or a trained
assassin.  He listened.  The small silver bell on the thread was
swinging frantically, giving off a barely audible tinkling.  He
silenced the bell and automatically reached for his weapons,
checking them for readiness.
     He heard a woman's voice calling his name.  It seemed
familiar to his heightened senses, but the sound was distorted
through the thick boards of the ceiling.  Kelain eased the
trapdoor open silently on oiled hinges.
     She was entering through the broken window.  He marked that
although she was not clumsy, she was no expert thief.  She looked
around the room and saw the sleeping figure on the bed.  She
walked over to it purposefully.  "Kelain?"
     He swooped down on her, his black cloak billowing out like
bat's wings.  His weight bore her to the ground, and he was
instantly holding her wrists in a stunning nerve grip, his
strongly muscled legs scissoring around her body and pinning it. 
Kelain expected to hear the clatter of a dropped weapon, but
there was none.
     She cried out, softly; and he recognized her.  "Alea."  Her
name was bitter in his mouth.  
     Kelain had begun to think of the young hearthwitch as a
friend, since she was one of the few Guildmembers who did more
than tolerate his presence.  Alea had always seemed to genuinely
enjoy his company, unlike many of his other students.  The
thought that she had come to kill him was another sharp dagger in
his already scarred heart.  "Why did you want to kill me?"
     Alea shook her head violently.  "You don't understand." 
There was a tremor in her voice.  "I didn't come to kill you.  I
came to warn you.  You're in serious danger."  She looked up at
him, a hurt look in her wide brown eyes.  "I may not be a master
assassin yet, but you taught me enough to know that you don't
call out someone's name if you're planning to kill them while
they sleep.  I was only trying to help you.  I came in through
the window because I didn't want anyone to see me here."
     His nimble fingers had already discovered that the only
weapon she carried was a blunt, two-tined eating dagger. 
Ashamed, he released her hands.  "I'm sorry."  Alea inhaled
deeply, and he became suddenly, intensely aware of her warm, ripe
body under his.  
     She reached up and touched his cheek lightly.  "It's all
right, Kelain.  I know you've been through a lot."  There was a
depth of compassion and caring in her tone that the assassin
seldom heard, and Kelain found himself wanting to press her to
him even more closely.  He closed his eyes, intensely aware of
the gentle warmth of her hand against his face.  A shudder passed
through the taut length of his lithe, wiry frame.
     A sharp pang of guilt intruded, and Kelain froze.  He had no
right to touch her this way.  She had not invited him.  No woman
would invite him, a halfbreed assassin.  Kelain rolled away from
her as quickly as he could, stung by deep self-loathing.  "I'm
sorry, Alea.  I didn't mean to hurt you."  His tone was formal.
     They rose to their feet at the same time.  The look of pain
on Alea's face made Kelain want more than ever to hold her, but
he kept his arms rigidly at his sides.  "No, I'm all right," she
said in a small voice.  
     "Are you certain?"  She didn't look injured, but there was a
deep hurt in her eyes that it pained him to see.
     She didn't answer him.  "Kelain, you're in serious danger. 
Quorl saw you leave the tavern, and he's been following you and
Raak ever since.  I've been Scrying after him ever since I saw
him follow you out.  He's bought a stealth spell from a wizard to
keep you from spotting him."
     "Piss of the gods."  Kelain swore morosely.  The freelance
assassin Elf was a bastard, but he was known to be good.  "Do you
know who cast it?"
     "His name's Tanner.  He's a hedgerow wizard, and he's got a
shop on Potter's Street.  I'd recognize his work anywhere; he's
been tagged by the Guild twice for doing shady work.  I'm
surprised he's still in business."  She looked down at her feet,
not meeting his eyes.  "I'll put a warding on the room, if you
want.  No one should be able to Scry through that, and you'll
have a warning if an unexpected visitor shows up."
     "That's a major magick; I didn't know you could work one." 
Kelain looked bemused.  "You'd do that for me?  Or were you
planning to ask a fair price in return?"  It was difficult for
the cynical half-elf to believe that anyone would offer to help
him simply as an act of friendship.
     He never noticed the look on her downcast face.  "No price,
Kelain.  I'll do it and go."  Alea went to the window and began
to gesture.  While she walked around the room, she whispered
sibilant words that slid over her tongue like serpents, syllables
that could only be half-heard and forgotten.  
     When she was finished, she turned to him.  Her eyes were
unnaturally bright.  "Good luck, Kelain.  I hope I see you
again."  Alea turned to go, her hand on the half-opened door. 
"I'll cast a glamour on my face when I leave, so you don't have
to worry about anyone trailing me."  
     Kelain tried to stop her.  "Alea.  Thank you for your help. 
I didn't mean to insult you."  He wanted to explain more to her. 
He wanted to tell her how hard it was to live with every hand
against you, to have to weigh every offer of friendship against
the risk of a dagger in the back.  He wanted to tell her how
afraid he was to believe that she might have offered to help
because she cared.  He hesitated for a long moment, trying to
think of the right words to say.
     He waited too long.  "It's all right, Kelain.  Good-bye." 
Alea strode quickly out of the dimly lit room.  Outside, the moon
made distorted faces in the thick, translucent panes of the
window.
     Kelain sat down heavily on the blanketed cot, his head in
his hands.  After a while, he climbed slowly up to the small loft
and lay down on his pallet of straw.  He spent an uneasy night
wondering whether the brightness he had seen in her eyes was
magelight, or unshed tears.

XVII.


     
     Kelain awakened in darkness.  His eyes automatically began
to adjust, seeking heat-traces instead of clear shapes; but he
shook his head and blinked to clear his vision.  The half-elf
spent a moment or two checking and adjusting his wig and the
malleable putty on his face with practiced and dexterous hands. 
Satisfied, he rose to his feet in the narrow attic. 
     Kelain opened the trapdoor and leaped lightly down to the
floor.  He retrieved his mask from the bundle of rags that it was
curled around, and tucked it carefully in a spare compartment of
his backpack.  Kelain wasn't planning to disguise anyone as his
double anytime in the near future, but he never knew when he
might need a change of plans.  Besides, good life masks were both
expensive and tedious to make; and if his current hidey-hole was
discovered and looted, he didn't want to have to craft another.
He had already stowed most of his important gear in his pack, and
the rest was as well hidden as he could manage, behind a loose
board in the attic.  With luck, no one would find it, even if
they searched the room.
     Kelain pulled the thick blanket off of the cot and bent to
examine the sleeping girl.   She was still unconscious, her 
breathing deep and regular.  He rolled her out from under the bed
and shook her gently.  "Sacha.  Wake up.  I have to take you back
to the Lady now."
     She stirred and mumbled.  He shook her harder.  "Sacha. 
It's time to wake up."  
     The attractive, tawny-furred Vul stretched and yawned
impressively, showing a double row of sharp teeth.   "Umph," she
commented.  "Oh, my head."  She put a white-tipped paw to the
side of her muzzle, shaking her head slowly from side to side. 
"That must have been some good trank last night.  I don't
remember it very well."  Her yellow eyes blinked guilelessly at
him.  "Was I good last night?"
     "You were wonderful,"  Kelain lied.  "It was an, ah,
unforgettable experience.  But we've got to get you back to the
inn now.  I'm sure they'll be expecting you."
     Sacha stretched again, this time with a deliberate, brazen
sensuousness.  "It's early, j'yasha.  I'm sure we have time for
another round."  She reached out casually to stroke his chest.
     Kelain did his best not to jump.  "How tempted I am to take
you up on your offer, but I have urgent business to do today." 
His voice was smooth.  "Perhaps another time."
     "Another time."  Sacha was almost purring.  She wound
herself around him with a dexterity that the professional
assassin could only admire, as he tried not to push her away too
obviously.  "I'd like to get something special to wear for you
the next time we go out, but Mavin is sooo stingy."  She rubbed
her muzzle against him affectionately.  "Do you think you could
help Sacha buy something pretty to wear just - for - you?"  She
began caressing him as intimately as she could through his
clothes.  
     Kelain was suddenly, intensely grateful for the layer of
leather armor he habitually wore beneath his jerkin.  "Ah, of
course, Sacha.  Just let me get to my belt pouch - "  He stepped
away from her as discreetly as he could.  "Here's a fivepiece. 
That should buy you a lovely dress."  
     She clutched the heavy silver coin and squealed.  "Oooh,
thank you, Trevor.  I'll be ever so good to you when you want to
see me again."  
     Sacha's delight seemed genuine, and for a moment, Kelain
felt more kindly towards her than he had at any time during their
brief association.  He had no desire for her, but he did wish her
well.  Her profession didn't make her any less of a person, and
Kelain had no way of knowing what had led her to making the
choices that she had.  If she had ever had a choice to begin
with.   
     Kelain stroked her tawny-furred head once, gently.  The
black tips of her high, tufted ears pricked forward in
appreciation.  "You're welcome, Sacha.  I hope you use it for
something that makes you happy."
     "I will, Trevor."  Her eyes were shining.  Kelain guessed
that she seldom saw as much money, although the brothel collected
more than twice that sum for her uses.  
     They walked through the streets of Reshor companionably. 
Kelain stopped to buy a pastry for their morning meal from a
young vendor who looked to be barely in his teens.  He was
selling sugared cakes and pies filled with stewed fruit or savory
boiled meats from a board that he hung around his neck on a
frayed rope.  Sacha thanked him effusively for the meat-filled
pastry that she chose, munching it swiftly but with surprising
delicacy.  Apparently, not many of her customers were in the
habit of buying her breakfast when they were through with her.  
     Something about the youth looked familiar, and Kelain winked
at him.  "Skeah dru," he said quietly.
     The boy looked startled.  He didn't recognize the tall man,
but he understood the greeting.  "Skeah dru.  Luck to you, pack-
friend."  Kelain tossed him an extra copper bit and walked on,
whistling.  
     They arrived at the Painted Lady before most of its
primarily nocturnal denizens were entirely awake.  "Good morrow,
my good man."  Kelain addressed the formally dressed doorkeeper
pompously.  "I'm here to return this lovely young lady.  Sacha,
you can run along now."
     The attractive 'Morph kissed him quickly on the cheek and
hurried upstairs.  "'Bye, Trevor!  Thanks so much for last night. 
I'll see you again."  Unlike a true fox's, her lips were full and
expressive.  Kelain smiled at her as she left, and he was
surprised to find that he didn't have to fake the expression.
     Kelain turned to the doorkeeper.  "She's a good looking
woman, isn't she?"  He kept his tone deliberately fatuous.  "And
she liked me a lot, I can tell.  Still, I think I'd like to see
the other Vul you had.  I understand she's been sold, but I'll
bet I could, ah, arrange something with her new owner.  If you
could tell me who bought her, I'd be awfully grateful."  His
fingers toyed meaningfully with the loop of his belt pouch.
     The stout, uniformed man coughed.  "Sir, that information is
really confidential.  I could lose my job if I told you."
     Kelain idly pulled out several round, heavy pieces of gold
from his pouch, played with them, and dropped them back in.  He
made sure that the man got a good look at them.  "I could make it
worth your while.  Three gold, full weight."  Three golden aurii
would buy any exotic in the house for a full night or more.  It
would also feed a fair-sized family for many weeks.
     The doorkeeper looked quickly back and forth.  "I don't know
her name, but she wears a heavy black cloak and a hood.  She's
got pale skin, and her eyes, well, they were scary.  She said the
girl was a gift to a friend.  I'd bet your three gold that she
was a robe."  Kelain passed the man his coins, and he closed his
hand over them and thrust them into his pocket.  "I never told
you this.  I don't know you."
     "Understood."  The look on the disguised half-elf's face was
grim.  "I got what I came for.  Thank you."  Kelain left the
tavern as soon as he had collected his deposit from Mavin,
heading directly for his room at the Orc's Head.  This job was
going to require a far more serious and subtle disguise than he
could manage with what he had in his pouches.  For one thing,
he'd need a blond wig.
XVIII.


     
     "So what makes you think that you want to be a mage?"  The
elderly, white-robed man leaned forward in his carved wooden
chair as he questioned the young Elf sitting in front of him.  
     "I had talents when I was a child.  Wizardsight, moving
small objects, lighting candles, that sort of thing.  They said I
had a great deal of potential, back then."  The sunlight from the
open window reflected off of the uncommonly handsome Elf's long,
blond hair.  "Our family fell on hard times during the 'Morph
Wars, and for many years, I had neither the time nor the gold to
get proper training."  His voice was serious and deeply pitched. 
"The same tragedy blocked my talents and my mind to the point
that I have not been able to use my small powers since I was a
child.   Money's no object now; I'll gladly pay full fee to the
Guild, if you think you can help me."
     The mage concentrated, staring intently at his subject.  "I
see what you're talking about.  That's quite a natural mind-
shield you have there.  Well, maybe we can help you get through
it.  What's your name, son?"
     "Quorl Freewind.  I don't have the money on me, of course,
but I can pay you as soon as I begin my apprenticeship."  A
trickle of sweat was running down the Elf's forehead.  He prayed
it wouldn't spoil his makeup.  
     The man nodded.  "Let me get the Guild book for you to sign. 
I'll be back in a minute."  He turned and left the small office,
shutting the door behind him. 
     Instantly, Kelain was searching with a swift and desperate
efficiency through the desk.  He kept his ears carefully attuned
to the sounds around him, paging quickly through sheet after
sheet of inconsequential records.  
     When he found the log he had been looking for, he almost
choked.  Written in a neat hand, dated two days ago, was an entry
noting the reclamation of three grams of quevas from the Thieves'
Guild.  Not the three pounds of deadly, iridescent dust that
Kelain and Alun had returned.
     Kelain thought about taking the paper, and decided against
it.  Turning Tavane in to the Guild proper would do the object of
his quest no good.  If Tavane and Vasht were subjected to Mages'
Guild justice, chances were good that Cheltie would be destroyed
along with them.   At best, the innocent First Breed 'Morph would
probably be mind-burned to remove any possible, latent trace of
the wild magick talents that so often appeared among her kind. 
The Mages' Guild was nothing if not pragmatic.  He would have to
get Cheltie to safety before he could reveal the extent of the
conspiracy.
     He put the papers back in their original order quickly and
expertly, and returned to his chair.  The old man came back in a
few moments with the blank-leafed book, which he handed to the
young Elf.  Kelain blushed, looking down at his feet.  "I'm
sorry, sir.  I can't write.  You can put a wizardmark on me, if
you want to, but I can't sign my name."
     "Well, I'm a bit out of practice at that, but I suppose I
can oblige you."  He used the tip of his finger to ignite a small
bowl of herbs that was sitting on a shelf, and drew mystic
gestures in the air.  He murmured a few barely audible words, and
Kelain felt an indefinable presence settle over him.  "That's
done.  Now, you, Quorl Freewind, promise to pay the sum of eight
thousand gold aurii over the next year in exchange for your
apprenticeship.  Is that right?"
     "Quorl Freewind promises to pay, sir."  Kelain grinned. 
This was going a lot easier than he thought it would, thanks to
the Guild's apparent habit of foisting off the dull office jobs
on low-ranking journeymen and incompetents.  The 'mark wasn't
even a tight one, and the hedgerow wizard he had in mind
shouldn't have a bit of trouble transferring it to its real
target.  "Thanks for your time.  I'll see you tomorrow, after I
collect my things so that I can move into the Guildhouse."
     The old man smiled amiably at him.  "I'll see you then,
sonny.  Take care of yourself."
     Grinning broadly, Kelain left the offices of the Mages'
Guild.  He had an appointment to keep with a wizard.

XIX.


