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  Perhaps that was why he didn’t tell Lhasha the truth. He was ashamed at his failure to recognize the proof of the steward’s deception until it was too late. Or maybe he just felt he needed to keep something back, keep something hidden. He had bared his soul to Lhasha, left himself vulnerable. It was almost as if by keeping this one secret he could somehow convince himself that he had only told Lhasha as much as he wanted to, rather than what he needed to.

  “I just know it was Fhazail,” was the only explanation he offered his companion. “And so I spared my own life, in the slim hope that I might someday meet the traitor again and slit his throat.

  “I was a protector, a guardian. My life had meaning. But when I lost my hand, my friends, and my profession, I lost everything. All that’s left is revenge. The faint hope that I may someday draw my blade across Fhazail’s throat.”

  Lhasha shook her head sympathetically. “You have to let go of the past Corin. You have to move forward. If you don’t, you truly are as dead as you claim.”

  “What is there for me to move on to?” he demanded angrily.

  “Protecting me, for one thing,” she replied.

  Corin didn’t reply, but stared pointedly at the table.

  Suddenly Lhasha spoke up, her high voice rising to a squeal in her excitement. “I know! It’s so simple, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier—you need to move forward, to start a new life for yourself, to find a new purpose. You could become my apprentice!”

  Without speaking, without even looking up from the table, Corin lifted his stump as if that explained everything.

  “That’s just an excuse,” Lhasha chided. “I can pick a lock or a pocket with either hand, and you don’t use your arms to move unnoticed through the shadows.”

  Now Corin did look up, fixing her with angry eyes.

  “What makes you think I want to skulk through the night and rob people? Do I look like a thief?”

  Caught off guard by the venom in his voice, the halfelf stammered out a reply. “I only meant … well, at least you’d be challenging yourself. You’d be learning some new skills, instead of lamenting what you had lost. Doing something besides wasting your life away in pathetic self-pity.”

  Corin didn’t say anything, but merely sat in stoic silence—effectively ending their conversation. Faced with the impenetrable wall of stubborn quiet, Lhasha finally got up and left the warrior alone at the table. Corin noticed a score of eager young men were quick to swoop in and welcome the tavern’s most popular partner back to the dance floor.

  Corin watched the half-elf twirling to the music of the band. She spun wildly, as if trying to dance away her anger and frustration. Corin knew she had done all she could to reach him. Lhasha had offered her help, and he had rejected it. In fact, Corin realized, he had rejected her.

  Several hours later, as they were each about to retire to their respective rooms, Corin awkwardly broke his silence.

  “If you are still willing to teach me your trade, Lhasha, I would be willing to learn.”

  With a soft laugh and a warm smile she said, “Life is too short to carry grudges, Corin. Fendel taught me that. We can start tomorrow.”

  Fhazail’s breath came in wheezing gasps. Sweat was running down his brow, dripping off his nose, chin, and even his flapping jowls as he trotted down the dark passage, his way lit only by the sputtering torch he held in his right hand. He wasn’t used to such physical exertion. His muscles cried out in agony, threatening to knot up in cramps with every step. His heart thudded against the cage of his chest with the relentless violence of a barbarian berserker tossed into a cell at the Jailgates.

  He didn’t dare slow down. Fear kept him going. Not the fear of the shadows and creatures in the tunnel that scattered before the torchlight then closed in again in the darkness behind him, but fear of what lay at the end of the meeting. He was already late, and if he dared to stop the delay could have consequences far worse than agonizing cramps or an exploding heart.

  As he continued to twist and wind his way through the labyrinth carved out beneath the Elversult streets, Fhazail cursed the unknown smugglers who had constructed the passages. The original builders had all died centuries ago, but as the network of tunnels grew and expanded the same meandering, irregular pattern had been adopted by the new builders. Some claimed the labyrinth was intentionally confusing as a way to thwart thieves and the Maces alike. Others just said an Elversult smuggler’s mind was too twisted to even think in a straight line, let alone excavate that way.

