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 DargonZine                                     Distributed: 02/07/1998
 Volume 11, Number 1                            Circulation:        685
========================================================================

                                Contents

 Editorial                    Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
 The Coin of Worth            Jim Owens              Seber 30, 1015
 Persistence of Spirit        Carlo N. Samson        Yuli 18, 1013
 Quadrille 4                  Alan Lauderdale        8 Sy, 1012

========================================================================
 DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
 collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
 We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
 Please address all correspondance to <dargon@shore.net> or visit us
 on the World Wide Web at http://www.shore.net/~dargon. Back issues
 are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and
 public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.

 DargonZine 11-1, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright February, 1998 by
 the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>,
 Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@mnsinc.com>. All rights reserved.
 All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
 and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
 without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case
 of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
 Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================

                               Editorial
                         by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
                           <ornoth@shore.net>

     I never thought I'd get to the point where announcing the
anniversary of DargonZine's first issue would become tedious. But
fourteen years later, the novelty of such self-promotion is finally
starting to wear off (yes, it took a while). So rather than pound out
another editorial about last year's accomplishments and next year's
goals, let me direct your attention to a more substantive topic.

     To date, the popularization of the Internet really hasn't resulted
in any major changes in the way we run DargonZine. Sure, we've added our
Web site and many Web-based services, but we really haven't changed our
basic process of collaborative writing and publishing to a general
Internet audience. However, the breadth of the Internet and its more
recent commercialization present some new challenges for us.
     DargonZine has never tried to be the most popular electronic
magazine around. In one sense, we've considered our readers a side
benefit of what we are really here to do: practice writing. Of course,
we still want to grow our readership, both for our readers' enjoyment as
well as the valuable feedback you have provided to our writers. But
"market share" has never really been very important to us.
     Early in DargonZine's life (back in the days of FSFnet), it was
pretty easy to grow an electronic magazine. There weren't many other
emags in existence, and getting the word out wasn't difficult. But today
there are quite literally tens of thousands of electronic magazines
competing for both readers and writers. And in order to attract new
readers and new writers, an emag needs to be able to get its message out
to interested parties -- in short, to advertise.

     This is where things get begin to difficult, because advertising on
the Internet engenders a very negative response; and in many cases, that
response is entirely justified by the saturation-bombing techniques of
professional Internet marketers. We're all familiar with some of the
results of Internet mass marketing at an individual level: floods of
unsolicited junk email, and a Usenet news service which has deteriorated
into uselessness. Most people make a habit of disregarding any and all
Internet advertising, even if it is done conscientiously.
     This presents additional hazards for a small information publisher
like DargonZine. Amidst a sea of worthless unsolicited messages, a
principled, small-time operation that doesn't send unsolicited mailings
isn't likely to be heard. If an individual comes across an advertisement
for DargonZine, it doesn't matter how conscientious we were in placing
the advertisement or how interesting our "product"; most users will
disregard anything which smacks of self-promotion.
     And a user who does happen to read a well-placed ad might choose
not to differentiate between an organization which places pertinent,
topical advertising and less scrupulous firms who resort to methods
which are both more pervasive and more invasive. An individual who
thinks we're just another marketer might feel justified in accusing us
of spamming. In fact, that happened to us recently for the first time in
over thirteen years of publishing DargonZine on the Internet for free!
     Another hazard would be for a conscientious ISP to begin filtering
incoming mail, and filter out DargonZine either intentionally or
unintentionally, sending subscribers' issues to the ever-ready bit
bucket. We've already had one example of the reverse, where we were
automatically added to an "adult webmaster" discussion group based
solely on the appearance of the word "fantasy" on our home page!