     
     She found him pruning roses in the garden, behind the
spacious courtyard that led to the main halls of the Mages'
Guild.  The tall, red-robed man bent down to give his daughter a
swift hug.  "Hello, Alea.  How have you been faring?"  He offered
her one of the deep crimson flowers in a casual gesture.  At his
touch, the thorns softened and sank back into the stem.
     "I'd be faring better if I had a go-ahead from the Council." 
She spoke directly and bluntly, ignoring the proffered gift. 
"They're taking their time to decide what to do about Vasht, and
while they debate at their leisure, someone I care about is in
danger." 
     Guildmaster Ardath sighed and shook his head.  "These things
take time, Alea.  A war between mages is not a thing to be taken
up lightly.  Think of the welfare of the city, and the Guild. 
How would the city react if innocent folk were caught in mages'
crossfire?  We may be a power in the city, but we still have to
trade with its people for the goods we need to survive.  Or have
you forgotten that we can hardly conjure corn and cloth and
cattle out of thin air?"  
     "Don't quote history lessons to me, Father."  Alea snorted. 
"I know as well as you do why we need to keep peace with the rest
of the city.  But what would it do to the reputation of mages if
more people were to discover the nasty details of that fat toad's
private life?  We in the Guild know he's a renegade, but that's
not necessarily public knowledge.  To the simpleminded, a mage is
a mage."  
     At Ardath's questioning glance, she clarified.  "He's a
pedophile, Father.  He abuses little children and kills them.  He
makes drugs and has wharf rat addicts selling them on the
streets.  We aren't going to be very popular when people find
that out."
     The Guildmaster frowned, looking at her sternly.  "How is
anyone going to find out, if I may ask?"  
     "The Thieves' Guild already knows.  I told them everything." 
She returned his gaze squarely.
     The aging sorcerer looked somewhat relieved.  "We have good
relations with them, in a large part thanks to you.  It will be
easy enough to ask them to remain silent."    
     Alea shook her head grimly.  "Sorry, Father.  Alun can't
enforce a Guild directive on someone who isn't a member.  The
Guild's Weapons Master went renegade to avoid a conflict of
interest with us when he started investigating the situation.  As
long as Tavane still heads the Black Robes, he'll remain outside
of the Guild, where he can talk all he wants."  Not that Kelain
is likely to exchange more than two words with anyone outside of
the Guild,  Alea thought guardedly.  Still, he could if he wanted
to, so I'm not lying.
     "This is a load of kysk shit."  Ardath's complexion darkened
a few shades.  "He's no true renegade.  Alun could easily ask for
his silence, unless you're planning to get in the way."  His tone
was ominous.  
     "I'm planning to do what's best for everyone, Father; if
you'll let me."  She took the rose from his unprotesting hand and
sniffed its fragrance deeply.  "If you can persuade the Council
to let the Thieves' Guild hit Vasht, without reprisal from anyone
in the Mages' Guild who might have been dealing with him, there
won't be anything left to talk about.  Our Guild doesn't get
embarrassed, and their Guild gets its Weapons Master back."   She
smiled up at him through velvet petals.  
     The archmage snorted.  "Very logical, Alea.  But logic cuts
both ways, you know.  If he's renegade, he can't be commanded,
but he also cannot be avenged.  I can handle one renegade
assassin, if he plans to make trouble for our Guild."  There was
an ominous look on his heavily bearded face.
     She snapped back at him instantly and savagely.  "Don't you
dare, Father.  I'd see you in hell before I let you hurt him." 
The rose dropped down to the narrow walkway in a shower of petals
as red as spilled blood. 
     For a moment, they squared off like spitting cats.  Then,
the Guildmaster softened.  "He is the one you care about, then?"
     Alea nodded wearily.  "His name is Kelain.  He's a good man,
and I don't want to see him die.  Let me help him, Father. 
Please."
     Ardath took his daughter's hands in his own.  "I will if I
can, Alea.  You'll have to get the consent of the rest of the
Council, but I'll be backing you."
     "Can you call the meeting now?"  She straightened, her voice
becoming animated.   "There's no time to waste.  Kelain could be
in danger."
     "I'll send the messengers right away."  He looked at his
daughter with a quiet intensity.  "Is he worth risking your life
for, Alea?"
     She returned a fierce glare.  "If you knew him, you wouldn't
have to ask.  He's a good and honorable man, and he deserves
better treatment than he gets from the rest of the world."
     That triggered something in Ardath's memory.  "He's the
Guild's half-elf?"  There was surprise but no animosity in his
voice.
     "Yes.  What of it?  You married a hearthwitch."  Alea looked
defensive.
     "Daughter, you don't make easy choices, do you?"  Ardath
sighed softly.  "You have my blessing, for whatever that's worth;
but you should know that it may cause problems later."  
     She gave a short, bitter laugh.  "You mean if we have
children?  That's hardly likely.  I'm just another student, as
far as he's concerned.  He doesn't even notice me, not unless I
do something wrong on the practice field."  
     Her pain would have been evident even to the ungifted, and
the sensitive mage winced even as he reached out to envelop her
in a warm hug.  His robes smelled faintly of spice and roses. 
"Then he doesn't know what he's missing, dear heart.  Are you
sure you want to help him?"
     She nodded, dashing her the back of her hand quickly across
her eyes.  "I'm sure," she said firmly.  "Even if he never thinks
of me as anything more than a friend, he deserves a better chance
than he's got right now.   Will you help me give it to him?"
     "I'll help you, Alea.  I promise."  He held her to him
tightly for a long moment before letting her go.  "I'll convince
the Council."
     She hugged him back, hard.  "Thank you, Father.  Thank you
so much."
     The red-robed sorcerer reached around his neck and
unfastened a silvery cord.  "Take this with you."  He placed a
graven stone amulet around his daughter's neck.  "It should help
protect you."
     She gave him a swift kiss on the cheek.  "You know I can
protect myself, Father; but thank you anyway."  
     He looked abashed.  "I know, but it never hurts to have a
little something extra.  Shall we go to Council?"
     "That's an excellent idea, Father."  She smiled and took his
arm.  
     They walked down the garden path together, toward the high
stone walls of the Mages' Guild.  Behind them, tattered petals of
crimson blew away in the chill autumn wind.

XX.


     
     The tall, wiry thief kept his senses alert as he scaled the
rough stone wall to the window.   He peered carefully at it,
reaching out tentatively with his mind before he touched it with
his gloved hands.  Kelain swore quietly.  "Kysk dung.  He's set a
Warding."  
     He settled himself in to concentrate on the bespelled
window, clinging like a shadow to the cold, lumpy surface of the
wall.  He couldn't sense more than a faint tickle of energy, even
when he opened himself to it deliberately.  I'm in luck.  It's a
lesser Warding, not meant to keep out the mageborn.  Anything
more powerful than this, and I'd be looking for another way in. 
     Apparently, its owner was more worried about simple thieves
than other mages.  Any reasonably competent wizard could take
this one down, and a Guild mage could do it without even trying.
     Kelain did not deceive himself about his limited magickal
abilities, but he thought that this spell might be within his
means.  The dexterous half-elf settled himself into a comfortable
position below the window, supporting himself on a narrow jut of
stone.  He reached into one of his pouches and pulled out a
small, stoppered vial of gleaming blue dust, the residue of a 
lightning-shattered gem.  I hope to hell this works, Kelain
thought ruefully.  This stuff's expensive.
     Carefully, he drew a tiny sigil in the dust of the
windowsill and filled it in with a pinch of the precious,
crystalline powder.  He used a small, flattened rod of bronze to
spread the dust evenly in the figure.   Murmuring a quiet
incantation, Kelain passed his open palm above the wizardmark. 
The sigil glowed into life and began to move.  Spiralling lines
writhed and drew themselves before his eyes, mirroring the
Patterns of the locking spell.
     He focused his magesight on the window, checking the sigil
for accuracy.  He could see the redly glowing shafts of light
that barred his way, and their exact duplicate in shimmering
sapphire just below.  Good.  I've gotten into the Pattern.
     Kelain concentrated intently on the shifting lines of the
sigil, forcing them under his control.  Fiercely, he willed them
to dissolve.   Melt, damn you.   
     With excruciating slowness, the complex patterns of the
sigil collapsed into a shapeless heap of dull, dark brown powder. 
Kelain looked up in triumph, and the crimson lines of light 
across the window blurred and faded in his magesight.  Got you,
you bastard. 
     By the time he was finished, beads of sweat were forming on
his brow.  He wiped them away and reached for the window, easing
it open with skilled hands.  Inside was the wizard's workroom. 
     Kelain flipped himself over the windowsill with an easy
grace and landed on padded feet.  It was dark enough for him to
use the special vision he had inherited from his Elvish parent,
and he scanned the room carefully for unusual heat-traces.  
     The room was a cool, uniform brown in his sight, revealing
nothing.  Still, magickal traps did not always use the kinds of
energies that could cause a temperature change.  Cautiously,
Kelain removed his gloves and extended his long and sensitive
fingers towards the middle of the room, scanning the area for
magickal auras.
     The effort left him exhausted.  Damn.  That Warding must
have been tougher than I thought.  He pressed his hands to his
temples, trying to ease their throbbing ache.  Well, I just won't
take any risks.  Resigned, Kelain donned his climbing gloves and
scaled the oak-paneled wall to traverse the ceiling.  It's slower
going, but at least it's probably safe.  Few folk expect visitors
this way.
     Pressing and contorting his body to brace himself between
wall and ceiling, the assassin made his way down the stairwell to
the wizard's shop.  He stopped when he heard a strident voice. 
"You damn fraud.  You promised me I'd see some results when I
used your potion."
     There was a long and drawn-out sigh.  "Yevard, what you
bought from me was supposed to increase your virility.  It did. 
It's no fault of mine if you had no one to use it on.  If you
wanted a love potion, you should have gone looking for one of
those instead."  
     Kelain made a mental note of some of the creative curses
that were being shouted at the long-suffering wizard.  "You know
as well as I do that those aren't legal in the city."  
     The assassin chuckled silently from his perch, picturing the
potential havoc that such brews could cause if they were casually
available.  The Mages' Guild made it a point to enforce bans on
any magick that might cause harm, since they felt very strongly
about maintaining the good reputation of mages and magecraft. 
None of them had forgotten the ancient days when magick was
feared and hated, and mageborn slain in the streets.
     The merchant's voice became crafty.  "Of course, if you were
willing to sell me one, I'd make it worth your while.  I've heard
you sometimes handle things like this."  Kelain could hear the
clink of heavy coins being poured on a table, and he reflexively
crept closer until he was almost directly above their heads. 
     The skinny, brown-robed wizard eyed the coins distrustfully. 
"You know what could happen to me if the Guild finds out.  Why
don't you take this gold and go buy yourself a slave?  They're a
lot less trouble."
     More coins joined the pile on the hardwood table.  The
pudgy, oily-looking man pushed the glittering heap towards the
wizard.  "I don't want a slave.  I want her, and I'm prepared to
pay for it."  His voice was petulant.  "Name your price, Tanner. 
I'll pay it."
     "Fifty gold, full weight."  The wizard licked his lips
nervously.
     The merchant coughed ostentatiously and wiped his thick,
liver-hued lips on the sleeve of his tunic.  "Fifty aurii could
buy me a new shop on Jeweler's Row, wizard.  It's too much."
     "Then take your gold and go!"  Tanner hissed sharply.  "It's
also just enough to buy me out of trouble with the Mages' Guild
if I'm caught.  I won't do it for less."
     "All right, all right."  The merchant's tone was
conciliatory.  "Fifty gold it is.  Twenty now -"  He deftly
counted out two tall stacks of coins and passed them to the
wizard, scooping the rest of the heavy golden octagonals back
into the spacious leather carrying-pouch he wore at his waist. 
"And thirty on delivery.  Agreed?"
     The coins rapidly disappeared into a fold of the wizard's
robe.  "Agreed.  Tell no one about this, or I'll reverse the
effects of the virility potion I gave you, and I'll make it
permanent." 
     The merchant's normally florid complexion turned a shade
paler.  "I'll keep my mouth closed, wizard.  You just deliver me
the goods."
     "I'll need a lock of her hair, or an article of her clothing
to make it binding.  Bring one of these things to me, and I will
brew the potion."  The frail-looking wizard thrust a bony,
admonishing finger at his client.  "But you'd best see to it that
she drinks it.  If you waste it, I'll not make you another."
     Yevard's fat face twisted itself into a sneer.  "Sympathetic
magick?  I hope it's worth what I'm paying, wizard."
     From his perch, Kelain grinned ruefully.  It was true that
sympathetic magick was considered little better than granny-woman
witchery by most practicing mages, but it was a lot easier to
learn and considerably more accessible than High Magick.  It
could also be fairly effective, although its use was limited by
the fact that material components were needed to cast it.  Kelain
had often regretted that limitation, although his small
repertoire of Low Magick spells had proven highly useful in the
past.  
     "You are an ignorant clod of dung, merchant."  His voice was
as cold and biting as the teeth of a glacial wind.  "If I used
even a lesser Patterning to accomplish the task, the Guild would
know what I was doing in a moment.  If you want your potion,
you'll leave its making up to me."
     A variety of expressions chased themselves across the man's
face, none of them pleasant.  He gritted his teeth.  "Very well. 
But if it doesn't work, you'll be hearing from me."
     "Oh, I don't doubt it.  But if you're thinking about
exposing me to the Guild, remember that I won't be the only one
facing a fine."  Tanner spoke calmly, turning his back to the
heavyset man. "Good day to you."
     "Good day, wizard."  He spat out the benediction like a
curse.  "I'll be back tomorrow."  With that, he slammed his way
out of the small shop.
     Tanner winced as the oaken door banged heavily against its
frame. "Fat, odious pig."  The wizard muttered clearly.
     Kelain couldn't resist.  He skillfully pitched his voice to
resemble that of the departed merchant, whining and petulant. 
"Who are you calling a pig?"
     Tanner whirled to face the door, seeking the source of the
voice.  "Yevard?  Where the hell are you?"
     "I'm behind you, wizard."  Kelain returned to his normally
deep tones.  "Don't move.  Don't even think about casting.  I
could have a dagger through the back of your neck before you
could finish a spell."  There was a calm and implacable quality
to his voice that convinced the wizard that he should obey.
     Tanner froze.  "Who are you?"
     The words seemed to echo from all corners of the room. 
"Just a customer.  I need a job done."
     "That's a hell of a way to ask, whoever you are."  The
wizard snarled, craning his neck to peer around the room.  "Why
didn't you just knock on the door?"
     "Because the job's illegal, Tanner."  Invisibly, Kelain
smiled.  He couldn't have gotten a better set-up if he had
designed it himself.  "Still, I see that doesn't seem to bother
you much, if the price is right."
     He sighed in resignation.  "What is it you want?"
     "I need a wizardmark transferred."  
     Tanner glared into the empty air.  "Well, I can't transfer
it if I don't know the target.  And I certainly can't take it off
you if I can't see you."
     "Very well."  Kelain swooped down from the ceiling like a
great black bat, landing in a graceful crouch on the earthen
floor.  The wizard started, but controlled himself quickly.  "You
do know the target.  You're looking at him."
     "You're not Quorl Freewind."  He spoke with certainty.  "Why
do you want to go about wearing his face?"
     Kelain considered various replies, and settled on an honest
one.  "To make trouble for him.  Why else?"  The blond Elf
grinned.  "The 'mark on me was set in his name.  A transfer
shouldn't be too difficult."
     Tanner scowled.  "You're asking me to betray a client.  If
it was ever found out that I did such a thing, I'd never do
business in the city again.  Not to mention the Guild penalty. 
I'd be facing an awfully heavy fine."
     "If the Guild ever found out that you sell illegal potions
to foolish merchants, you would certainly do no more business in
this city."  His voice was quietly menacing.  "I know the true
Guild penalties, even if the fat one did not.  Are you so sure
you can bribe your way out of them?" 
     Wisely, Tanner never revealed to his clients what could
actually happen to him if he was caught selling Guild-proscribed
magick.   The penalty for a citizen who used such goods was
usually a heavy fine levied by the Merchant's Council, but the
price for a mage who sold them was often much more severe.  If
this was not his first offense, he risked having his powers
forcibly burned from his mind by a conclave of Guild mages.  From
what Kelain had heard, this was definitely not his first offense.
     Kelain saw the wizard's hand twitch in the sleeve of his
robe in a small but familiar motion.  Faster than Tanner's eyes
could follow, he whipped out a long knife and split the soft
cloth down the middle to reveal the wizard's skinny, naked arm. 
"Don't."  It was all he said, but it was enough.
     The man blanched.  "All right, damn you.  I'll do your dirty
work.  For a fair price, of course."
     "Of course," Kelain agreed smoothly.  "You get to keep the
fifty gold you're getting from the merchant, and I'll add another
ten of my own for good will."
     "Ten gold?  You must be kidding.  This job's worth a lot
more than the potion."  
     The half-elf's stare was chilling.  "It's a fair offer,
Tanner.  Take it or don't."  Ten gold was actually a very
generous amount, especially considering that the assassin could
easily have offered nothing more than the wizard's life.
     Tanner coughed and eyed his perfectly split sleeve uneasily. 
"Very well.  I accept."
     Kelain counted out ten of the golden coins from his pouch
and held them in one slim, long-fingered hand for a moment.  "I
need some information on Quorl.  What kind of spells did you sell
him?"
     Tanner's expression was sullen.  "A scry-stone.  He wanted a
stealthing spell, but I don't do those."
     Meaning you can't, Kelain thought.  Nothing else would stop
this nasty little skagger from selling something at a profit. 
"Do you know anyone else who does?"
     "No."  The wizard shook his head.  "Did you think we
advertised, even amongst ourselves?"  His tone was faintly
sarcastic.
     "I suppose not.  Can you destroy the scry-stone, or alter
what it shows?"  Kelain was fairly certain that he could not, but
he had to ask.  
     "Not unless it's in my hands.  I made it a long time ago as
a stock item, and it's not attuned to me."
     The handsome Elf nodded and handed him the stack of coins. 
"All right.  Get on with the transferring, and don't bother with
a showy ritual.  I'm in something of a hurry.  And don't - " 
Kelain paused briefly.  He smiled at the wizard with the look of
a hungry thraii.  "Don't try anything you might regret.  I know
what an Unpatterning spell looks like, and if I see or hear a
single word or gesture that doesn't look familiar, I'm going to
kill you.  Is that clear?" 
     The wizard snorted and muttered something rude under his
breath. "Clear enough."  He began the complex series of words and
gestures that would remove the invisible binding on Kelain's
aura.  The assassin watched him intently as he completed the
spell.
     "Now transfer it to Quorl."  Kelain ordered.  "Remember,
I'll be watching."  He grinned ferally.  "And I'm wizardsighted,
so don't try to put a 'mark anywhere it doesn't belong."
     Tanner did not bother to reply.  He concentrated and flung
his hands outward, directing the wizardmark towards its intended
target.  "It's done.  Now will you go away?"  His tone was barely
polite.
     "Gladly, Lord Wizard.  It has been most profitable doing
business with you."  Kelain bowed mockingly and backed out the
door.  "Remember, if you betray me to Quorl, I can always return
the favor and betray you to the Guild.  But since you have been
cooperative, I'll not seek to harm you.  I trust you will grant
me the same courtesy."
     "If I never see you again, I will be more than content." 
The door slammed shut in his face, and Kelain's keen Elvish ears
could barely hear the wizard's muffled cursing behind it.
     Kelain smiled, baring his teeth.  This business was likely
to prove profitable indeed, if he moved quickly enough.  
     It took him about twenty minutes and a few judicious
inquiries to locate Yevard at a street vendor's stall in the Cash
Row district.  The richly dressed merchant was far too busy
stuffing his face with a greasy meatroll to notice the half-elf's
deft fingers unbuckling and removing his heavy pouch.