  At last, Fhazail could see a faint glow ahead. He doubled his lagging pace, and moments later he rounded a corner and found himself face to face with his appointment.

  Or rather, face to chest. Fhazail’s own gaze didn’t even come up to the shoulders of the mighty orog who stood before him, filling up most of the tiny chamber they used for all their secret congregations.

  “You’re late,” Graal snarled.

  Fhazail’s excuse stumbled out between gasps of air.

  “Not … my … fault. The directions … you gave …”

  “Are you saying this is my fault?”

  Fhazail shook his head.

  “No … of course not. I’m … sorry.”

  In all the years he had worked for Graal, Fhazail had seen many men killed for less than the disrespect he had just shown. Of course, Fhazail knew he was too important to be killed without a very good reason. Ever since he delivered the information on the package the Cult of the Dragon had shipped into the city, he had become a favorite of Xiliath. Still, it was never wise to risk Graal’s wrath. Not without a purpose.

  “The fault was, of course, all mine,” Fhazail said once he had caught his breath. “But your directions were complicated, and the tunnels are difficult to navigate. I lose all sense of direction in these passages.”

  Graal said nothing, and the silence made Fhazail nervous. He kept talking. “Maybe if I could get a map of the tunnels, so this wouldn’t happen again—”

  Graal barked out a harsh laugh. “A map? You bloated, simpering fool! There is no rhyme or reason to the smugglers’ work! Half the passages are either dead ends, circle back to where they started, or lead directly into traps. Do you think the men who built these tunnels would have been stupid enough to make a map just so their enemies could find it?”

  “Well, no … of course not, most mighty of warriors. I just meant a map of this area, the area where Xiliath operates. Or even just the areas under the supervision of the fearsome Graal.”

  Graal spat, not on the floor, but onto Fhazail’s sweat-stained silk shirt. Fhazail knew better than to wipe it off. “I don’t know which is worse, your pathetic attempts at flattery, or your stupidity. Why should Xiliath give a map of the tunnels he controls to someone as inconsequential as you?”

  Fhazail knew he had his flaws, and he’d readily admit them. He was treacherous, he was weak, he was a coward. He was untrustworthy and willing to sell out his employer for a single chest of gold coin. Of course, Graal knew all this … they had worked together many times since Fhazail had first approached the orog to arrange the kidnapping of Lord Harlaran’s heir.

  Fhazail also had his strengths. He knew how to make the most of his situation, and he knew how to read people. He could exploit his position as one of Xiliath’s favorites, and Graal’s manner, more so than his words, gave away more than the orog realized.

  “I don’t think I’m as inconsequential as you would have me believe,” Fhazail replied slyly, made suddenly bold by his assessment of the situation. As he spoke, the steward rubbed his oversized gold rings, drawing his courage from the reassuring feel of the thick bands of gold beneath his sweaty fingers. “After all, I am Xiliath’s spy in Azlar’s house—and Azlar is rising quickly through the ranks of the Cult of the Dragon. It was I, after all, who first told you about the package. Without me, Xiliath wouldn’t have a clue what the cult was up to.”

  “Your tie to the cult mage makes you valuable, but not unexpendable,” G
raal threatened in a low voice, the tendons and sinews in the orog’s mammoth shoulders knotting and unknotting in unconscious anticipation of coming violence. Fhazail could see the hilt of the enormous black blade strapped to Graal’s back undulating with every flex of his muscles.

  Graal’s reply confirmed what Fhazail already knew … his worth to Xiliath was important. Otherwise Graal would have already chopped him down where he stood. Still, as Graal licked the two inch tusks protruding from his lower jaw, Fhazail knew the orog’s fury was slowly working itself up to the point where even Xiliath’s orders wouldn’t save Fhazail from being sliced apart limb by limb.

  Whenever Fhazail felt his stock was high, he liked to push the great beast … it was important to know where Xiliath’s right-hand man’s limits were when it came time to negotiate fees. Fhazail also knew when to step back from the brink. The best way to avoid the orog’s mounting wrath was to get the creature’s mind focused back on his master’s efforts to establish himself as a force in the Elversult underworld.