     So, as you can see, the growth of the Internet has presented us
with a new dilemma. On one hand, we are faced with a vastly more
competitive market, where we compete with tens of thousands of other
electronic magazines for readers' attention and writers' submissions. In
an era where readers can unsubscribe at the click of a mouse, it's hard
to get people to sit down and read a large body of text online.
Furthermore, although we are trying to address the problem, the volume
of DargonZine's shared history can be a strong disincentive for new
readers. And on top of all that, there's the question of how to publicly
promote the zine without compromising our principles by resorting to the
tactics of Internet mass marketers. How we respond to these challenges
will determine whether DargonZine thrives or founders in obscurity.
     Fortunately, the problem isn't serious right now, and we can
continue to recruit new readers in our favorite fashion. Ever since
FSFnet was founded, my editorials have stressed the fact that the best
way for FSFnet, and now DargonZine, to grow is for our readers and
writers to encourage their friends to check us out. If you know of
someone who might be interested in what we do, point them at our Web
site. For them, it's completely free, and for us there is no more
effective or less self-serving advertising than the word of our loyal
readers.

     Turning to this issue, I'm pleased that we begin our fourteenth
year with stories from two of our veterans. Jim Owens has been with the
Dargon Project since its inception (we won't mention how old that makes
him!), and should be congratulated on his recent marriage. He opens the
issue with "The Coin of Worth", a new Simon Salamagundi short.
     Carlo Samson, who has been here almost as long as we've been
around, introduces a ghost story that wasn't quite ready for October's
"Night of Souls" issue. Carlo is currently debating whether to continue
this story or not, and I hope you'll drop him a quick note of
encouragement, because I'd like to see the continuation of "Persistence
of Spirit" myself!
     We close the issue with the fourth part of Alan Lauderdale's
"Quadrille". This story incorporates many storylines and characters from
early DargonZine works, and represents a tremendous work. If you're
coming in at the middle, be sure to read it from Part I.

========================================================================

                           The Coin of Worth
                              by Jim Owens
                      <cheribou@worldnet.att.net>
                             Seber 30, 1015

     The wind tugged at Simon's grizzled hair, tossing a fine spray in
his eyes. He wrapped a scarf around his neck and closed the last of his
stew-pots. Taking the yoke on his shoulders, he pulled his vendor's cart
up the road that led from the wharfs to the town. Night had long since
fallen, all the people had gone inside for the night, and there were no
more sales to be made. It was time to retire for the evening, prepare
for the next day, and perhaps sleep a while.
     As he passed from one faint circle of torchlight to the next he
sensed that he was being watched. The years had dulled his sight,
perhaps, and weakened his grip, but his ears were still perfect, and he
could sense motion before he could even hear the footfalls behind him.
Simon kept straight on -- his 'shadow' was not pursuing, merely
following. After a few more strides Simon's keen hearing noted a second
follower. Simon judged that this one had been running, by the unevenness
of the steps. The lack of sharp sounds in their tread indicated that
neither was shod, and the tenor of their breathing spoke of youth. Simon
continued on, his pace unaltered. He passed the houses and storefronts,
some showing the warmth of light, some just dark. The wheels of his cart
made a calm, familiar clunking sound as they passed from cobblestone to
dirt and back again. His destination was a small hut at the end of a
short, dark alley. That was home. By the time he reached it his two
tails had grown five more. Simon parked the cart firmly beside one wall,
and carefully drew out his small lamp. With a practiced hand he lit it
from the last dying coals of his portable stove. He walked over to the
small stone stoop and sat down, then held the lamp up and aimed the
light out.

