Avarilous shuffled his feet impatiently. “Come, Master Daltrice, stop this fooling. Two hundred and forty crowns is the sum owed, and two hundred and forty crowns I’ll take.”
Necht tugged nervously at Avarilous’s sleeve. “Remember,” the driver hissed. “Discretion in all things. We don’t want trouble.”
Avarilous snorted. “There won’t be trouble if Daltrice pays what he owes.”
Daltrice laughed, a giggle of pure delight. “Oh, my dear Avarilous,” he said, “such a foolish man. But perhaps they don’t educate you Ulgarthans in the complex ways of commerce, as do we of Parsanic. Very well. One hundred and fifty it is, then.” He motioned to the largest of his helpers. “Sirc’al, pay the merchant.”
The big man stepped forward and tossed a small sack on the pavement. Avarilous, hesitating a moment, picked it up and counted the money it contained. He looked sourly at Daltrice.
“There’s one hundred here.”
“That’s right. Payment in full.” Daltrice laughed again. “Come now, my good fellow. Come into the tavern and have a drink on the house.” Turning his back on the merchant, he squeezed through the doorway.
Avarilous glared after him, then at the landlord’s employees, who eyed him stolidly. He shrugged his shoulders and snorted under his breath. “Thank you very much,” he muttered to no one in particular.
Passing through the door of the inn, Avarilous and Necht emerged in an arched passageway with doors penetrating the walls on either side and torches flickering in iron sconces. At the far end of the tunnel was a pair of wooden doors, paneled and intricately carved. These swung open as Avarilous and Necht approached them, and they passed into the main area of the Tall Tankard.
Of all the ports along the Utter East, Tharkar was the most popular with traders, travelers, and pirates. Ships put into its docks carrying goods to Doegan, slaves to Konigheim, and mead and battle-axes to the far-off halls of the northmen. Because of its position, the city was also the first port of call for the infrequent ships from Ulgarth, Chult, and even more faraway places in Faerun. The taverns of the city were famous throughout the Five Kingdoms for their food, ale, dancing girls, and other, less explicitly defined forms of entertainment. Among these houses, the Tavern of the Tall Tankard was the most well-known.
Smoke from a hundred pipes rose to the night sky, sparkling with stars, above the open courtyard that was typical of Parsanic inns. Palms waved, and hrashaka- tiny lizardlike creatures-ran to and fro beneath the feet of the patrons snatching scraps of food from the unwary and disappearing down holes and into cracks. A chorus of raucous voices continuously called for ale, wine, brandy, and tareetha-giris, whose services could be purchased for a few coins. Serving wenches moved about bearing platters of steaming elephant and zebra meat and tall tankards of ale with which to wash it down. Snatches of broken song resounded from the room’s corners and escaped through the open windows.
Avarilous cast a swift eye over the courtyard. He gestured to a raucous group of drinkers in one corner, away from the light of the torches. “Who are those people?”
Necht narrowed his eyes, squinting at the group. “Those are the inquisitors from Whitevale, sir. The ones I told you about.”
“Ah, yes. Looking for adherents of the Fallen Temple.” Avarilous apparently lost interest in them and glanced at the other side of the courtyard, where a collection of tough-looking bearded men were swiftly and silently downing tankard after tankard of ale. “And those?”
“Northmen. Daltrice had better watch them closely, or they’ll drink up his entire cellar in one night.” Necht sniggered at his own wit.
Avarilous gave a perfunctory chuckle. “And that group?” He gestured at a long table near the fountain at the center of the courtyard. A fine spray came from somewhere in its center, and rivulets of silver ran down the figure of a coiling python in its midst.
Necht smoothed out the lines in his face and looked properly serious. “Those are the trade delegates from Konigheim and Doegan. They’ve been here almost six months, negotiating a pact.”
The merchant stared thoughtfully at the crowd. His eyes traveled slowly across the courtyard, pausing once at the sight of a stout back and dark hair hanging greasily over a rumpled collar. Necht followed his gaze, started, and began to speak, but the merchant’s hand on his arm stilled him. “All right,” Avarilous murmured to Necht, “Be careful… and remember what I asked of you.”