  Fhazail’s voice adopted its most servile tone.

  “Of course I understand how lowly I truly am in Xiliath’s plans,” he said by way of apology. “Why have you summoned me here, Graal? I wait with eagerness to hear the service Xiliath demands of me at this time.”

  Graal stopped licking his lips, and much to Fhazail’s relief the glaze of bloodlust in the orog’s eyes was replaced by Graal’s typical cunning glare. Fhazail knew his insolence had come very close to the limit this time. He filed the information away for future reference.

  “The … package Azlar received. He has it in one of the Cult of the Dragon warehouses in the merchant’s district. Attacking the mercenaries guarding the compound and the guards inside the warehouse would attract the attention of too many eyes. We don’t want the Purple Masks to know of Xiliath yet, and Yanseldara or her attack dog Vaerana Hawklyn must not become wise to the cult’s plan.”

  Fhazail nodded.

  “Of course, O terrible Graal. I understand. The package must be moved somewhere less safe if Xiliath is to obtain it.”

  Graal grunted, acknowledging Fhazail’s grasp of the situation.

  “Azlar and his men need a scare put into them. Flush them out. Make the serpent worshipers slither out of their hidey hole like the worms they are.”

  “Well spoken, most eloquent Graal,” Fhazail said with a bow. The corpulent steward had long ago learned that Graal was much smarter than people realized. Most dismissed him as little more than an ignorant beast. Fhazail knew the orog liked to have his intelligence noticed.

  Graal smiled at the compliment. At least, Fhazail thought he did. It was hard to tell with the tusks.

  “Xiliath will leave the specifics up to you, steward. Find some way to make Azlar move the package.” The orog’s voice became even deeper than its usual growling baritone as he leaned in close to Fhazail, eclipsing the dim light from the torches on the wall. Fhazail could actually feel the words vibrating through the floor as Graal continued. “Make sure the Masks are not involved. They cannot learn about the package. And if Yanseldara gets even a hint of what is going on I will rip your fingers off and devour them one by one, rings and all.”

  Fhazail cringed beneath the hulking warrior, more for effect than out of any real fear. He nodded his understanding with a trembling chin. Satisfied that he had made his point, Graal stood up again and retreated a step.

  “I already have the inklings of a plan,” Fhazail said after quickly reevaluating where he stood, and deciding he was in a strong bargaining position. “However, it will take me a tenday or two to find an appropriate individual to carry out my plan. Of course, it will require something above my usual monthly fee.”

  Graal squinted until his already beady eyes were just pinhole slits beneath his heavy brow.

  “How much?”

  Fhazail swallowed once, his throat was suddenly dry. But he knew how far he could push the orog, or thought he did.

  “Uh … double?”

  Graal exploded into action, moving his massive bulk with unnatural speed. Roaring out curses in his guttural native tongue, he seized Fhazail under the armpits and hoisted him high into the air. The steward let out a shriek and went limp, certain the orog would smash his head against the floor, or tear his arms out of their sockets.

  The orog only held him, keeping Fhazail’s obese body suspended several feet above the tunnel floor.

  “You do not know me as well as you think, Fhazail.”

  Graal released his grasp, and the merchant landed heavily on the ground, his legs unable to bear the weight of his own flesh after being dropped from several feet. Fortunately, Fhazail landed on his ample posterior, avoiding a twisted ankle or worse injury.

  Graal stared down at him.

  “I’ll give you half.”

  Fhazail scrambled to his feet, an awkward, ungainly sight.

  “Thank you, Graal … for your generosity and a valuable lesson,” he said, bowing his head in acknowledgement.

  The only reply was a grunt and a dismissive wave of Graal’s massive paw. Taking the cue, Fhazail scuttled back the way he came. He would have bruises under his arms for a tenday from Graal’s crushing grip, and tomorrow he’d be so stiff and sore from his hike through the tunnels that he’d barely be able to haul himself out of bed. The sweat stains on his silk shirt would be impossible to wash out. All for a bonus of half his normal fee. Half!