     "Come out."
     Three pale faces gathered together out of the gloom. Sharp eyes
darted about, and sharp noses sniffed the air. Dirt competed with
wariness on these visages, but neither could conceal the hunger in the
children's eyes. As they stepped into the light, Simon stood perfectly
still, not wanting to startle either them or the four others that
hovered on the edge of the light.
     "Good evening to you, Simon," the oldest of the boys said in a
voice both clear and polite. How was the selling today?" None of the
boys looked directly at Simon. They instead swarmed around his cart,
peering in all the nooks and crannies, smelling the aroma coming from
within, but never actually touching anything.
     "Well," replied Simon, in a deprecating tone, "you know how the
folk are when it starts to get a chill in the air."
     "Tighter than guard's fist," agreed the smaller of the boys. Simon
knew him to be one of the oldest ones. "Maybe we can help you. We'd like
to buy some stew off ya."
     Simon nodded. This was a ancient transaction, one he had
participated in for years. Simon stepped up to the cart, and the boys
flowed like quicksilver away, slipping back into the shadows for a
moment, to reappear shyly as he hung the lamp from a hook and opened the
lids to expose his wares.
     "What will you want tonight?" asked Simon, taking a tough, limp
round of bread from a basket on the side of the cart. The bread was a
new item. For years he had wanted a way to serve the stew without the
need for the bowls, which had to be washed later, but only recently had
he perfected the art of making a bread able to hold the stew without
becoming sodden.
     "Just the first one, there," the tallest said, stepping back up to
the cart. Simon ladled a steaming blob onto the bread and handed it to
the boy, who carefully extended two hands to take it. Resting on the
cart was a bronze penny. Simon hadn't even seen him lay it down. The
next child stepped up and Simon repeated the gesture, receiving the coin
from the boy's hand.
     "I'd like the sun-sweet," announced the next boy firmly. In his
hand lay two pennies. From the darkness stifled giggles trickled in.
Simon took the offering, and returned him a Scrod penny for change
before opening the smaller pot on the end. The odor of the fiery mix
made Simon's eyes water as he slapped it on the bread and handed it to
his diminutive patron.
     Once the first few boys had taken their food safely, the remaining
children were emboldened to approach, offering their meager pay for
Simon's delicacy. They retired to the edge of the darkness to eat,
leaving a small stack of coins on the edge of Simon's cart. As the age
and condition of the children diminished, Simon's eyes grew softer and
more sympathetic, and the portions grew larger and larger. Finally all
were seated on the alley's dirt floor, and Simon retired as well, taking
a small sack of tubers and a knife over to the steps.
     Simon watched the boys as he cubed roots for the next day's stew.
The boys ranged in age from ten to fifteen. They were all skinny as
rails, and their clothes were a mix of colors, styles, and quality, from
good fabric to patched rags. The older ones sported tatoos on their
arms, one that Simon recognized as Liriss' mark. All had long, matted
hair, and more than one was missing teeth, no doubt lost brawling in
back alleys. Even now their conversation took the form of challenges and
verbal jousting.
     A burst of laughter drew his attention. "What are you laughing at?"
Simon asked.
     "It's Josey," the tall one replied. "He took a stub from a mark
today!" This revelation brought a gale of laughter from the assembled
group. Josey, one of the younger boys, stood up and tried to take the
coin in question away from the older boy, who held it up out of reach
and danced about, to the joy and delight of the other children. Simon
got up, setting aside his bag of roots. He approached the tall boy, who
extended a small metal disk to him. Josey stood there, frowning, arms
folded, as Simon looked the artifact over.
     "He said it was a real coin where he was from," Josey muttered. His
scowl was so deep it looked as if his chin were about to fall off onto
the ground.
     "Did he?" Simon commented, turning the metal disk over in the
light. It was some sort of steel, but silver rather than grey, and
stamped with a fine, clear impression. The date showed the coin to be
years old, yet it showed no signs of wear. Simon had never seen its
like. Still, an unknown coin in Dargon was worth only what it could be
melted down for, and no fire in Dargon would melt this coin.
     "Josey," laughed the smaller, older boy, "Josey, he, ... he can't
see too good!" His words could barely squeeze out between his chuckles.
     "Josey likes the shiney coins better," volunteered one of the
younger boys.
     Josey made like to say something in his defense, but the tall one
cut him off. "Josey don' know nothin'! There ain't nothin' better than
gold!" So saying he drew out from his shirt a leather necklace holding a
gold coin, or so it looked. While the other boys ooohed and aaahed,
Simon could see that it was really just a brass disk with a hole in the
middle, burnished bright, but of little value. None of the boys had
likely seen much gold, and probably just assumed that any metal that was
yellow and not bronze was gold.
     "Well," Simon said, returning to his seat, turning Josey's coin
over and over before his face, "I know that some *think* that there's
nothing better than gold." A quiet fell over the boys. They watched in
silence as Simon made himself comfortable on his stoop. This too was an
ancient transaction, one even older than the first. The boys drew a
little closer, their attention riveted now on Simon. Once he was assured
that he had their attention, Simon continued.
     "You see, there once was a sailor I knew, who thought that there
was nothing better than gold. Why, he *lived* for gold! There was
nothing he wouldn't do for gold. In fact, he once said that he would
sell his *right eye* for gold!!" There came an awed murmur from the
seven listeners. Simon relaxed, leaning against the door, assured of his
audience. "Well, one day, this sailor, he was a sailin' by himself, in a
little boat, out by a tropical island ..."