XXI.


     
     The tall, lanky youth was waiting for him in the alleyway,
tapping his feet together as he leaned insouciantly against a
soot-streaked wall.  He looked up as the wiry half-elf approached
him.  "What took you?  I was worried."  Orin settled himself more
comfortably on the cobbled stones.  "I got some ear-tickle for
you."
     "I had to bargain with a wizard.  Two of them, as a matter
of fact."  Kelain allowed himself to relax for the first time
that morning, his shoulders slumping in near-exhaustion.  "Mind-
shielding against a Guild mage isn't easy, even when he isn't
paying much attention.  Neither is convincing a hedgerow wizard
to turn traitor on a client.  I didn't exactly want to rush
things."
     Orin looked suitably impressed.  "Yeah, that's fair skelly. 
Listen, Vasht isn't going to sell.  I got in pretty easy; he
hires rats all the time.  I told the guard I didn't have anywhere
to sleep and that I'd work for him for a place to stay.  He lets
a whole pack of us sleep in the side house, in exchange for their
keeping an eye on the place and making contacts for him."  
     Orin grimaced.  "It isn't exactly the safest place to sleep,
though.  I found out he isn't just sib.  He likes girls, too -
the younger, the better.  I met one who let him jump her 'cause
she needed the money.  There's some sick in her Pack, and she
wanted to help them get a Healer.  She was still crying when I
left."  
     He looked directly at Kelain, his hazel eyes burning with a
queer intensity.  "She was only eight years old.  She may not
live to be nine.  I stopped her from cutting up her own face with
a knife so no one would want to do it to her anymore.  I hate
that motherpricking bastard."
     Kelain nodded grimly.  "If we're very, very lucky, he'll get
in our way when we rescue the girl."  The half-elf never did any
more killing than he had to, but this Vasht was becoming a more
and more tempting target.  "Why won't he sell her?  He's
obviously got plenty to keep him busy."
     Orin looked as if he was tasting thick, sour vomit in the
back of his throat.  "One of the other rats told me.  Cheltie's
his daughter, that's why.  He gets some kind of a kick out of it. 
It sure doesn't keep him from using her.  The gheb'sh bastard is
the worst scum I ever knew.  I hope his godrotted pricker falls
off."  He kicked angrily at the ground, sending a small shower of
pebbles flying across the alley.  "He keeps her in the lab most
of the time, when she isn't in one of his pleasure rooms."
     Kelain was resigned.  "It looks like we're going to have to
go in.  Where's the lab?"
     "I don't know.  In the main mansion, I think."  The words
came through gritted teeth.  "Are we going to kill him?"
     "If it's convenient."  Kelain eyed his student coolly. 
"Don't let your emotions rule you, Orin.  You won't be any good
in a fight, or at anything else in this world, until you learn to
control yourself.  Never forget that whatever else Vasht is, he
is also a powerful mage.  He could stop your heart just by
looking at you, if he didn't decide to save you for something
worse." 
     His tone was cold and factual, and it reached Orin as an
angry tirade would never have done.  "When you go back in, don't
give them any reason to mind-probe you, or we could both be dead. 
I want you to scout the inside of the place and draw me a good
set of plans.  See if you can find out where they're keeping
Cheltie."  
     Orin swallowed, his skinny throat working convulsively. 
"I'll do my best.  I promised I would."
     Kelain's expression softened.  "Orin, this is going to be
dangerous.  If you don't think you can do it, I'll go in blind or
on the best layout you can give me now.  I don't want you to get
hurt."
     A shadow of his old, cocky grin ghosted across his face.  "I
can do it, Elf-man.  All I have to do is ask the rats.  They'll
tell me what I need to know."
     Kelain clapped a hand on the youth's shoulder, a rare
gesture of encouragement.  "Good.  Now, when you decide to - " 
The assassin froze.  "Get behind me."  The command was quick and
curt.  Kelain positioned his strong, narrow hands near half-
hidden shapes in the folds of his tunic, turning to face the
mouth of the alley.  He stood poised, waiting for an unseen
adversary in a timeless, unmoving silence.
     Orin had no such discipline.  He crouched like a mouse who
scents a cat, scrabbling hurriedly for the ground-down sliver of
steel that he carried wrapped in an oily rag in one of his boots. 
He was still bent over when he heard the footsteps coming rapidly
up the alley.  Orin looked up wildly as he heard the enemy
approach.
     To his relief, he saw the slender half-elf relax.  "Alea. 
How did you find me?"  Kelain hailed the brown-robed woman who
was walking quickly towards them.  Orin sighed and leaned back
against the wall, his knees weak and shaky.
     "Kelain.  I've just come from the Mages' Guild, and they
know what's happening.  They've agreed to let the Thieves' Guild
take care of Vasht, on the condition that you don't talk about
it.  Magrethan heads the Black Robes now, and you won't have to
worry about Tavane any more."  Her expression told him that the
solution that the Mages' Guild had applied to the problem of the
erring sorceress was a final one.
     Kelain stared at her with total astonishment.  "How did you
find out about Cheltie?  And how do you know what the Mages'
Guild is doing?"  He looked at her intently for a few moments,
pondering.  "You're not a hearthwitch, are you?"  Kelain had
suspected the existence of a Mages' Guild liaison for some time,
but now, he thought he knew who it must be.  He wondered why Alun
had never told him.
     "Actually, I am a hearthwitch.  I would never lie about my
Path."  Alea smiled slightly.  "I have learned a few spells in
another School or two, though."  This was tantamount to a
confession of being a Guild mage, since they were the only
wizards who had access to more than one School.  "Look, this
isn't exactly the time to discuss my qualifications.  Quorl's in
the area, and he's planning to ambush you.  I managed to Scry the
traces of the spell he's using while I was tracking you."
     Kelain inhaled quietly.  This was obviously no minor-talent
hearthwitch, if she was able to operate more than one spell at
once while Scrying through another mage's attempts to hide
someone.  Kelain knew just enough about wielding Force Arcane to
respect the difficulties inherent in it.  He wondered briefly
what Alea's rank was in the Mages' Guild.  "How'd you find out
about Cheltie?"
     "Alun told me."  Alea looked him squarely in the eye,
obviously prepared for an argument.  "I'm going with you.  You'll
need me to Scry ahead for him, or he'll nail you for sure.  He's
got a heavy stealthing spell on him, plus an active Scrying spell
so he can scan for you.  What he doesn't know is that you'll have
a full mage with you.  All that magick ought to make him pretty
easy to for me to Scry."
     "With that much magick on him, I should be able to Scry him
out myself, unless he's got a psi block on."  He noticed the hurt
look on Alea's face, and added, "Though your help would be more
than welcome, if you're offering it."  He spoke hesitantly.
The smile on her face told him that he was entirely forgiven for
the night before, and he was glad.  He continued on a more rueful
note.  "I caught up with Tanner, and found out that he sold the
bastard a scry-stone.  I don't know who cast the stealthing
spell, though."
     "I'd bet it was Tanner.  How hard did you press him to make
him talk?"
     The half-elf looked thoughtful.  "Pretty hard.  I got him to
transfer a wizardmark - "  
     Kelain explained his deception to Alea, who chuckled.  "So
the poor bastard's bonded and wizardmarked to pay eight thousand
aurii for a magickal apprenticeship that he probably can't use! 
I can't say I approve of deceiving the Mages' Guild, and I'm
surprised you could get Tanner to help you, but I suppose I can't
blame you much in Quorl's case."  Alea sobered. "I don't think
he'll live to hear about it, though.  You're going to have to
kill him.  He intends to join the Thieves' Guild as its Weapons
Master or die trying."
     Kelain smiled bitterly.  "Let's hope he dies trying, shall
we?  Let's find a defensible position and something to eat,
preferably in that order; and we'll discuss our plans."
     They moved on through the city, walking slowly enough for
Alea to maintain a simple Scrying spell.  Kelain also walked in a
light trance, using his heightened senses to scan the area around
them.  After a few minutes, Alea stopped and turned to Kelain. 
"Looks like he's left the area.  I'm not reading any trace of him
anywhere close by."
     Kelain nodded, his eyes half-closed.  He could only sense
around him for a short distance, but he had been straining to the
limits of his ability and had found nothing.  "Let's find a
tavern, then.  I'll buy us some dinner."  He shook off the last
of the trance state and opened his eyes, smiling tentatively at
Alea.  "It's the least I can do for you, after all the trouble
you've gone to for my sake."  
     She grinned back at him, and Kelain felt the warmth of that
smile reach his heart.  The afternoon no longer seemed so cold,
or the alleyways as dark.  They walked together companionably,
their arms not quite touching as they moved down the roughly
paved street.  Orin followed closely behind them.
     An odd thought occurred to Kelain.  Why had Alea taken it on
herself to help him?  Neither Alun nor the Mages' Guild would be
likely to appreciate her helping a renegade, at least in their
official capacities.  Kelain wondered if Alun had secretly put 
her up to the task, but he dismissed the idea almost instantly. 
If Alea was actually the Mages' Guild liaison, Alun would have no
authority to order her into the situation.  And Alun would never
order a Guildmember to help him now, lest the Guild be implicated
in what he was doing.  
     Kelain considered asking Alea about it outright, but he
decided against it.  The last thing he wanted to do was to insult
her, especially now that she was smiling at him again.   
     Alea was beautiful when she smiled, which wasn't something
that he had seen her do often.  Her strong-featured face usually
wore a look of seriousness or grim intensity when she was
striving for success in the exercises that Kelain or her other
Guild-assigned teachers would set her.  Even then, he had
privately found her more than attractive in her determination. 
He had never dared say more to her than was proper for a weapons
teacher to a student, but he had always enjoyed the times that
she had sought him out for even a casual conversation.  Kelain
was beginning to realize that he wanted more than just casual
conversation from her, and that there was a chance that she might
not reject him entirely if she knew.  
     Orin spoke up from behind them, distracting the half-elf
from his musings.  "Hey, chelo.  Where are we going to eat?"  He
grinned up at Kelain impudently.  "I'm hungry.  Very hungry,
since you're buying."
     Kelain turned and tried to replace the smile that was
forming on his lips with a stern look.  He didn't quite succeed. 
He was discovering that he liked and admired the boy a lot more
than he was willing to admit, and he was glad that he had decided
to adopt Orin as a student.   The cocky but surprisingly
competent young wharf rat reminded Kelain a great deal of his
younger self. "We'll eat at the Eel Pie, on Jeweler's Row."  
     He named a fairly expensive tavern, and Orin's eyes nearly
bulged out of his head.  "Hope you got the irii, Elf-man."  He
was licking his lips in anticipation.  It had been far too long
since Orin had eaten a square meal, and he intended to take full
advantage of Kelain's generosity.  
     Orin made a fair amount of money from thieving, peddling
drugs and occasional pimping, when he could find a willing and
bored merchant's wife, but the majority of his earnings went to
support the child-pack that he led.  The group that he had chosen
to take responsibility for was made up almost entirely of the
youngest of the wharf rats.  Orin took care of them all as best
he could, even when he had to go hungry to do it.  
     Kelain glared at the impudent youth, who didn't look a bit
cowed.  The prospect of a good meal resting warm and full in his
perpetually empty belly made Orin nearly undauntable.  "The
tavern's worth its price right now for the security.  They've got
guards at the door, and I think wards as well."  
     Alea's nod confirmed it.  "You're right.  No one gets in
there who has violent thoughts without alerting the house wizard. 
A stealth spell would set them right off, too.  I know the mage
who did their wardings."  She stopped walking for a moment.  "Let
me try again to get a fix on him."  She concentrated briefly, her
face going totally slack for a few moments as she focused on her
target.  "No, I'm not getting anything.  Let's go."
     "Good idea," Orin piped up.  "I'm getting hungry."
     Alea gave a mock groan.  "We're doing the Scrying, and he
says that he's the one getting hungry.  Should we leave him
outside?"  The twinkle in her brown eyes as she winked at Kelain
made it clear that she didn't mean a word of it.
     "Don't you dare, Mage-lady.  You'll have to cast a spell on
me to keep me out."  Orin puffed himself up in righteous wrath,
and she grinned wickedly at him and pretended to make mystic
gestures.  
     Kelain watched his companions banter playfully back and
forth.  For the first time in his long and solitary life, he felt
as if he was a welcome part of the laughter, rather than its
unwelcome object.  "If you're going to cast a spell on the boy,
make it something useful.  While you're busy casting, Orin and I
can eat dinner.  Right, Orin?"
     Both of them grinned back at him.  Alea replied in a long-
suffering tone.  "Why don't all three of us eat dinner and quit
arguing.  Agreed?"  They all chorused their agreement, and the
dark-haired sorceress smiled.  "Here, I think I see a shortcut. 
This alley ought to lead right onto Jeweler's Row."
     Something uncomfortable nagged at the edge of Kelain's
thoughts.  "Alea, do another Scrying before we go in there.  I
don't like the looks of that alley."  Narrow and high-walled, the
alley was bordered on two sides by flat-roofed buildings.  More
importantly, it had no convenient exits or easily defensible
positions.  If they were being followed, it would be a poor place
to have to confront an enemy.
     Alea stood and concentrated.  "Nothing.  In fact, there's no
one at all in the immediate area that I can read.  Let's go.  The
sooner we get into that tavern, the sooner we can all relax for
awhile."  
     Kelain stretched out with his senses, but he could feel
nothing but a vague unease.  "You're right.  Let's move."
     They started walking with Kelain in the lead, Alea following
closely behind him.  They were halfway down the alley before she
saw him.  "Get down!" Alea yelled.  Kelain felt something slam
into him hard from behind, and he fell.  The sharp whine of a
heavy crossbow bolt ripped through the air above his head.  He
heard a sickening thunk as the shaft struck home.  
     A strident curse sounded from above.  "Interfering bitch." 
The Elf was clearly visible now on the rooftop, struggling with a
massive crossbow braced on a folding tripod.  He was doing his
best to drag it and climb down the side of the building at the
same time.  Kelain ignored him, whirling instantly to look at
Alea.
     The force of the bolt had literally thrown her across the
alleyway.  She was slumped against the opposite wall, the arrow
buried almost to its fletching in her chest.  A horrible, leaden
fear settled in the pit of Kelain's stomach like an iron ball.
     He knelt beside her.  Incredibly, she was still conscious. 
"Should have known.....full invisibility spell and a psi block. 
Tanner must have lied.  I'm sorry, Kelain."  Above them, the
blond Elf muttered and moved down the side of the building, the
heavy bow strapped hastily to his back.
     Helplessly, he watched her die.  The bolt was a hollow shaft
of metal, nearly an inch across.  There was no chance that it had
missed her heart; Kelain was too skilled an assassin not to have
marked that.  Blood was pooling slowly between her breasts,
turning her brown robes to scarlet.  "Why, Alea?  Why did you
help me?"  Pain and confusion were mirrored in his eyes.  
     Alea turned to him, reaching out weakly.  She caught one of
his black-gloved hands in her own, pressing it to the side of her
face with all of her remaining strength.  "I always wanted to get
to know you better, Kelain.  You never gave me the chance."  She
tried to smile.  "I wanted to make sure that I had enough
time....enough time..."  She closed her eyes.
     "Alea!"  He cried out her name in an anguished shriek.
     She blinked and looked at him.  "You've got to kill him,
Kelain.  I can Scry him now."  She pointed back the way they had
came, to a tall building on the left of the alley.  "He's up
there.  On the roof."  The words came out stained with blood, a
thin crimson trickle running down the side of her mouth.  "You've
got to get out of here before he reloads.  Go; I'll be all
right."
     He did not correct her.  "Alea, I'm sorry."  An eternity of
pain and regret was echoed in his voice.   He felt her hand fall
limply out of his, landing in the spreading stain of blood on her
lap.  Kelain touched her face, searching desperately for the
words to say.
     As before, he was too late.  Her eyes closed for the last
time, and her head slumped forward.  Kelain shut his own eyes in
sympathy, his shoulders bowed under the weight of his grief.  
     "Kelain?"  The voice was hesitant.  Kelain turned, staring
uncomprehendingly at Orin.  "Kelain, we've got to get out of
here."  He spoke awkwardly.  "I'm sorry about the lady, but we
can't just stay here."
     The half-elf stood, his fists clenched at his sides.  His
tense, tautly muscled body was a hard knot of pain.  "Go, Orin. 
This is my fight."  His face was drawn with grief.  "Go to my
Guild.  Tell them that the waiting is over.  Tell Alun what
happened."
     "But I thought you were - "
     Kelain shook his head, looking infinitely weary.  "No more. 
The Mage's Guild is no longer an issue, and Alun will know what
to do."  He reached into one of his pouches and pulled out the
first thing he could find that he knew Alun would recognize, a
small, flexible bundle that resembled an odd kind of cloth.  "If
I don't make it back, show this to the Guildmaster and he'll
believe that you were my student.  But for Ashara's sake, don't
put it on."
     Orin nodded, stowing the object away in a deep pocket.  He
cast a quick, nervous glance towards the building that Alea had
pointed out.  "Thanks, Kelain.  Thanks for everything.  I hope
you don't die."  His voice nearly cracked on the last word.  The
boy turned and ran down the alley without a backward look.
     Kelain looked down at the still form that had been a living,
laughing woman a few moments before.  He had seen the transition
between life and death a hundred times, but he had never stopped
wondering at how fragile life seemed, and how easy it was to end
it forever.  And he had never known how much he cared, until it
was too late.   
     Kelain took off running down the dusty road.  His emerald
eyes were blurred with tears, and he shook them away angrily as
he ran.  He never saw the faint blue glow that filled the
alleyway behind him.
XXII.