White teeth flashed in Necht’s dark face. “Yes, sir. Don’t worry.” And he was gone.
Avarilous cautiously edged his way closer to the bar, behind which stood the fat landlord contentedly surveying the anarchic scene before him. At the merchant’s sharp rap on the counter, he glanced around, smiled unctuously, and slid across a tankard drawn from a barrel of the ale Avarilous himself had brought to the inn.
A balcony ran around the four sides of the courtyard. Vines hung down from its banisters. Avarilous, admiring the lush greenery, was startled to see within the foliage the undulating forms of serpents sliding smoothly over the soft leaves. He shuddered involuntarily, then remembered the special regard in which the people of the Free Cities of Parsanic held snakes. It was even rumored that somewhere in the kingdom, in a cold underground room kept secret from all but a chosen few were evil men with hooded eyes and shaven scalps. These priests of Talona sat amid wriggling mounds of serpents and, as the snakes wove beneath their ragged robes, spoke prophecies in hissing voices that were not their own. Avarilous glanced at the python statue in the sparkling fountain and shivered once more.
Beneath the balcony, he spotted a seat at a table set in the shadows, away from the torchlight that illumined the courtyard. The table was already inhabited by two men who looked up in irritation as Avarilous joined them.
“This table’s occupied, friend,” snapped one, a tall, grim-looking man with a scar disfiguring his cheek.
Avarilous smiled ingratiatingly. “Surely you’ll not begrudge me a place to sit in peace? I’ve been traveling the whole day, and I long for an entertaining evening away from the dusty road.”
The men looked at each other for a moment; then the blond one shrugged. A colorful scarf slanted over his forehead, concealing one eye and giving him a rakish, careless appearance. “Suit yourself,” he growled ungraciously, turning back to his drink.
Avarilous pulled up a chair and slowly lowered his aching body into it. Before his bottom touched the well-worn seat, though, there was a crash. The chair spun away and the merchant fell sprawling on the floor. The scarred man who had kicked away the chair at the last minute gave a shout of laughter. “Next time, Ulgarthan scum, don’t presume to sit at the same table with Tharkarmen.” He gestured toward a dark nook nearby. “Get over in the corner and slurp your swill there, out of my sight.”
Avarilous’s shoulders tensed for a moment; then he shrugged, rose, and with as much dignity as he could muster, made his way to the place indicated. Tharkar natives sitting nearby, who had witnessed the incident with amusement, turned back to their drinks.
The merchant relaxed, leaning his chair against the wall, and observed the scene. After a time he drew a small pipe from within the recesses of his cloak and lit it.
The two men who had humiliated him drank steadily. Every now and then, one would rise and go to the bar for a fresh round of ales. They spoke little, but Avarilous overheard enough to learn that the tall, scar-faced man was named Kreelan, while his companion, shorter and blond, was Spielt.
From where he sat, Avarilous had plenty of leisure for observation. The crowd appeared at first to be a typical gathering of sailors, soldiers, and rogues from the Utter East. As he watched, though, he became increasingly aware of a subtly different dynamic in the courtyard, a tension that seemed to grow quietly among the various groups.
Avarilous’s attention was gradually drawn to the boisterous group of well-dressed men gathered at the table near the fountain. It was a large party, and their penetrating voices rose above the clamor.
<
br /> “Slaver scum! Traders in human flesh. The men of Konigheim! Who knows from what port they’ll draw slaves next. Citizens of Tharkar, look to your children!”
“Fool of a Doeganer! We of the Mighty Kingdom of Konigheim, Beacon of the Utter East, Favored of the Five Kingdoms, take slaves only from the kingdoms we conquer. And yours will be next, unless I miss my guess. The fish-people at last caught in a net.” The speaker chuckled heavily and belched. “We’ve all seen the neck gills you Doeganers sport. What’s next for you? Will you grow fins? A kingdom of codfish? We’ll serve you up in a lemon sauce. Or perhaps you’d prefer to be fried in batter!” He roared with laughter at his own poor wit, as his companions sycophantically echoed him. Avarilous noted with interest the patch of wrinkled skin in the middle of his forehead, a patch surrounded by a multitude of complicated designs executed in dark ink.