     Sun is man's friend, when it shines on a verdant field of grain, or
on a lonely stranger, sojourning across a cold winter's landscape. It is
the friend of the soldier, who stands watch over his comrades before
battle, and the friend of the lover, who watches for her love to come up
the lane. But the sun is not the friend of the sailor who rows alone on
the flat ocean, with no fresh water to drink, and no shade to cover his
burning eyes. The sun flashes in every wavelet, blinding and
disorienting. It dazzles the eyes, masking subtle clues that can show
the way to a saving island, and creates illusions that fool the mind.
     Simon had been rowing all night, and it was now noon. The sun smote
down mercilessly, uncaring. Nowhere was there relief from it -- nowhere
Simon could look to escape it. Finally Simon drew the paddles in from
the gunwales of his tiny coracle and rested. So dazzled was he by the
millions of sparkling reflections that he was no longer sure which way
he was headed. He tried to shade his eyes from the glare, but the light
came from all around. Simon was lost.
     Or perhaps more lost was the best term for what Simon was. Never in
his five years of sailing had Simon been out of sight of the shore, but
today was Simon's second month without seeing the mainland. Never in his
five years had Simon not known how far from home he was, but while Simon
knew that home was a long way off, he didn't know just how far. The
storm that had dragged them off course and smashed their ship on some
tiny island had also drowned the captain, leaving the four remaining
crew rudderless and chaotic.
     Of the four, Simon alone had wanted to try to continue on to
Mandraka, their destination. A young man ablaze with a lust for glory
and riches, he had heard tales of the friendly southern country, with
easy wealth awaiting any who could make the long arduous trip. Simon
knew with the certainty of the young that his fate rested in that exotic
land. His fame awaited him, dormant, restless for the touch of his eager
hand. He had hurriedly fabricated this tiny ship of thin wooden slats
and leather so as to continue his voyage. Thus it was that Simon now
found himself, alone, lost, a small man in a tiny, hand--made coracle, a
brown dot amid a glittering sea of warm salt water.
     For many menes Simon just sat, despondent. He covered his eyes with
his hands, blocking out the sun, but his imagination provided unseen
dangers too large to ignore, and he had to look about. Nothing. He tried
staring into the bottom of the coracle, but that made his neck stiff. He
hung his head over the side, staring straight into the water, but even
there the sun glimmered at him feebly. Or did it? Simon stared harder.
There was something down there, just below the surface.
     Simon grabbed his paddle and stuck it down into the water. It
didn't touch bottom, but Simon could now see that the bottom was only a
few hands-breadths further down. And sitting on the bottom, gleaming in
the sun, was gold. Not just gold, either, but a lot of gold, piles of
gold, mounds of gold! It was a treasure trove! The sandy bottom was just
littered with gold! Simon's heart fluttered. At last!! Here it was,
sitting before his amazed eyes! No need to continue on to Mandraka; his
wealth lay before him, requiring nothing more of him but that he put out
his hand and take it.
     Simon didn't hesitate. He reached into the bottom of the coracle
and grabbed his sea-anchor. He flung it out, rising up and diving over
the side of his small craft even before the wood and cloth device hit
the water. Once over the side he swam straight to the bottom, which was
barely deeper than he was tall. He scooped up a coin, and struggled back
to the surface.
     Simon flung the water from his hair and held the coin up before his
eyes, treading water hard. It was gold alright -- its weight left no
doubt about that. And there were hundreds of them down there, lying amid
the rotting fragments of long-smashed caskets. Simon swam to his craft
and tossed the coin inside. Taking a deep breath, he dove again. This
time he took two coins in each hand. His trip to the surface was slower,
but he made it, and tossed the gold inside the boat. On the next trip he
tried three coins, but that was too much -- he couldn't float to the top
with the extra weight. He dropped one from each hand, and hit the
surface with fire in his lungs. The two joined the others in the boat
while Simon panted, clinging carefully to his tipsy little ship.
     Once he got his breath back, Simon went back down again. Down, up,
down, up -- a pattern quickly formed. After several trips he noted with
alarm how low the coracle was in the water. He must have tipped it
partly when he dove overboard. Leaning carefully over the side of the
craft, he grabbed the leather bucket he had tied to the side and bailed
some of the water out. After a few buckets of water, the craft floated
high enough that Simon felt comfortable going down for more gold. The
trips were getting easier, as he fell into the rhythm of it. A deep
breath, a twist and a kick, arms outstretched and hands grabbing two
coins, then a turn and a push off the bottom, bursting into the air and
tossing the coins in the boat. Four became eight, eight became sixteen,
sixteen blurred into a growing cache that dampened the little boat's
roll and stretched its thin skin. Soon he had to rest, but the lure of
the riches under his dangling feet was too much to ignore for long. Back
down he went, diving until his arms trembled and his lungs burned and he
had to stop. His rest was longer this time, but even before the ache
left his arms he returned to his labor. Diving down, Simon reached the
bottom, grabbed four coins, turned to put his feet on the bottom, and
found himself face to face with the dead, black eyes of a grey shark.
     Had anyone been watching, they almost would have seen a man walk on
water. As it was Simon's knees came up above the waves on his return
trip. He arched his body and for a moment was staring straight down into
his coracle, the gleaming coins mocking him from its dark depths. Then
he landed on it, and two things happened. With barely a plop the
overloaded craft sank beneath the waves, and Simon finally realized that
he had more important things to think about than gold.