     
     The building was a tall one.  It was a thick, two-story
structure of wood and poured cement, an insulae that might have
housed ten or more families.  Somewhere on the roof, his enemy
waited.
     Kelain yanked the thin leather gloves off of his narrow,
long-fingered hands and dropped them on the ground as he ran.  He
reached into a pouch and pulled out a second pair, sliding them
onto his hands as quickly as he could.  
     Kelain ran up to the stone base of the massive building, and
kept going, straight up the wall.  He moved on all fours with
blinding speed over the rough, porous surface of the building,
using his momentum to propel him.  When he reached the sanctuary
of a wide window, he stopped and clung beneath the ledge for a
moment to reach into his backpack.  He drew out a coil of woven
grey rope and fastened it securely to one of the thick wooden
braces under the window.  
     His hands shot out and grasped the top of the ledge like a
pair of striking cobras.  The end of the rope was between his
clenched teeth as he pulled himself up in a single, fluid motion. 
He began to move almost horizontally across the wall.   
Kelain repeated the procedure at the next window, fastening the
other end of the rope to the support beam beneath it.  He swung
his feet over to rest on the taut length of cord and balanced
himself on it like a tightrope walker, swaying slightly.  He
walked a few steps, bouncing up and down deliberately to test its
strength.  The half-elf leaped lightly in the air and came down
with his knees flexed, catching himself easily on the taut line. 
Satisfied, he put his hands to the wall and began to climb.
     He stopped just below the summit and listened.  Muttered
curses and the scrape of metal on stone came from the far side of
the roof.  The assassin shot over the side of the building like a
silent and deadly missile, hurling a small dagger whose tip
glistened darkly with smeared venom.  It struck solidly and held
in his enemy's chest.
     Quorl snarled, his coldly handsome face distorted with rage. 
He snapped the lever on the massive, tripod-mounted crossbow and
discharged the bolt directly at Kelain.  The half-elf had a split
second to realize that the bow's cocking mechanism had been only
halfway wound.  
     He moved his mind into a state of timeless, effortless calm. 
The thick, hollow-shafted arrow was coming towards him, wobbling
slightly in its flight.  With the grace of a dancer, he moved 
under its path and deflected its momentum with a classic rishi
block, swinging his elbow up sharply.  He plucked the bolt neatly
from the air and hurled it with deadly accuracy back at Quorl.  
     The blond Elf ducked and cursed, but the bolt struck him
squarely in the shoulder.  He came up armed, flinging a pair of
knives at Kelain with lightning speed.  The whirling blades
gleamed silver in the sunlight as they flew towards their target. 
     He should be drugged, or dead, the half-elf thought with
desperation.  Unless he's immune, or better armored than he
looks.  Kelain dodged to the left, the twin daggers missing him
by inches.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Quorl's hand
move, and he ducked again.
     He wasn't quite fast enough.  Six inches of steel flashed
past his guard to sink deeply into his body just below the
collarbone.  Kelain felt his left arm go numb.  The third knife
had penetrated to about half its length, more than enough to
introduce any toxin on the blade into his system.  The half-elf
was immune to most of the commonly used assassin's poisons, but
he did not deceive himself into thinking that Quorl would not be
aware of that fact.
     Deliberately, Kelain swayed on his feet as he pulled the
knife out.  Hot, sticky blood rushed down his arm.  He smelled
the strong, tarry residue on the blade over the coppery scent of
his own blood.  Vemris root.  The name of the plant flashed
abruptly through his head as he recognized the poison.  Thank the
gods.
     Quorl drew a short sword and rushed towards the groggy-
looking half-elf, his running steps light and graceful.  Kelain
whipped out his rapier at the last possible moment and countered
Quorl's blow, steel ringing sharply on steel as their blades
clashed and deflected.  
     "Not so badly wounded after all, halfbreed?"  Quorl smiled,
wisps of blond hair blowing around his perfectly proportioned
face as he duelled.  The front of his silken tunic was ripped
where the bolt and dagger had struck him, exposing the tightly
woven metal links that lay beneath.  The armor was as supple as a
layer of cloth, and as unrevealing.  It was undoubtedly worth a
small fortune, and might have taken a master craftsman years of
his life to create.  Kelain wondered briefly who he'd killed to
get it.  "Or are you?  You don't seem to be using that arm very
much -"  He made a lightning jab at the wounded half-elf's
unprotected left side.  
     Kelain ducked, letting his arm swing freely.  He wasn't sure
of the extent of the damage that had been done, but he knew that
he didn't want to use the affected limb unless he had to.  He
kept fighting, switching to a mostly defensive style of combat. 
     Quorl was beating him backwards, closer and closer to the
edge of the building.  "Did I kill your friend, halfbreed?" 
There was a false sympathy in his tone.  "Or perhaps she was your
lover.  She must have died pretty hard with an arrow in her
guts."  
     Kelain tightened his lips, fighting not to explode in a
killing frenzy.  The mocking words cut him more deeply than the
Elf's dagger, but he had to keep control if he wanted to win this
fight.  Alea, I will live to avenge you.
     The tall Elf fought on coolly, unwounded.  His skilled,
lightning-quick thrusts and parries were designed to break down
Kelain's guard and weary him for the final blow.  Kelain avoided
him by dodging backwards frantically, stepping away from the
gleaming arc of Quorl's blade.  The Elf advanced eagerly,
pressing his advantage.
     Finally, Kelain stepped too far, and his feet met only air
beneath them.  He fell backward over the edge without a sound.
Quorl walked casually over to the edge of the tall building,
preparing to gloat over the sight of his victim's body broken on
the street below.  At last, Quorl Freewind would assume his well-
deserved place as the Guild Weapons Master.
     The uncommonly handsome, arrogant Elf was a master thief and
assassin.  He had publically refused to join the Thieves' Guild
in the past when it had been made clear to him that he would have
to join as an apprentice, to be tested after six months for the
rank of journeyman if the Guildmaster thought he merited it. 
Quorl had been forced to curtail his activities in Reshor, the
wealthiest port city in Heth Amon, because of the deadly
efficiency of the Thieves' Guild in dealing with renegades.  But
now, he would join the Guild with his rightful rank - as Weapons
Master, according to the ancient law of thieves.  
     Quorl bent to peer down at the street below, a smugly
satisfied grin on his face.  It occurred to him only too late
that he had never heard the body land.
     Kelain was standing on a tightrope strung between two
convenient window ledges, the tip of his light rapier nearly
level with his shoulder as he prepared to hurl it upwards.  His
gloved hand gripped the middle of the blade tightly.  The
assassin leaped powerfully off of the taut rope, the force of his
throw propelling him nearly to the top of the building.
     The rapier entered Quorl's throat, its wicked point emerging
from the back of his neck stained black with blood.  His mouth
froze open in an endless, silent scream as he toppled over the
edge.
     Kelain caught the rope in the crook of his right arm and
with both legs as he came down, clinging to it tightly.  Quorl
did not.  The blond Elf fell to the hard stones of the street
below, for once in his life with a complete lack of grace.  
     Kelain slashed the rope and dropped down to the cobbled
street, next to the body of his enemy.  Methodically, he dragged
the corpse behind an abandoned storage crate and began to loot. 
The mail shirt was scratched and stained with blood, and the
precious steel weapons were scattered across the roof of the
building, but he would collect them all.  Time enough to complete
his task, and to recall the unbearable agony that waited for him
in the alley behind.  
     The weary half-elf strode down the silent alleyway, his face
gaunt and hollow with grief.  His eyes blazed with a lambent
fire.  As always, Kelain had succeeded with a clever trick.  He 
had neatly outmaneuvered his opponent, and he had won.  But he
had lost the most important battle of all.  
     This time, Death had not been cheated.  No clever trick, no
complex trap, no brilliant fighting maneuver could bring Alea
back to him.  There was no way he could save her, nothing he
could do.
     He stopped halfway down the alley.  Her body was gone. 
Somehow, that did not surprise him.  The scavengers of the city,
both animal and human, had always done their work swiftly.  "So I
have nothing to mourn."  His words were harsh, from a throat
scraped raw with pain.  "I have been cheated...."  His voice
broke, and Kelain put his head in his hands and wept.
XXIII.


     
     The wizard's chamber was as black as a starless night,
despite the brightness of the autumn afternoon outside.  Kelain
glared fiercely into the darkness, dashing the back of his hand
across tear-blurred eyes.  The room came into an eerie focus.  He
studied the wavering, changing hues of violet and scarlet and
brown until he thought knew where the wizard was.
     Tanner was crouched over an altar of carven stone, behind a
velvet curtain that hung from the high domed ceiling.  The
faintest blue glow of magelight outlined his sharply featured
face.  He was casting in total silence, weaving complex
Patternings through the darkness with his slender, bony hands.
     The wizard never finished his spell.  The thin, tempered
steel of a cold-forged dagger sliced through the curtain and took
him across the throat before he could even begin to scream.
     Wearily, the assassin sheathed his weapon and left the high-
walled room in silence.  

XXIV.