  He’d been expecting at most a third. Fhazail smiled as he waddled through the tunnels.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  G’day, Master Corin. Would Miss Lhasha appreciate you sneaking into her chambers like this?”

  Corin, who had been fumbling with the lock to Lhasha’s room, turned to face the speaker.

  “Oh … Weedle,” Corin said, recalling the halfling room steward’s name at the last possible second. It had been nearly a month since he and Lhasha had first checked in to the Golden Staff, and even now Corin still sometimes forgot the names of the staff.

  The warrior realized he had been caught in a compromising situation, and offered a quick explanation.

  “Lhasha’s out and I need to get into the room.”

  Weedle smiled impishly, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he arched his eyebrows.

  “A surprise for Miss Lhasha, eh? In her room yet.”

  Corin coughed, slightly embarrassed at the portly little fellow’s insinuation. “We’re just friends.”

  Weedle shrugged

  “None of my business, Master Corin. All I’m sayin’ is Miss Lhasha’s a fine looking lady, or so I’ve heard the patrons in the bar downstairs say. A bit too tall and gangly for myself, of course. Anythin’ over four feet tall’s a bit much.…” Hastily he added, “No offense intended.”

  Corin shook his head to show he wasn’t bothered in the least.

  Weedle pulled a ring of keys from his belt. “Well it’s no business of mine, but I’ve got a key for you here so you don’t have to worry ’bout the lock no more.”

  “No,” Corin protested. The whole point was to pick the lock and be waiting inside when Lhasha returned. He had to prove a point.

  The halfling slowly put his keys back on his belt and gave Corin a sideways glance.

  “Tall folk … never can figure you out. Well, if you need anything else, just let me know.”

  Nodding, Corin resumed his efforts on the lock, much more appreciative of the employees at the Golden Staff than when he had first rented the room in the early days of the Claws of the Cold. He was beginning to understand Lhasha’s argument about being friendly toward the staff. If Weedle had caught him fumbling with the lock on a door the first night, he would surely have called for the inn’s armed patrols to come and deal with the thief before hauling him off to the Jailgates, but the room steward liked Lhasha. He trusted her, and by association, he had even begun to like Corin somewhat. That was probably the only reason the Maces hadn’t been called to haul Corin away.

  However, Lhasha wasn’t
right about everything. In their month together, the warrior had been unable to convince his employer of the threat to her life, or of the necessity of having him keep guard while she slept. Despite his frequent efforts to change her opinion, despite the ever improving relationship between them, she still insisted he was being overly cautious and refused to listen to reason.

  Corin suspected that their relationship was actually becoming a detriment to his job. He found himself listening to Lhasha when she spoke, he actually enjoyed her conversation. She was charming and often funny, and always in a good mood. More and more he was catching himself paying too much attention to her words, and not enough attention to their surroundings.

  So far there had been no consequences, but Corin chided himself for the lapses. In spite of Lhasha’s frequent urging to “take a break, relax” or “cut loose,” he still believed in the basic White Shield tenets of ever vigilant, ever ready.

  The only way to get through to his stubborn friend, Corin realized, was to demonstrate to Lhasha how dangerous her situation really was.

  He withdrew a thin, stiff wire from his pocket. Lhasha had given him the pick shortly after she had begun teaching him how to open locks without a key.

  “Every thief needs a lock-pick,” she had insisted at the time. “It’s as precious as a warrior’s sword and shield. Always keep one handy—you never know when you might need it.”

  Using his one good hand, it took Corin several minutes of manipulating the pick before the lock to her room at last clicked open. Corin allowed himself a little smile.

  Breaking and entering. In three short tendays he had come a long way from the man troubled even by the thought of working for a thief. Lhasha had taught him well. Corin had to admit she knew her profession. Learning how to pick locks, or move without a sound, or hide in the shadows, did seem to ease the bitter sting of Corin’s memories. The half-elf had been right again.