     "So how did he get out of it?" Josey asked. "Did the sharks eat
him?"
     "In a moment," Simon replied. "They ate him, and his boat, and the
paddles, and his anchor too. And to this day, anyone sailing across that
sand bar can see the gold lying on the bottom, and the sharks circling
about it, waiting for another bite of foolish sailor." Simon cocked an
eye at his enthralled audience. "In fact, you can still see the very
shark that ate him." A few of the older eyebrows arched a bit. Simon
continued. "It's easy to tell, because it swims like *this*," and with
that Simon got up and hunkered down in front of the boys, his cheeks
puffed out and his arms akimbo as if cradling a great, pendulous belly.
As the boys roared with laughter Simon wiggled his behind and dashed
from boy to boy, thrusting his face in theirs and acting the part of the
gravid fish. After a long mene, when the laughter started to fade he
re-took his seat. Taking the strange coin he flipped it into the air,
watching it spin in the feeble light of the flickering lamp. Josey rose
to grab it, but Simon snatched it out of the air first, eliciting
snickers from the other boys and a grin from Josey. Simon eyed the coin.
     "You know, I've never seen this sort of coin before. It might just
be worth something. How much did the stranger say it was?"
     "A penny and a half," Josey replied.
     Simon dug a two pennies from his coin sack and flipped them to the
child. "Here. We'll call it even."
     "Right." Josey pocketed the pennies rapidly, as if afraid that
Simon would take them back. Just then his head swivelled to face the
main road, as did every other small head there. Simon looked up. Two
torches were heading their way. Guardsmen. In a moment the seven boys
were gone, back into the shadows that gave them their name. Simon shook
his head, and returned to preparing his roots. After a moment the guards
finally arrived, stomping like a couple of cows.
     "Hello, Simon," the one said. "Here for the night?"
     "Yes," Simon replied. "Would you like a bit of stew before I turn
in?" He made as if to rise.
     "No, no," the guard assured. "We just thought we heard other
voices, that's all. You all right?"
     "Fine."
     "All right. Good night."
     They walked off, leaving Simon alone. He set his sack and knife
down again, and drew out his coin pouch. He carefully counted each disc,
not including Josey's steel one. When he was done, he mentally compared
the take against what he had paid for flour and oil that morning. He
nodded with satisfaction. He had almost broken even. He wouldn't have to
dip into his savings for another week. Returning the pouch to its place,
Simon finished his chores. He paused a moment to examine the strange
coin again. There was a story here, but it would have to wait for
morning. Moving inside his tiny hovel, he doused the lamp, and breathed
some prayers for peace and safety. Then he lay and watched the light of
the stars through the open window until he fell asleep.