Near the center of the table a man rose, evidently with some authority. As he spoke, the men at the table fell grudgingly silent.
“Now then, citizens! Peace among us all! Put aside those differences that divide us, and together, united as one powerful force, we can confront the fiendish enemy, while improving our mutual wealth and power!” The speaker lifted his glass. “A toast! A toast to our success in these negotiations. Neither shall be the loser in the pact we conclude.”
There was an embarrassed scraping of chairs, and both sides in the dispute halfheartedly lifted their glasses in assent. Once again, talk at the table sank into the general babble of inn voices.
Avarilous listened with apparent indifference to this dispute and its conclusion. The men at his table seemed at first equally unaware of it. But as he observed them closely, the merchant saw that this was not so.
As Kreelan went to the bar he spoke a word in passing to one of the Doeganers. As Spielt, a colorful scarf slanting over his forehead so that it concealed one eye, passed near the delegation he seemed to stumble and murmur something to the Konigheimers. The men at the large table drew together in a tighter circle, their voices hushed, suspicious looks passing between them like summer lightning.
Avanlous watched this with growing interest, waiting for the spark that would set off open conflict. It was not long in coming.
Kreelan leaned his chair back and stretched. As he did so, Avarilous saw him, with a flick of his wrist, toss a small rock, so accurately that it upset a full tankard of ale on the Konigheimers’ side of the table. A hulking, dark-haired Konigheimer with the white skin and tall build of the Ffolk, instantly leaped to his feet with a curse. He turned angrily to one of the Doeganers sitting across from him.
“Clumsy fool! Watch what you’re about!”
“Slaver dog!”-the Doegarier was on his feet now-”The curse of the mage-king upon you!”
Rather than reply, the slaver picked up his chair and bashed it across his opponent’s head. Other denizens of the tavern sprang up, and the brawl was on.
Avarilous slid further into his nook, avoiding flying furniture and bits of broken glass. To his right he could see his table companions watching the battle with evident satisfaction. The conflict was conducted with broken chairs and tables. Fists flew. Bottles crashed. The smell of spilled ale was overwhelming. Then, as one fighter staggered back into the dark nook in which Avarilous was standing, the merchant was plucked forth and swept into the midst of the battle.
He found himself parrying a myriad of blows, slashes, and flying cups. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Spielt and Kreelan had entered the fray. He worked his way into the middle of the courtyard, now jammed with thrashing bodies, most of them held upright by the press of people. Then, just as the fighting was heaviest, the crowd drew apart to reveal a man’s body sprawled facedown, floating in the waters of the fountain. Crimson ripples spread in a ghastly halo around his head.
“Murder!” The cry came from a hundred throats. The crowd poured into the street, and in five minutes the only ones left in the tavern besides the owner were the two men from Avarilous’s table, the merchant, and the dead man. A second later, the landlord and his band of helpers emerged from behind the bar and ranged themselves before the door. Avarilous sank back into his nook, watching the scene with glittering, attentive eyes.
The two drinkers would have followed the rest of the crowd, but their way was barred by the landlord, who came at them in a furious rush.
“You fools! What have you been doing? This fight will bring the watch down on this house for sure!” The landlord’s voice ended in a shriek as Spielt seized him by the throat and pinned him against the wall with one hand, while his other drew a wickedly curved sword from beneath his robes. His friend stared grimly at the landlord’s henchmen as they started forward.
“Call off your dogs,” he growled, “unless you’d care to end the evening as a corpse.” The landlord gestured frantically with one hand, and the large guard, Sirc’al, stepped back a pace. His hand was on his own sword, and his eyes looked death at the scarred man.
The ruffian nodded to his companion, who loosened his hold on the landlord. The fat innkeeper choked and gasped for a moment, then sank into a chair. Kreelan gave his friend a ghastly smile and the two stepped confidently toward the door.
Light flashed suddenly from a blade, as one of the innkeeper’s men drew a broadsword and pressed it against Spielt’s throat. “Halt! Or your friend dies!”