     
     Alun was waiting for him when he returned.  The Guildmaster
looked up from his desk to meet emerald eyes that were shattered
with suffering.  "Ashara's mercy, Kelain, what happened to you? 
Do you need a healer?"  His hands and tunic were stained with a
wizard's blood, and with his own.  
     "Alea's dead.  She took the arrow that was meant for me.  I
killed the bastard that did it."  He turned his tortured gaze
away from the Guildmaster.   
     "Orin told me."  His voice held more compassion than Kelain
could bear.  "She thought a great deal of you, you know."
     Kelain looked back at him.  Alun wished he hadn't.  "I
know."  The half-elf's expression was utterly lifeless, reminding
Alun unpleasantly of one of the Unliving.  "She told me before
she died."
     Alun winced, suffering.  "She told you?"  
     Kelain turned his head slowly.  He looked incredibly weary. 
"Told me what, Alun?"
     Alun wondered if he should try to spare Kelain any worse
pain.  "What did she say to you?"
     "Nothing."  He slumped into a chair beside the Guildmaster,
collapsing on it like a badly jointed doll.  "Only that she
wished that there had been more time."  He stared ahead unseeing,
his ancient eyes burning hollowly in a too-young face.
     Almost against his better judgement, Alun decided to offer
what comfort he could.  "Kelain, she loved you.  She went against
the orders of her Guild - against my orders, Kelain - to help
you.  She never told you how she felt because she was afraid that
it wouldn't mean anything to you.  But she did care for you, very
much.  There wasn't time for her to tell you, so I'm going to
assume that she would have wanted you to know."
     Kelain suddenly animated, swiveling around to face him. 
"You knew?"  His voice was deathly quiet.  The Guildmaster
shifted awkwardly in his seat, not wanting to face Kelain.  "You
never told me."  Kelain's voice held the chill of the grave. 
"You bastard."
     Alun ignored the insult.  "I'm sorry, Kelain."  He spoke as
gently as he could.  "I can't tell you how sorry I am.  I always
thought that there would be time -"
     He was cut off by an insane shriek.  "Time?  I had no time!" 
Kelain choked and almost sobbed.  "She held my hand for a moment
before she died.  Do you call that time?"  His voice rose to an
inhuman, unbearable crescendo of sound before it broke.  Putting
his head in his hands, the anguished half-elf leaned heavily on
the hard, comfortless desk and wept.  His slender frame heaved in
silent shudders as Alun looked on in helpless concern. 
     Finally, the Guildmaster unlocked a secret cabinet and
rummaged briefly through a single, well-stocked shelf of potions
and vials.  He put a compassionate hand on the slender half-elf's
shoulder.  "Kelain?  Drink this and sleep.  You'll need the
rest."  Alun slid a small vial of cloudy dark fluid in front of
him.  It was a potent distillate of nefer root, a powerful but
harmless relaxant.
     Kelain looked up and snarled, his face haggard.  "No drugs,
damn you; and no sleep.  Not until it's over.  I've got to get
Cheltie out of there."
     "It's too dangerous.  You can't go in alone."  Alun's brow
furrowed with concern.
     "Try to stop me, Guildmaster."  Kelain's voice held a deadly
indifference.  He rose from his chair and began to walk woodenly
towards the door.
     Alun scowled.  "I'm not going to stop you.  I was planning
to see to the job myself.  Since you insist on going, I'll go
with you."  That got Kelain's attention, and he stopped walking. 
"The politics don't matter anymore, since the Mages' Guild has
given us an unofficial go-ahead.  We can assemble a hand-picked
strike team from the Guild's best and be at his doorstep in a few
hours." 
     Kelain nodded slowly.  "We'll do it your way."  A new light
burned in his eyes.  "I'll tell Orin and Raak we're going in. 
I'll meet you in Thieves' Hall at the next bell."
     "The next bell," Alun echoed.  "I swear to you we'll help
you see this through.  She would have wanted it that way."
     He stared at his Guildmaster for a long time before he
nodded again.  "She died for it, Alun.  Let's make it good." 
Kelain turned to go.
     "I promise," Alun said softly.  For her sake and yours, my
friend, the Guildmaster thought.  The half-elf's footsteps echoed
down the long hallway as he went.
     The depth of the pain in his eyes haunted the Guildmaster
long after he was gone, and Alun wondered uneasily if he had made
the right decision in telling Kelain what he had been cheated of. 
I would have wanted to know, he thought.  Or would I?  With these
and other unhappy musings running painfully through his head, he
went downstairs to tell the Guild.

XXV.


     
     The underground chamber was chill and damp, a welcome
contrast to the blazing sun that beat mercilessly down outside on
the streets of Reshor.  The weather was notoriously fickle near
the coast, and when the strong sea winds died down, the heat
could become unbearable in a matter of hours.  Kelain barely
noticed, though the sweat was running freely down his pale, drawn
face.
     Thieves' Hall was lit by a cold magelight that did nothing
to dispel the gloom.  A spelled glass globe on the ceiling
reflected its eerie blue glow off of the faces of everyone
present.  
     The gathering there was appropriately grim.  Kelain sat 
cloaked in a corner, his face hooded and cast in shadow.  The
Guildmaster stood at the head of the table.  The others were
seated around him, hard and determined expressions on their
faces.  The tall woman nearest Alun spoke up quietly.  "So what
are we up against, Guildmaster?"
     "Our main goal is to get the 'Morph slave away from Vasht. 
Killing the bastard is secondary, since the Mages' Guild can
always finish the job for us.  He'll have too much to worry about
to strike back at us effectively, even if he does survive our
attack."  
     Alun looked everyone squarely in the eye, his gaze passing
over the entire gathering.  "Looting will be allowed only after
we have the Vul.  Any items you loot will need to be checked for
magic; magic items will need to be cleared with the Mages' Guild
before you can keep them.  Otherwise, what you pick up is yours. 
I don't think I have to warn you about traps in a mage's house;
you can bet there will be plenty."
     The tall woman caught and held his gaze chillingly.  "I for
one am not in this for the loot, Guildmaster.  I volunteered
because Alea was blood kin to me and I mean to honorably finish
the job she started.  Tell me what I have to do."
     The heavyset man in a shaman's bearskin shirt was nodding. 
He spoke in a heavy, growling voice.  "I'm with Yvara.  I've seen
too many children that Vasht has hurt."  He added in a softer
tone, "I was a friend to Alea as well."
     "Thank you, Garrin.  Kraegh?"  Alun turned to face the next
man.
     "I have Healed those children."  The slender, sensitive-
looking Human clenched his fists on the table.  "I'm with you."
     Orin piped up loyally.  "I'm going too.  I'm with Kelain." 
He indicated the still form in the corner.  "But I'll take some
loot, too, if there is any."  His voice trailed off in
embarrassment as all eyes turned to him.
     "This is a dangerous job."  Alun regarded the youth levelly. 
Raak grunted in assent.  "Since you're not a Guildmember, you 
don't need to risk yourself on it."  With the tact and compassion
that was his trademark, the Guildmaster refrained from telling
Orin that he would probably just get in the way.
     "I'm going," Orin said stubbornly.  "I'm the only one of you
who's actually been in there.  You guys need me."  He cast a
pleading glance at the impassive half-elf.  "Kelain, tell them. 
I'm your apprentice, aren't I?  Aren't I?"
     The voice that issued from the cloak-wrapped form tore at
them all with its ragged harshness.  "He is."  
     Alun sighed and bowed to expediency.  As an involved
Guildmember, Orin had the right to be included on the expedition. 
"So be it.  Orin, welcome to our Guild.  May you prosper under
its guidance."  
     The Guildmaster pointed to a piece of parchment with a rough
sketch of the interior of a house.  "This is the map Orin drew of
the inside of the place.  Raak, you're to make a distraction in
the front while I go in to get Cheltie.  Kraegh, you'll be
Scrying from just outside of the grounds and staying ready in
case someone gets hurt.  Garrin, you'll be covering Kraegh and
casting your spells from the same position, here."  He indicated
a point on the map.  "Your main job is to neutralize any
offensive magic that might be cast at us.  Yvara, you'll be 
covering us with your bow.  You and Garrin enter combat only if
it can't be avoided; we'll need you where you are.  I'm arranging
for a few more fighters to be between you and the main battle, so
you shouldn't have too much trouble staying out of it."
     "I'll do my part.  Do you think the snake will slither out
when we start to dig up his den?"  The tall woman showed her
teeth in a hard little smile.
     Alun regarded her seriously.  "'Vara, I don't know what
he'll do.  I do know that if he does show, we're going to have to
kill him as quickly as we can.  Garrin's going to be putting up
some heavy shields, so he'll have trouble casting.  But the first
spell Vasht gets off could mean that we're all dead."  The group
nodded collectively, looking grim.  More than one hand went to
rest thoughtfully on the hilt of a weapon.
     A low, gruff voice spoke up.  He seemed to be having
difficulty getting the words out.  "Thank you."  Raak growled
roughly, his voice harsh and strained.  He gazed at each one of
them in turn, his eyes more eloquent than his words could be.  It
was a testimony to the strength of his feelings that he had
spoken at all before a group, something he had not even attempted
to do in many years.
     Alun clapped him soundly on the shoulder.  "We'll get
Cheltie back for you, never fear.  And we'll finish the business
that our Guildsister started.  Are we agreed?"
     "Aye, Guildmaster."  Garrin stood up, his necklace of bear
claws rattling ominously as he moved towards the door.  "Let's
move."   
     They began the long climb up to the sunlight, through a
twisted maze of tunnels and chambers.  A small group of fighters
joined them in the tavern, each of them collecting their payment
in silver and copper before they went.  Kelain followed them all
like a grey, ghostly shadow.  "Yvara, you lead the fighters and
take Canal Street across.  Raak, you and the healers are
approaching from the front.  Kelain and I are going through the
alley."
     "What about me?"  Orin asked, hurrying to keep up with the
rest of the group.
     "Go with the healers, Orin.  Take cover with them."  Alun
brushed the youth off casually, casting a sidelong glance at
Kelain.  He vowed to keep a careful eye on the grieving half-elf,
lest Kelain decide to seek forgetfulness in death.  He never
noticed when Orin detached himself from the party and began to
run with all his might towards the mage's stronghold.
     They assembled in front of the elegant mansion, as if
casually, a few minutes later.  The mercenary band on the
sidewalk broke out into a carefully planned loud argument, rich
with colorful expletives and insults that were calculated to keep
the attention of any passers-by while the strike team moved into
their places.  
     Garrin looked for and found a suitable sanctuary on the
street, behind the cover of a sturdy wagon.  Yvara casually
climbed inside the high-walled cart, readying her powerful
longbow and dumping a goodly supply of arrows beside her from a
large kysk-hide bag.  The healer-mage positioned himself
cautiously by the side of a nearby house, where he could watch
the battle and intervene if needed for the wounded.
     No one but Kelain saw where Alun had gone.  He had already
crawled up the side of the house and had positioned himself
beneath the awning of the covered porch, clinging upside down
like a hornet's nest from the roof.  
     Obedient to the Guildmaster's silent signal, Raak strode
boldly up to the front door and pounded on it, hard.  The
massively built half-ogre was wearing a studded leather and chain
tunic that left his thickly muscled arms bare.  When he bellowed
in berserk wrath and lifted his bunched fists for another assault
on the wooden surface, he was a truly fearsome sight.  Even his
own teammates blanched at his genuine rage. 
     The door swung inward, and a trembling child faced the
savage half-ogre.  He shrieked and scurried backwards on the
tiled floor, nearly falling in his haste to escape the awful
creature.  Raak reached out a huge paw to steady him.  "Wait. 
Not hurt you.  Only want woman back."  As angry as Raak was,
there was nothing in the world that could make him harm a child. 
"I pay."  He rattled a small pouch at his belt.  "Want woman
back."
     The boy eyed him warily, still backing away.  "Which woman
do you want?  We got lots."
     "Fox-woman.  Pretty.  From Painted Lady."  It was almost
painful to Raak to get the words out intelligibly, and he
stuttered and growled more than he actually spoke.  Although the
intelligent and sensitive half-ogre was perfectly capable of
speaking as well or better than any Human scholar, the severe
traumas that he had experienced in his childhood made it
difficult for him to talk freely to anyone save a close and
trusted associate.  But for Cheltie's sake, he did his best.
     "I dunno.  I'll get the boss."  The boy turned and began to
walk down the long hallway, though not without nervous backward
glances.  Raak folded his huge arms in front of his chest and
settled himself in for a long wait.
     The Guildmaster heard a faint rustle behind him, and he was
instantly alert.  He turned to see Kelain crawling into position
beside him, his black-gloved hands and feet gripping the smooth
awning tenaciously.  Alun nodded, a faint light of satisfaction
in his eyes.  It was a good sign that Kelain had decided to go in
with him.  Action would be the best thing for Kelain at this
point, since it would leave him no time to dwell on his grief.  
     Alun sent a silent message with his eyes, indicating the
hallway ahead.  Let's move.  He shot forward with a speed and
grace that belied his less than streamlined appearance, and the
slender half-elf followed.  They moved swiftly and in total
silence across the burnished boards of the ceiling, the roughened
wood affording them a better grip than the cold stone outside. 
Unerringly, they headed into the heart of the mansion.
     Orin was running down the long corridors, his heart pounding
in his small chest.  He banged open doors as he went, searching
for the children.  He found some in the third room he checked. 
"Get the drop, vedru.  You've got to go quick and quiet. 
Something's going down."  They stared at him in disbelief as he
tried unsuccessfully to catch his breath.  "Vasht is getting
jumped tonight.  Do you know where he's got the new fox 'Morph?"
     They all shook their heads.  "So who's taking him out?" one
of the older boys wanted to know.  He chewed his lip nervously,
looking from side to side.  Orin didn't recognize them as members
of his Pack, but that had never made as much difference to him as
it should.    
     He spoke confidently, in the quick, fluid cant slang of the
Pack.  "Thieves' Guild.  Vasht legged the fox 'Morph off them,
and they want her back.  The robes are here, too.  Skaggers are
pretty kicked about the drugs he's done deal, and they're coming
to put him under."  
     Orin started to retreat from the opulent room.  "Leg it,
vedru.  You don't wanna be here when it goes down.  Tell the
others, and get the young ones out first."  He took off running,
looking for the rest of them.  He had to warn the children.
     The youths looked at one another in bewilderment.  Finally,
the oldest one started to move.  "Din'cha hear the man?  Let's
get outta here!"  The others echoed his sentiment, and the small
group began to flee.
     Outside, Raak was waiting impatiently for a reply.  The
entire team was tensed and combat-ready, taut as a drawn
bowstring.   Garrin had already begun his chanting in a low,
barely audible drone.  Slowly but surely, a powerful shield was
forming around the stronghold.  
     Another boy came to the door.  This one was only slightly
less frightened-looking than the first youth.  "We don't have a
fox 'Morph for sale here.  You'll have to go away now."
     Raak sighed mentally.  Frightening children was not his idea
of a good time, but the time had come for a slight demonstration
of his abilities.  His hopes of resolving the issue without
violence were rapidly fading.  
     Raak surveyed the doorframe with an educated eye and chose a
particular point where the stresses and planes of the material
looked most susceptible to buckling.  With a roar and a blow of
his huge fist, he reduced the stout oak boards to a splintered
wreckage.  "Give woman!  Now!"  Raak began to methodically
demolish the front of the mansion, striking the walls heavily
with his gauntleted fists.  The thick plaster powdered and gave
easily under the force of his blows.  He bellowed incoherently as
he shattered and smashed with all of his considerable strength.
The boy turned and ran, shouting for help.  
     Within moments, a troop of armed guards was pouring out the
door to stop the apparently crazed ogre.  Most of them never
reached him; Yvara's heavy bow sang its deadly song seven times
in the space of a few seconds, and half of them dropped where
they stood.  Raak pulled his greatstaff from his back, a stout
length of wood nearly eight feet long.  He faced the remaining
band of soldiers with it, grinning fearsomely.  
     Archers appeared at the windows, firing a rain of arrows
down at the massive half-ogre.   More than one of them found a
mark, lodging in the toughened leather of his armor.  Raak
bellowed and dived for cover as Yvara aimed her bow at the narrow
windows.  She fired more slowly this time, but with deadly
accuracy.  Men tumbled to the yard, thick shafts of quathwood
buried to the fletching in their chests.
     "Get the archer!" someone yelled from the roof.  Yvara
smiled grimly and put another arrow to her bow.  She aimed for
the shouter and got him, and he fell broken to the earth.  Anyone
else want to make a brilliant suggestion, asshole?  She chose
another target at random and let fly.  Very shortly, it was going
to be difficult for anyone in there to persuade anyone else to
show their faces outside, since she was dropping them almost as
fast as they could position themselves at the windows.
     Kraegh was reaching into the building with his mind.  Try as
he might, he could find no trace of Cheltie.  His link to her was
tenuous at best, with only Raak's mental pictures of her to go
on; and he was having a hard time locating her.  Briefly, he
touched the presences of Kelain and his Guildmaster, and the
healer shuddered at the naked torment he saw in the soul of the
half-elf.  He closed his eyes and kept Scrying for the girl.  If
an enemy were to approach, he would know.  He had always Seen
things better without his eyes.
     Inside, two assassins moved stealthily across the high-
walled ceiling.  People were running frantically through the
corridors directly beneath them, but no one noticed the two dark
shapes above.  When the assassins reached their goal, a door at
the end of a dark hallway, they dropped lightly to the floor.  
Alun tested the door cautiously. 
     Is it trapped?  Kelain signaled to his Guildmaster in the
silent, intricate hand code of thieves. 
     Alun shook his head, concentrating on the door.  He tapped
it with the end of his sword.  When nothing happened, he tried
the handle.  It was locked.  He pulled a thin tool from his belt
pouch and inserted it into the lock, probing expertly while 
Kelain stood watch.  There was a satisfying click, and the gold-
plated knob turned easily in the Guildmaster's hand.  Stay.  I'm
going in.  Alun signed his intentions to Kelain, and the other
thief nodded. 
     The Guildmaster slipped into the room.  He was not a weak
man, but his stomach was turned by what he saw.  It was not just
the heavy sensuality of the room, or the lurid tapestries on the
walls; although those were a sight to sicken all but the most
depraved.  The violent rape of young children by deformed
monsters seemed to be the most popular subject of the graphic
murals, although other equally vile subjects competed for space
in the disgusting artworks.
     What sickened Alun the most was the women.  Ranging in age
from perhaps three to no more than twelve, most of them were
sprawled about the room in a drugged slumber.  Lying around them,
with clear evidence of their recent use, were the most obscene
toys Alun had ever seen, obviously designed to cause pain more
than pleasure.    
     Several of the children awakened as the door swung open. 
They moaned and groped blindly at each other, and at the men who
had entered their chamber.  Their faces revealed only dumb desire
as they writhed in a parody of joy.  There was no spark of
humanity or intelligence left in any of them.  Alun searched for
Cheltie among them, not wanting to find her.
     She was lying on a couch in the back of the room, a scarlet
drapery tangled in her long limbs.  Her tawny-furred head lay
limply on the pillow.  Rather than waste time wakening her, Alun
gathered her up in the cloth and carried her from the room with a
sinking heart.  As learned as he was in the lore of assassins, he
knew of no drug that could cause the effects that he was seeing
in the women.  If Cheltie had been mind-burned by sorcery, as
these pitiful children had undoubtedly been, she might well be
beyond any healing that Alun would know how to seek. 
     Kelain was waiting for him at the door.  They began to run,
Alun carrying the unconscious girl in his arms.  They were met by
guards at the junction.  Kelain's rapier was out and flickering
before he realized that they were children, and probably wharf
rats from their shabby garb.  "Skeah dru!" he yelled in
desperation.  "We're Pack-friends.  Don't make me hurt you!" 
They kept coming, and Kelain retreated a step.  Then he saw the
drugged emptiness in their eyes, and he knew that he was going to
have to kill.  He lifted his sword, preparing to run the first
one through.
     Behind him, Alun was busy.  He had dropped the girl and was
pouring the contents of three vials together on the tiled floor. 
A thick, noxious gas began to boil and steam its way into the
room.  Kelain recognized it instantly and breathed a sigh of 
relief.  He and Alun were safely immune to the effects of Miner's
Gas, and it would put everyone else in the room into a deep but
harmless sleep.  
     "Let's move!"  Alun commanded as he scooped up the girl. 
Kelain obeyed with alacrity, preceding his Guildmaster down the
gas-choked hallway.  The wharf rats were coughing and struggling
to stay on their feet, and the pair passed by them with ease. 
They headed for the door at a dead run.
     Orin was still inside when the gas began to leak inside the
mansion.  He reached the wharf rat's quarters and ducked inside,
only to find them empty.  He cursed and spun on his heel, heading
for the door.
     He never made it there.   "What have we here?"  A dry,
sandpapery voice scraped over his raw nerves like a file.  The
bloated, sluglike mage crept closer to the young boy, a horrible
parody of a smile on his face.  "You're a rat, aren't you?"
     Orin thought fast, and swept the floor with a bow.  "Yes,
and your most loyal servant, sir.  Your chatelaine accepted me
yesterday.  Is there anything I can do for you?"  He winked
broadly at the corpulent mage, knowing that there was no chance
that Vasht would take him up on his implied offer with an angry
Guild launching an assault at his front door.
     Vasht smiled again.  The tip of his tongue snaked out to
lick his grossly swollen lips, looking more than anything like a
maggot burrowing into spoiled meat.  "I wish I could take you
with me, my pet, but I can't.  After I kill the stupid half-elf
that caused me all this trouble, I'm going to have to go on a
long, long trip."  
     He reached out with a damp, flabby hand and caressed the
boy's flank intimately.  Orin tried not to shudder.  "And I
haven't even tried you yet.  Well, all does not go as we wish
it."  He tittered, and even Orin could see the depth of the
depraved insanity in his small, piggish eyes.  "Ta ta, my pretty
pet.  If you see the half-elf, bring him to me.  Alive, if
possible, though it really doesn't matter much.  I'd enjoy
strangling him myself in a length of his own intestines.  I'll
even let you watch, if you can find him for me."
     Orin tried to hide his fear and revulsion, but his knees
were visibly shaking.  "As you wish, my Lord."
     The mage turned to leave, waddling with difficulty along the
narrow corridors.  Orin collapsed against the wall and slid
slowly down towards the floor until his rump was resting squarely
on the rug beneath him.  After staring at the safe and comforting
wall for awhile, he became belatedly aware that he was sitting on
something, and he moved over.  The something moved with him. 
     Still half in shock, he reached into one of his back pockets
and pulled out the folded mass of material.  He shook it out and
looked at it.  Realization dawned on him slowly, and he thought
that he had a plan.  
     Orin carefully tucked the mask into a fold of his tunic. 
Chelo, I will make you proud of me.  The cocky youth grinned,
mentally savoring his triumph in deceiving the perverted mage. 
He took off running in a random direction down the hall.
     The battle was going well outside.  Not a single spellcaster
had been sighted so far, and the guards of the stronghold were no
match for the highly skilled strike team.  Yvara's unerring
accuracy with the longbow drove shaft after shaft into any
defender foolish enough to make a good showing on the
battlefield, as well as into any archers who tried to fire down
on the team.  Not one of the defenders had been able to reach her
or the two mages through the determined mercenary band.
     The fighting seemed to be slowing, which was a good thing. 
Yvara had nearly run out of arrows.  She had gotten off more than
five dozen shots, nearly every one of them fatal.  The archer
paused for a moment and wiped her brow, surveying the scene.  
A mercenary woman who was a particular friend of hers, Clankin'
Kath du'Zak, was fighting well today.  She had earned her amusing
sobriquet by choosing to remain in her cumbersome brigantine
armor even away from the battlefield.  She claimed that she was
actually comfortable in the stuff.  It was rumored that she wore
it in and out of bed, regardless of whether or not she was
currently sharing that bed with someone.  No one wanted to repeat
that particular rumor to her face, however.
     Yvara smiled and saluted her privately from behind the
wagon.  Kath was dazzling a hapless guard with a series of fierce
combination blows to the body and head.  The carefully polished
sword she wielded gleamed brightly in the afternoon sun, a sharp
contrast to the dull and battered weapons of most of the other
mercenaries.  Yvara watched with the admiration of one
professional for another as the woman cut down her opponent with
an ease born of long practice.  
     Inside the mansion, Orin hid behind a set of gilded mirrors
and donned the mask.  It was not a perfect fit, and he didn't
know how to properly hide his own mouse-brown hair beneath the
straight black fall of the wig.  Still, the effect was not bad. 
He was of a similar size and build to the wiry half-elf, and
could now easily pass for Kelain at a distance.  He set out
running down the hall to show himself to the guards.
     He saw a few in one of the rooms, conferring seriously with
one another.  "Hey, here I am!  I'm Kelain the half-elf.  Catch
me if you can!"  Orin scurried off quickly behind a corner and
took the mask off, wadding it into his pants.  He whipped off his
tunic and threw it behind him, nearly sitting on it in his haste. 
When the guards ran past, they saw a slender, shirtless youth
whom they hardly paid attention to.  Vasht kept enough of that
sort around the place that another one was hardly remarkable.
     He stifled a chuckle and scooped up his tunic.  Carrying it
over his arm, he made his way to the next gathering of guards.
     The outside strike team had no more opponents left standing. 
Yvara had effectively dealt with the archers, and the potent
combination of a half-ogre backed by a mercenary band had proved
its effectiveness.  Raak threw down his staff and resumed his
assault on the walls, slamming into them with his metal-shod
fists.  He punched and kicked at the structurally weakest areas
of the house, bringing boards and plaster raining down on himself
as he methodically destroyed the mage's stronghold.  
     Raak's main thought was to draw attention away from what
Kelain and Alun were doing, but he did discover that he was
deriving an inordinate amount of satisfaction from the violent
destruction.  He only wished that it were the head of the filthy
creature inside that he were smashing to a pulp.  The walls were
cracking and threatening to fall, and he had to force himself to
stop.  They're still in there, Raak reminded himself forcefully. 
He stepped back.
     There was an explosion of plaster from the half-blocked
doorway, and for a moment, Raak was afraid that he had
miscalculated and caused the structure to collapse too soon.  Two
massive forms covered thickly in white dust burst out of the door
and hurled themselves at Raak in a choking cloud.  When the white
swirl cleared, the team could see the half-ogre locked in combat
with a massive Urs and an obvious Specialist 'Morph, an ugly and
muscular cross between a great cat and a wolf.  They tore at him
mercilessly and with demonic swiftness as he bellowed and tried
to grapple with them.
     Heads up.  Yvara nocked an arrow to her bow and fired,
following it with another for good measure.  One of them stuck in
the bear-thing's shoulder, and it snarled and batted at it with a
paw.  The other arrow missed altogether as the cat-wolf hissed
and dodged like liquid lightning.  
     Kath moved in on the pair and sliced into the creature from
behind.  She struck it a solid blow, but it turned swiftly and
clawed her before she could raise her shield.  The brave warrior 
woman was flung like a broken doll across the yard to land in a
crumpled heap.  
     Yvara could spare no time to wonder whether Kath was dead or
alive, and she aimed another arrow at the creature.  This time
the shaft found its mark, and the cat-wolf squalled and bit at
the arrow in its flank.   It took out its wrath on the
mercenaries, charging for them suddenly and seizing one of them
in its wickedly clawed hands.  Although the 'Morph walked on two
legs, there was nothing even remotely human about the fanged maw
that opened to bite off the man's face.  The man died screaming,
and the thing tossed his corpse aside.  Yvara brought another
arrow up to line.
     The watching shaman increased the tempo of his chant and
added a new line.  He asked Ursa to aid him in controlling the
mind of the bear 'Morph.  When he reached out tentatively with
his shaman's powers, he got only an angry rebuff.  The creature
was not intelligent, but there was too much magic and too much
Human blood in it for it to obey a shaman's Calling.  
     Raak battled with a desperate savagery for his life and for
the life of the woman he loved.  The normally kind and gentle
half-ogre fought without quarter, growling and bellowing as
fiercely as the creature he grappled with.  He was bleeding from
deep gashes in his side and chest, but he never noticed. 
However, the shaman did.
     Garrin sighed and interrupted his chant.  He sent a rapid
mental query to the empath across the road.  Any spellcasters in
there?
     Kraegh answered distractedly.  Only Vasht, and he's headed
for the back door.  I think he's decided it's checkout time.
     Garrin made his decision.  Hold the shields for me.  I'm
going in.  He shifted the complex burden of the woven energies
over to the healer, ignoring the cry of protest in his mind.  
     Shit.  I'm not going to be able to hold this up for long! 
Then, Kraegh could spare no time for recriminations as the full
weight of the magickal shields settled on him.  He could only sit
and concentrate on maintaining them with all his might. 
     Garrin clutched his amulet and began to make his prayer in
the harsh, growling speech that was the speech of the great bears
that lived before men and elves ever came to Terath.  "Ursa,
grant me strength beyond my strength.  Grant me flesh beyond my
flesh.  Grant me Spirit beyond my spirit.  I am the bear."  
     As he spoke the last words, his body swelled and changed,
and Garrin Bearthane assumed his heart's form.  Nearly two
thousand pounds of fighting grizzly bear stood in the place of
the stocky shaman.  It uttered a bull bellow and flung itself at
the abomination.
     Raak was almost bowled over by the force of the charge. 
Garrin reared up to his full height, thirteen imposing feet from
his powerfully clawed hind feet to the end of his fanged muzzle.
He slammed his entire weight down on the bear 'Morph.  The
stunned creature let go of Raak immediately to face his new
opponent.  The half-ogre ducked to grab his staff and headed
straight for the cat-wolf.
     The vicious 'Morph was rampaging amongst the mercenaries,
and it had put at least one more fighter out of the battle.  To
the mercenaries' credit, they had held their lines, preventing
the thing from getting past them to the mages.  
     Raak swung his staff solidly at the thing and managed to
barely graze its shoulder.  Gods, can that thing dodge a blow it
can't see?  It turned on him with blinding speed and raked him
from gut to thigh.  He tried to strike at it again, but it easily
ducked under the swinging length of wood and sprang on him.
     That was a fatal mistake.  Raak's deadly arms closed around
the thing's body and did not let go.  The half-ogre grabbed and
squeezed.
     It raked him with its claws and gashed him badly, but still
he hung on, locking his arms and legs inexorably around the
creature.  Raak grunted with the force of his exertion, and he
heard a rib crack.  It let out a mew of pure anguish, and Raak
knew that he had won.  He squeezed still harder, and he heard
another satisfying snap.  The creature began to suffocate. 
     Yvara didn't dare fire.  The thing was too damn fast to
waste her last, precious arrows on, and now the half-ogre was on
top of it.  She sighed in resignation and kept her bow at the
ready, just in case.
     Raak's iron grip was slipping on fur that was wet with
blood.  Most of the blood was his own, and he could feel himself
weakening.  The creature thrashed with new life as his opponent's
grip slackened.
     A sword thrust neatly past one of Raak's massive biceps to
bury itself in the cat-wolf's right eye.  "I never thought I'd be
fighting 'Morphs again," a woman's voice gasped out.  The
mercenary woman stumbled and almost fell across the body of the 
cat-thing as she tried to lean on her sword and failed.  The
results were less than aesthetic.  
     Raak wearily untangled himself from the creature and helped
the woman up.  The half-ogre felt faintly sick at the sight of
the bloody, corpse-strewn battlefield, and at the memory of his
own unleashed violence.  He could only hope that it was all worth
it.
     Alun and Kelain emerged from the shattered door, carrying
their burden between them.  Raak's face lit up in an incredible
expression of joy.  He ran to them.  
     "We're pulling out!  Let's go!"  Alun handed the unconscious
girl to Raak and started bellowing orders to the team.  "Kraegh!
Get the worst wounded, and let's get out of here!  Move out!"
     If a bear could look guilty, this one did.  The huge form of
the grizzly bear shrank into itself until it became a short,
heavyset man wearing a shaggy and bloodstained shirt, standing
over the mangled body of his foe.  I've got the shields, Kraegh. 
The shaman resumed his burden, falling back into the rhythm of
his protective chant.
     About time, Bearthane.  Kraegh heaved a mental sigh of
relief as he dropped his forced control of the complex magical
energies and began the task he was best suited for.  Raak felt
his wounds beginning to close as he moved towards the healer. 
Several fallen mercenaries began to sit up painfully and blink,
their consciousness restored.
     "The bodies of our own - bring 'em along, or destroy them. 
We don't want them left here.  Remember who's coming along behind
us."  Alun gave the grim orders to the leader of the mercenary
band, who had suffered three losses.  It was no real secret that
the Thieves' Guild was behind the strike, but it would be better
if there was no official proof of it left on the scene.  There
were necromancers among the Black Robes, and for them, death
didn't interfere with a man's ability to answer questions.  Quite
the contrary.
     Alun gave the empath a few nervous minutes to work.  "Now! 
Let's move!"  The team gathered itself together and began limping
for home, the dead and unconscious supported by the survivors.
     A slender hand touched Alun's arm.  "Orin.  Where is he?" 
Kelain's face was drawn with worry.  "I never saw him."
     Kraegh concentrated, furrowing his brow.  "The boy?  I'll
try to find him."
     Orin was running down the hall and laughing silently.  As
soon as he had distracted just one more set of guards from
Kelain's trail, he would go.  He had already seen to it that all
the rats had found their way out, and now it was his turn.  His
teacher was going to be so proud of him.  He looked over his
shoulder to see the guards still in pursuit.  He'd been running
in the mask a long time, and he was starting to get more than a
little nervous.  There didn't seem to be anywhere to duck in this
corridor.  As soon as he found some cover, any cover, he would
take off the mask and shirt and -
     Orin stopped running.  Vasht stood before him, his heavily
brocaded robes draped unattractively around his bloated frame. 
"What have we here," the mage whispered delightedly.  He raised a
thick, meaty hand, and the boy found that he could no longer
breathe.  His eyes bulged out of his skull as he tried to fight
the rising pressure in his chest and the overwhelming weight on
his mind.  "This isn't the halfbreed.  It's his student.  Well,
you'll just have to do for the pleasures I had in mind.  This is
going to be fun."
     The guards came up behind him, running.  "Lord, we have
caught him for you.  Here he is."  One of them spoke up
unctuously.  Vasht could read in his small, cramped mind that he
hoped for a reward.  
     The mage tittered.  "You fool.  This isn't even the right
one.  Didn't you know that?  Still, I suppose you deserve
something for your pleasure.  You can have all of the boys and
girls in my private rooms.  You can even kill them, if you'd
like.  I'm tired of them.  I've got something new to play with."
     His attention remained fixed on the guard for a moment
longer.  Orin struggled, and made the supreme effort of his life. 
He reached for the bit of ground-down steel in his boot.  Not a
dagger, really; he had never been able to afford one.  There were
a lot of things Orin had never been able to do, and now he
regretted every single one of them.
     Orin never considered himself to be a particularly brave
boy, but he would have been startled to realize that he had more
courage than most men would have shown in his place.  While Vasht
was bantering with the guard, he summoned the energies of his
center as Kelain had taught him.  With the desperate strength of
will, he broke free of the enchantment and launched himself at
his target.  Teacher, be proud of me.  
     The knife bit deeply into the mage's chest, and he screamed
in surprise and anger and unleashed a levinbolt that filled the
corridor with a blinding light.  When the smoke had cleared, a
small body lay crumpled at the mage's feet.
     Vasht gazed down at the blasted corpse, dissatisfied.   His
wound was already closing, and he paid little attention to it. 
"It won't be nearly as much fun with him, now," he pouted.  "No
reward for you, Onger.  I'll just play with you instead."  He
made a fist in the air and held it.  The guard cried out in
wretched agony as his internal organs were slowly crushed by an
unseen hand.  "I haven't much more time for this, really."  
     He turned to go, releasing the mortally wounded guard. 
Blood was seeping with an alarming rapidity out of the man's
mouth, staining his shirt a dull red.  He was breathing in great
hoarse gasps, whimpering and writhing in agony.  
     Vasht savored the sight for just another delicious moment
before he began to whisper the words.  The emanations of spilled
blood and pain could only aid him in his efforts to teleport
himself to a place where no one could follow, whether vengeful
assassin or Guild mage.
     Kraegh broke off his Scrying, his face ashen.  "He's in
there, but he's dead.  There's nothing we can do for him."
     Kelain whirled to face him, his face white and staring.  "He
can't be dead.  I'm going in after him."  He started to run
towards the crumbling mansion.
     Alun grabbed his arm.  "Kelain, you can't do that.  I'm
ordering you back to the Guild."
     Kraegh added, "Vasht is still in there, and the shield's
down.  It would be suicide to go back now."
     He snarled an obscenity in gutter cant at both of them and
broke away from his Guildmaster.  "I'm going, damn you all.  I
have to get his body.  I owe him that much, at least.  I can't
let them have him."  He ran for the mansion.
     Alun sprinted for him, but it was Raak who got there first. 
The half-ogre intercepted him with a body block and slammed a
heavy punch into Kelain's jaw.  As he reeled, dazed, Alun yelled
for the healers.  "Sleep him!  Both of you!"
     Garrin and Kraegh immediately turned the shared power of
their concentration on the stunned half-elf.  Even in his
weakened state, he fought them and cursed.  He finally slumped,
and Alun caught him as gently as he could.  The Guildmaster shook
his head sadly and helped Garrin carry his wounded friend home.  
XXVI.