Kreelan stopped, his mouth slipping sideways in anger. He glanced down, making a visible effort to regain his temper. Then he looked up again. “Go ahead! He’s less than nothing to me. I can pick up a better helper than him in any dockside brothel.” He took another step.
Spielt’s face had turned ashy, but his voice, when he spoke, was surprisingly calm. “Death’s waiting that way, Kreelan. Another step and you’ll be food for the Fallen Temple.” He flicked his eyes upward, toward a shadowed balcony that ran around the second story of the room. “Right now there’s a crossbow aimed straight at your head. Raeglaran was keeping an alternate escape route open for us. Well, that’s what he’s doing for me, all right.”
Kreelan began to look upward, then thought better of it. “You’re bluffing, Spielt.”
Spielt’s laughter had a touch of hysteria about it. “Am I? Then walk ahead. You’ll find out soon enough.”
Sirc’al’s stance appeared to relax slightly. He laughed deep in his throat and brushed a hand over his balding head, the skin mottled and scaly. “So you’ve betrayed each other. What more could I expect from such slime? Well, I’ll have you first, Kreelan.”
Kreelan grinned tightly. “Not quite.” Slowly he brought up the hand that until now had stayed clenched in a fist by his side. It held a small glass sphere that the others could see was divided in half by a thin partition. One half held a black powder; the other contained a clear liquid. “Know what this is?”
The smile froze on Sirc’al’s face. “What?”
“Smoke powder,” Kreelan crowed. “And next to it, oil of phosphorus. You know what happens if the sphere breaks, don’t you? The oil will ignite, and the smoke powder will explode.”
Sirc’al laughed. “Go ahead, fool! There’s barely enough powder there to blow yourself up.”
Kreelan said calmly, “Ah, but there you’re mistaken, my friend. This is just one sphere. In my pack, I have two more. True, there will be only one small explosion from this one, but it will be followed by a somewhat larger explosion. I shouldn’t care to be standing next to me.”
Sirc’al snorted. “You’re bluffing.”
“Am I? If your friend over there kills Spielt, Raeglaran will shoot me. I’ll fall. And with me will fall this little sphere. This little glass sphere.” He smiled nastily. “Spielt, if Raeglaran kills me, and the sphere breaks, I and our friend here will be dead. But his other friends will have no reason not to attack you. Five against two? Not good odds. And that assumes you won’t be taken down when I fall.”
Kreelan shifted his eyes upward. “Raeglaran,” he called. “In case you’re getting some bright idea
s, shooting me now will only get your boss killed. And do you think you’d make it out of the tavern with these fellows, not to mention the watch, on your trail?”
Sirc’al grunted contemptuously. “You needn’t worry about the watch.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re already here.”
Kreelan started, and the hand holding the sphere wavered visibly. The guard tensed.
The scarred man’s voice was brittle as fine crystal. “How did you come here tonight?”
“Ask your friend.” Sirc’al made a minute nod toward Spielt, who smirked at his former comrade.
Kreelan’s voice rose to an outraged shriek. “You? You bastard! You planned to betray me all along.”
“No more than you were planning for me,” Spielt snarled. “You’d sell your mother for a handful of copper pieces if the opportunity came along. But now the tables have turned, thank Umberlee.”
Spielt’s mercenary companion had recovered his aplomb and managed to give the impression of shrugging his shoulders without actually doing so. “Well, well. Perhaps I would have. I’ve always admired initiative, Spielt. Possibly you have a bit more than I was willing to give you credit for, though any would be more than that. And now you’re caught in your own trap, tightly as a Tharkaran lobster.”
“Ah, but what about you?” Spielt’s voice was poisoned with hatred. “How are you going to get out of here, pray tell?”
Kreelan rolled his eyes. “I don’t know. At present the situation’s a bit of a standoff.”
“And a remarkably entertaining one, I might add,” observed Avarilous, stepping out of the shadows.
Kreelan’s hand jerked, and the sphere nearly slipped from his fingers, bringing forth an anguished cry from Sirc’al. The other watchman’s fingers whitened on his sword hilt.
Kreelan was the first of the group to recover fully. “By all the foul beings of the Abyss, who are you, and what are you doing here?”
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