     
     Raak laid her down on the soft pallet and took her tawny-
furred hand in his own.  He looked with mute pleading at the
healer, his huge, liquid brown eyes eloquently expressing his
concern.
     Kraegh took pity on the half-ogre.  "I think she'll be all
right, Raak.  She's been drugged, but not like the others were." 
He shuddered, remembering what had needed to be done for the
women who had wandered out, afterward.  "I think she was on a
heavy dose of dreamdust, and possibly sopa leaf or another
sleeping draught."  
     Kraegh sighed and stroked her head with the feather-light
touch of an empath.  "I've already given her an antidote, but
from what I can read in her mind, she has not returned to her
body because she does not wish to.  She knows that she has only
horror and abuse to come back to."  The slight man felt the red
anger emanating from the half-ogre, and added hastily,  "Not from
you.  As far as she knows, she's still with Vasht."
     Raak looked at the healer helplessly.  Although he would
have been willing and able to speak with the healer alone, there
were others watching in Healer's Hall.  Reach for her mind,
Kraegh.  Tell her that I am here for her.  That nothing will harm
her, ever again.  Please.
     The pale, slightly built empath answered him directly.  "I
can try, Raak; but you're the one that needs to tell her."  He
reached out with a delicate-looking hand and brushed it across
Raak's face.  "Close your eyes.  Reach out to her in your mind." 
The half-ogre gripped Cheltie's hand even more firmly as he
strove to touch her fading consciousness.  Raak had always been
grounded firmly to his body, and he found it difficult to reach
beyond its boundaries.  But for Cheltie's sake, he had to try. 
He gritted his teeth and furrowed his brow with the immense
effort.
     He felt something pressing on him from behind, pushing him
forward into her mind.  Its touch was light and deft, and he
recognized the feel of it instantly.  Thank you, Kraegh.  He
could feel her now, even through the drug-induced haze.  He was
touching her soul.
     Go away.  He didn't hear the words, exactly; but that was
the feeling that was being projected.  Want to sleep.
     Hurt, he projected back.  Cheltie, I love you.  Come back to
me. 
     He was met with fear and the memory of brutality.  No
hurt/no pain here.  Safe.  Please let me stay.  She was slipping
away from him, rejecting the mental contact.  
     Behind him, Kraegh drew his breath in sharply.  "We're
losing her, Raak.  You've got to bring her back, or her body will
die."
     His long-suppressed emotions welled up in him like a tide,
and he threw at her all the fierce strength of his hoarded
passion.  You've got to come back, Cheltie, or you'll die!  I
love you!  Please come back to me!  He projected a clear picture
of what awaited her, a safe haven in his strong arms.  I swear,
nothing will ever hurt you again.  I won't let it.  He surrounded
her, enveloped her with his caring.  Come back to me.  He lifted
her gently with the full force of his being and pushed her firmly
back into her body.
     Her eyes fluttered and opened.  "Raak?"
     He tried to embrace her, but his body would not obey him. 
Raak felt a mental wrenching, and suddenly he was able to move.  
     The healer was standing at his shoulder, an astonished look
on his face.  "You went all the way out of your body, there.  And
you pulled her back all by yourself.  You shouldn't have been
able to do that."  The expression on his face was almost comical. 
"That kind of strength is rare, even in a full mage.  I think you
ought to apply for mage training, Raak.  We could always use a
few more healers in the Guild.  I'd be glad to teach you, if
you're interested...."
     Raak was not listening to a word the healer said.  His world
was Cheltie.  The burly half-ogre held her as tightly as he
dared, burying his homely face in her soft, silky fur.  "Oh,
Cheltie.  I'm so glad to have you back.  I was worried about
you."  He never even noticed that he was talking.
     She started to cry.  "He hurt me, Raak.  It hurts so much."
     His own eyes were wet with tears.  "It's all over, love. 
Nothing will ever hurt you again."  He lifted her and held her
close to him with gentle strength.  "I promise."
     She was still sobbing.  "He gave me all the drugs I wanted,
but it only made it worse.  It gave me nightmares, and I didn't
know who I was anymore, and I still remember everything.  I don't
want to take any more drugs again, ever."
     "That's an excellent idea, Cheltie."  Kraegh commented from
behind them.  Raak had entirely forgotten that the healer was
there, and he started.  He could feel his chest and throat
clenching up again, and there was nothing he could do about it.  
     The kindly and sensitive empath put a hand on his massive
arm.  "Raak, you can always talk to me if you want to.  I promise
I will never laugh at you."  He met the half-ogre's gaze squarely
and spoke with the unmistakable sincerity of an open telepath. 
Somehow, his words penetrated to a place in Raak's soul that had
not been touched in years, and Raak believed him utterly.
     He shook his head in astonishment.  How did he know?  Every
time Raak started to speak in front of a crowd, the painful
childhood memories of being taunted for being a stupid ogre tore
at him and made it impossible for him to talk.  Then he grinned
wryly.  Of course.
     "I can help you with that, if you like.  When those feelings
happen, you may believe that you physically can't talk, but
what's really happening is that your mind is still sending an old
message to your body.  If you've enough talent to leave your body
on an astral Searching, you've more than enough talent to go into
your own mind and fix that blockage."
     Raak swept up Cheltie in his arms.  She clung to him softly,
and he kissed her.  She smiled up at him through her tears, and
he nodded gratefully at Kraegh.  "I'll take you up on that, my
friend.  Later."
     "Later," Kraegh echoed, and smiled.  
     He carried her through the long halls of the Guild, up to
the quiet sanctuary of his room.  
XXVII.


     
     His eyes were hollow, and incredibly ancient.  The gaunt-
looking half-elf sat unseeing in the tavern, a small glass of
irryban in his hand.  The Guildmaster slid into the booth beside
Kelain, shaking his head in mingled pity and disgust.  He caught
the eye of one of the tavern slaves.  "Server!  Bring a bowl of
stew and an ale over here."  
     Alun had never stopped trying to reach Kelain since the
raid, but he had enjoyed precious little success.  "Damn it, man,
you've eaten next to nothing for the past week.  What is that
you're drinking?  Irryban dreamdraught?"  
     The Guildmaster felt an internal disquiet.  Irryban was
hardly an illegal or even very potent drug, but he never thought
that he would live to see the day that the stiff-necked half-elf
would take refuge in such a thing.  He added in a softer voice,
"Does it help you forget?"
     Kelain never looked at him, preferring to gaze at the cold
stone wall.  "No, Alun.  It helps me remember."
The Guildmaster shuddered, imagining Kelain's continual torment
enhanced by the drug.  "Why drink it, then?"  Alun wanted to dash
the glass from his hand and shatter it on the floor.
     Kelain turned dead eyes on him.  "I prefer to remember.  And
to be left alone, Guildmaster."  There was absolutely no
expression in his voice, and it made Alun wince.  
     Their stew arrived. "I'll leave when you eat this, and no
sooner."  Alun shoved the steaming bowl in front of Kelain and
folded his arms across his chest.  Reluctantly, not looking at
the food, Kelain began to spoon it in.  The Guildmaster watched
until he was satisfied, then rose to go.  "And drink ale, damn
you.  Not that irryban gheb'sh."  He wasn't even sure that Kelain
heard his parting shot, though it was more than likely that
everyone else in the tavern had.  Sighing, he left the room.
     The Healer's Hall was bright and well-lit, but the
Guildmaster's gloom seemed to darken the spacious chamber.  Alun
nodded briskly to the man who was steadily crushing dried herbs
to a powder with a stone pestle.  "I need your help."  He didn't
elaborate further, knowing that Kraegh would easily read the
thoughts that were uppermost in his mind.  
     The empath sighed.  "There is little I can do for him, Alun. 
He will allow nothing to ease his pain, not even in his dreams. 
I have tried, and his answer is to drink irryban."  Kraegh's face
drew itself into a grimace of disgust.  The mild stimulant,
chemically related to the more potent dreamdust, had the opposite
effect on the imbiber.  Instead of clouding memories and
emotions, it tended to make them even more sharp and clear.  "He
feels that he deserves no less for what he has done."
     "What does he think he did?"  All of Alun's pent-up fury
suddenly exploded, and he was nearly shouting.  "Does that self-
centered bastard think that he is the cause of everything that
happens in the universe?"
     "He believes he is to blame for the deaths of Alea and
Orin."  Kraegh stated simply.  "If Alea had not loved him, and if
Kelain had not agreed that Orin had a right to go on the raid,
neither of them would be dead.  That is his reasoning."  The
healer made a wry face.  "I got that much before he found me
walking through his dreams and tossed me out.  His mind is
strong.  If he or his friend Raak ever decided to learn another
trade, we could easily have two more full mages in the Guild."
     "That's ridiculous.  About it being his fault, I mean."  He
amended his statement hastily, having no desire to contradict the
powerful Talent in his own specialty.  "Alea chose to help him of
her own free will, and I suspect that Orin would have done what
he did in any case."  Alun looked questioningly at the healer.
     "You're right.  The boy was determined to go."  He was
nodding.
     Alun felt a sudden twinge of guilt.  "Perhaps I should have
watched the cub more carefully - "
     The healer cut him off.  "No.  Believe me, there was nothing
you could have done.  You ordered him to stay with us, but he
disobeyed you.  He never reached our group, and we had no time to
look for him."
     "As you say."  The pragmatic Guildmaster dismissed the
matter from his mind.  "There is nothing you can do for Kelain?" 
     "Not until he consents, and that he will not do until he
gives up his guilt."  Kraegh shook his head sadly.  "Which he is
not likely to do soon.  To lose a love before it can be or a
student before he can learn are terribly hard things.  Kelain has
lost both at once.  Time will be his best healer."
     The Guildmaster nodded and left the Hall.  It was time to
catch up on some of the long-neglected paperwork that he had been
ignoring in favor of trying to help his friend.  It was time to
get back to work.  
     He descended the deep staircase with an attitude of
resignation.  He was not looking forward to dealing with the
stacks that had built up since the raid.  He seated himself at
his desk and began to peruse the thin sheets of beaten and
pressed wood pulp with more than a little distaste.  The usual
apprenticeship records, merchant accounts, spies' reports of
intrigue and tithe scrolls stared dismally up at him as he began
to shuffle through the stacks.  Until he found a piece of paper
that made him sit bolt upright and open his eyes in stunned
surprise.
     Alun had always been a man of action, and he saw no reason
to change that now.  He jumped out of his chair and summoned one
of his pages.  He sent the boy off on the errand with the
promised bonus of a silver piece if he ran his fastest, and
headed downstairs with no little satisfaction.
     Kelain was gone when he arrived in the large, smoky tavern. 
He made a few judicious inquiries, and learned that the morose
half-elf had last been seen heading in the direction of the Pits,
Reshor's famed gladiatorial arena.  Alun wondered what in the
world Kelain would be doing there.  Then he was afraid he knew.
     He ran for the Healer's Hall, yelling.  Kraegh met him
halfway across the yard.  "I heard you, Guildmaster."  Alun knew
that the healer wasn't speaking literally; chances were that he
had picked up the Guildmaster's cry telepathically.  "You think
that Kelain's gone for the arena?"
     Alun nodded grimly.  "Looks like it."  He wouldn't normally
be worried, since he knew that Kelain's fighting prowess equalled
or exceeded that of almost any professional fighter in the city,
but he suspected that Kelain might be deliberately fighting to
lose. 
     Kraegh closed his eyes and concentrated for a long moment. 
"No.  He's in the audience, not the arena.  He's watching from
the benches, but his mind is closed to me.  I can't get through
to him without hurting him."  He looked sad, and suddenly years
older.  "He doesn't deserve any more pain."
     Alun had to agree with him.  "I'll have to send a runner,
then.  I need him in my office right away." 
     "What's up, Guildmaster?"  Kraegh looked at him curiously.  
Alun grinned and opened his mind.  "That's what's up.  Feel
better?"
     His reply was a beautiful chorus of sound and color in his
mind as the powerful empath smiled broadly.  Much better, Alun. 
"I'll tap one of my apprentices to get him.  At least one of the
small nuisances must be in the area."  The warmth of his tone
belied his disparaging words.  Kraegh was well known for his
kindness to younglings, especially his own students.
     "Thanks, Kraegh.  I'll be waiting in my office."  
     The healer closed his eyes and reached out with his mind. 
Apprentice, report!  Kraegh grinned at the bewilderment in his
student's mind.   The boy was new to his training, and it was
obvious that he still wasn't entirely used to hearing voices in
his mind.  I can see that you're at the gambling booth near the
arena.  No, I'm not mad at you.  At least, I won't be if you can
run a short errand for the Guildmaster.  Go and find the one who
looks like this -  He projected a clear picture of the brooding
half-elf to his apprentice.  Tell him that the Guildmaster wants
him in his office, immediately.  And tell him it's good news.  
He deftly withdrew himself from the boy's mind and sat back in
his chair, pleased with himself.   
     Tarvi Aldana scurried as fast as his small feet could take
him, away from the brightly painted canvas tents of the
gamesters.  He vowed silently to himself to never, never do
anything that the master might disapprove of.  Having an teacher
who could read your mind no matter where you were had its
disadvantages, even if he was apprenticed to the best Healer in
the most powerful Guild of Reshor.
     Tarvi entered the arena with little difficulty, reaching out
to blank the money-taker's mind as he passed by without paying. 
No sense in spending good copper when I don't have to, he thought
cheerily.   Then, belatedly: I hope Kraegh doesn't mind.  That
spoiled his enjoyment of the deed somewhat.
     The sun beat mercilessly down on the unshaded benches of the
stadium and the baked sands of the arena.   Sellers of paper
shade-canopies and brightly colored silken parasols could be seen
doing a brisk business in the aisles, and many of the wealthier
among the crowd were indulging in their wares.  The odors of
sticky pastries, strips of roasted meat, salted leng-nuts and
other savory treats being sold by the arena vendors competed for
prominence in the air.   
     Tarvi took a long and hungry sniff at the deliciously
mingled odors, but he knew that his stomach's satisfaction would
have to wait until he had run the requested errand.  Afterward,
there would be time enough to beg a bite from a soft-hearted
cook, or perhaps to try to glamour someone into taking a rock
instead of a copper piece.  He wasn't sure he could manage that
trick yet, but he thought he might try it.  After he had asked
permission of his master, he amended mentally.
     He surveyed the crowd dubiously.  It would be the work of
several hours to search each row of patrons, but with a little
help from his Talent, he might yet manage to accomplish his goal
and return to the Guild in time for lunch.  Tarvi carefully
recalled the mental image that Kraegh had given him, and
concentrated.  
     What he was attempting would have been far easier if he had
ever met the person in question.  It was difficult to get enough
of a person's mental "feel" from a simple mind-image to single
him out of a crowd.  Still, Kraegh projected some pretty good
pictures, not like the ones he used to have to pick out of his
packmates' minds.  Tarvi closed his eyes and tried as hard as he
could to tune into this nameless person's aura.
     He slammed up against something hard, and he nearly choked. 
This one had to be the strongest mind in the crowd, and it was 
projecting something fierce.  A barrier of raw pain and mental
anguish was blocking his attempts to reach out to it, and he was
surprised that the owner of that agony wasn't screaming loud
enough for him to hear across the arena.   He retreated hastily
from the mental contact, but not before he had determined that
this was the person he had been sent for.
     Tarvi took off at a fast run towards the mind that he had
sensed, broadcasting loudly to his master at the same time.  I
found him, but I think he's hurt or in trouble.  Send help!
     The answer came back almost before he had time to send it. 
Don't panic.  Stay in contact.  Kraegh was afraid that Alun's
worst fears had been confirmed, and he focused his awareness
grimly through the boy's mind.  He reached out to do a tentative
Scrying on the half-elf, carefully keeping his sensings strictly
on the physical plane so as not to trigger Kelain's barriers.  
     The Healer and his student came to the same conclusion at
about the same time, just as Tarvi completed his breathless run. 
He's not hurt.  At least, not physically.  Both of them breathed
a single sigh of relief.
     The slender half-elf was gazing moodily at the spectacle of
the pit fights, a tall glass of dark liquid in his hand.  The
look in his eyes was disquieting as he watched the combatants
slash and hack at one another with their blunted metal swords. 
"Sir, the Guildmaster wants to see you in his office right away. 
Master Kraegh told me to say that it's good news."  Tarvi gasped
the message out.
     Kelain barely looked at him.  He drained the glass.  "Tell
him I'll be there."  
     Kraegh mentally prompted his student.  "Uh, my teacher wants
to know what you were doing here," Tarvi asked hesitantly.
     Kelain turned and regarded the youth.  Tarvi wished he
hadn't.  "They wouldn't serve me any more irryban at the tavern,
so I took my business elsewhere.  You can tell Kraegh that for
me."
     "You weren't registering to fight?"  Tarvi spoke the words
that Kraegh put into his mind reluctantly.  He didn't feel right,
somehow, questioning this somber man.
     A sour look appeared on Kelain's face.  "Is that your
business?"
     "It's your Guildmaster's business."  Kraegh prompted him to
speak sternly, and he did his best.
     Kelain sighed resignedly.  "It isn't that easy to get into
the lists, you know."
     "So you're not fighting today."  Tarvi spoke quickly, as
soon as the words formed in his mind.  He could feel Kraegh's
mental chuckle.  He'll fall neatly for this one.
     "No, I'm fighting -"  He stopped and shook his head,
acknowledging defeat.  "Tomorrow.  You bastard.  Is that Kraegh
talking through you?"
     Tarvi nodded.  "He wants you to go back to the Guildhouse in
a hurry.  He says there's something there that you should
definitely see.  He feels happy about it."
     Kelain shrugged with cold indifference and started walking
towards the nearest exit.  "Well enough.  Though if he thinks he
can keep me from the arena tomorrow, he's sadly mistaken."
     Is that what we're going to do?  Tarvi queried.  Stop him
from fighting? 
     No.  The Healer replied flatly.  And if you're hungry, you
just head on home.  There's enough prejudice against our kind
without you adding to it by putting rocks in someone's money
pouch.  If you steal, do it wisely and in a way that won't cause
trouble for those with the Talent.   Do you understand?
     His answer was subdued.  Yes, Teacher.  I understand.  But
can I -  He swiftly outlined an alternative plan.
     All right.  But be careful, and don't get caught if you
steal.  If you do get caught, don't use your Gift.  Remember, the
Guild will take care of you.
     Tarvi nodded and cut off the communication.  Before he made
his way back to the Guildhouse, he found a vendor selling
delicious-looking cakes and pies from a small cart.  Those
pastries smelled awfully good, and though he was fed heartily
enough at the Guildhall, he rarely saw such treats at the
apprentice's mess.  
     He rubbed his eyes with his grubby fingers to make them
start to tear, and he put on his most pitiful expression. 
"Merchant-Lady, I'm hungry and I haven't any money.  Some bigger
boys beat me and took everything I had, and I haven't eaten all
day."  He sniffled a little, and reached out to her mind.  He
discovered almost instantly from her surface thoughts that she
had a son about his age, and set about intensifying her emotional
identification of him with her son.  If your son was hungry and
got beat up, you'd want someone to give him a hand.  Wouldn't
you?
     His ploy worked beautifully.  "Of course, child."  She took
several slightly broken pastries from the lower shelf of the cart
and made a blessing sign at him.  "You can have all of these,
since they've been out all day and I can't sell them tomorrow." 
She looked thoughtful as she handed the lot to him.  "Merciful
'Shara, you remind me of my son for some reason.  I hope you get
home all right."
     He brightened up suspiciously quickly when she gave him the
pastries, sticky with honey and boiled nut paste.  "Thanks,
Merchant-Lady.  I'll be all right.  Bye."  He ducked his head to
take a swift bite of the one in his hand, supporting the rest of
them in the crook of his elbow.  Balancing them all the way home
would be an awful chore, so he decided to eat as many of them as
he could along the way.  He nibbled briskly on the crisp cakes as
he sauntered towards the arena doors.
     He hadn't quite made it there when a shape interposed itself
in front of him.  "Heyla, cubling.  Those pastries look good. 
Why don't you give them to me?"  A tough, whipcord-thin youth was
standing there and smiling nastily, his hand halfway inside his 
tunic.  It was obvious that a sharpened blade waited there for
him if he gave any argument.
     Tarvi thought fast.  He grinned back at him, trying not to
show his fear.  "Because if I say the word, my dad will kick your
balls so hard you'll be wearing them for a necklace."  He jerked
a thumb at one of the burly, leather-clad arena fighters.  The
warriors were deep in a conversation about weapons and tactics,
and they ignored the two boys behind them.
     The youth looked at him in disbelief, and Tarvi reached out
for the fighter's mind just as he turned to offer him a pastry. 
"Here, want a piece of cake?"  You're really hungry.  Say,
`thanks, son'.
     The man took it with obvious gratitude.  "Thanks, son.  I
sure was hungry."  
     Tarvi gave the youth a meaningful look, and he vanished
rapidly into the crowd.  "You're welcome.  I hope you enjoy the
cake."  He walked off, whistling.
     That was well done, Tarvi.   His teacher's voice sounded
unexpectedly in his mind.  You got your pastries by encouraging a
woman's good conscience, and you took no more than she could 
afford.  And you defended them without using your Talent openly. 
I would say that you have well earned your treats. 
     Tarvi basked in the warmth of his master's approval.  Thank
you, Teacher.
     Just one thing.  Kraegh sounded suddenly disturbed, and
Tarvi quailed.
     Yes, Teacher?
     You do not intend to eat all of these cakes at once?  You
will surely be very sick if you do.
     Tarvi laughed aloud in relief.  I'll save one for you,
Master.  Don't worry.    He could hear Kraegh chuckling in his
mind all the way home.

XXVIII.


     
     Kelain moved slowly down the stairs to his Guildmaster's
office, still silent, but without the casual grace that had
always marked his stride.  The slender half-elf seemed almost
wraithlike as he drifted down the narrow hall.  He was only glad
that his grief might end tomorrow, if the gods were with him.
     He opened the door and froze.   An illusion stood
confronting him, a cruel mockery of his heart's desire.  He
opened his mouth to scream, to curse Alun, or to blaspheme the
gods, he knew not which; and she spoke to him.  "Gods, Kelain,
you look like hell.  What happened to you?"
     His heart refused to be believe what his eyes were telling
him.  He turned to his Guildmaster.  "Alun?"  His voice was
shaking.
     The Guildmaster was smiling.  "She's alive, Kelain.  She
made it.  Alea was our Mages' Guild liaison, and they didn't send
her in without protection.  As soon as she lost consciousness,
the amulet she was wearing teleported her straight to the best of
their own Guild Healers."
     Alea gave him a dry look.  "I was dead when they got me,
actually.  Thanks to my father's amulet, they started the Healing
fast enough to force me back into my body.   Since the bastard
also used poison on his crossbow, as if that damn hollow-shaft
wasn't enough, it took them nearly a week to finish the job."
     Kelain nodded dumbly.  Alun continued.  "She's the
Guildmaster's daughter, in case she hadn't told you.  Her father
developed that particular amulet not too long ago, and I think
I'll order a few for us if he can spare the time.  They've
certainly proved their worth."
     Kelain continued to stare at Alea, his hungry eyes drinking
in every detail of her face and form.  He didn't trust himself to
speak for a long moment.  When he did, his voice was hoarse.  "I
hope that you are feeling better now, Alea.  I apologize for
putting you into danger."   He heard footsteps behind him, but he
ignored them, recognizing Raak's distinctive tread.  
     Alea looked hurt.  "Kysk shit.  I chose my own path, and I'd
do it again if I had to."  Her tone was defiant.  "Don't you know
why?"
     He never heard what she was saying.  "I'm sorry if I've
offended you.  That was not my intent."  
     What he wanted to do was to take her in his arms and hold
her to him tightly enough to reassure him that she was really
there, but he didn't dare.  He was too afraid that she wouldn't
want him, especially after what he had put her through.  His old,
vicious self-doubts gnawed at him with a renewed intensity.
     Kelain tried to take a step backwards, and he found himself
pressed up against the warm and solid body of his friend Raak. 
The half-ogre had moved his massive self in front of the door and
was standing there with his arms folded in front of him.  His
homely face wore an exasperated look.
     Alun leaned casually forward in his chair.  "Kelain, if you
don't find something nicer to say to the woman who saved your
life because she cared enough about you to tell two Guildmasters
to go to hell, I think that I may throw you out of this Guild for
real.  Do we understand one another?"  Raak grunted loudly in
accord.
     Kelain turned a bewildered glance on Alea, who was smiling
gladly at him.  He felt a large and firm hand give him a push
from behind, and he moved towards her.  "My lady, I believe that
I still owe you a dinner?"  She nodded.  "Then perhaps you would
care to join me this evening?"  Hesitantly, with an odd and
gentle courtliness, he took her hand.
     She clasped his careworn fingers in her own.  Perhaps
someday, he would be ready to accept that he could do more than
this, and that she would not refuse him.  Alun had told her of
the depths of his bitter self-hatred, and her heart ached with
the need to reassure him.  But until then, she would be content
with this simple touch.  "I thought you'd never ask.  Shall we
go?"  
     Raak met their eyes before he stepped aside from the door,
and his look was a quiet triumph.  He nodded to the two of them,
and his silence was as eloquent as any words could have been.
     "Good luck.  Good luck to both of you."  The Guildmaster was
smiling as they left the hall together.   "And may the Goddess
bless you both."
     They turned and saluted him a final time before ascending
the narrow stair to the bright world above.