========================================================================

                         Persistence of Spirit
                           by Carlo N. Samson
                       <macgyver@interaccess.com>
                             Yuli 18, 1013

     Mandi Mercallion gritted her teeth in irritation as a high,
mournful wail sounded through the common room of the Inn of the Broken
Anchor. "Stupid ghost!" she thought as she forced a smile and continued
plucking out a lively tune on her mandolin. Some of the patrons shifted
nervously in their seats or glanced uneasily at the stairs leading to
the upper floor where the wail seemed to come from, but to Mandi's
relief no one decided to leave. She finished her song and bowed to the
scattered applause, but before she could start her next one another wail
pierced the room.
     "Pay no mind to that," Mandi said lightly, brushing a curl of
auburn hair from her face. "Just the neighborhood cats having a little
fun, is all."
     An old man at the bar snorted. "No cat I've ever had made a keening
like that!" He cast a wary look at the stairs. "It's back, for sure it
is."
     Mandi sighed and inwardly cursed her luck. The only inn in all of
Port Sevlyn that would hire her, and it turned out that the place really
*was* haunted. Still, she had to make the best of it. Turning to the
man, she said, "Well, if you mean to say that my playing can call back
the spirits, I must be better than I thought!"
     A few people laughed, but the old man shook his head. He slapped a
few coins onto the counter and staggered to his feet. "What I mean to
say, girl, is that this is the only place in town where the spirits
sound last call!" He shuffled across the room and lurched out the door.
     Mandi giggled and put a hand to the side of her mouth. "Oh, the
spirits are with him, all right!" More people laughed, and she resumed
her performance.
     Halfway through the song, she noticed a young man sitting by
himself on a bench by the unlit fireplace. He kept his head low, as if
trying to hide his face, but she could see that he was staring directly
at her. Mandi openly stared back at him as she continued playing. After
a moment he averted his eyes, pushed himself off the bench, and slowly
made his way out of the building. She chuckled inwardly; most boys
didn't expect a girl to stare them down.
     Three songs later the wailing began again, this time accompanied by
a distant rattling sound, like someone trying force open a door. The
crowd seemed less amused, and patrons began departing. A few moments
later, the only people left were a trio of youths trying to appear
unfazed by the sounds, and a couple of old men who were too drunk to
care. Mandi went over to the bar and motioned to Gauth, the barkeep.
     "Where's Rasford?" she asked when he had joined her. "He's losing
customers out here!"
     "He doesn't want to come out of his room," Gauth replied, twisting
a large rag.
     "Well, he'd better *do* something about that ... that ghost or
spirit or whatever is making that bothersome noise! I can't keep playing
with it interrupting me all the time."
     The barkeep shrugged. "I doubt he'll --" His words were cut off by
a loud shriek that echoed throughout the room. The youths abandoned
their bravado and, after tossing some coins on their table, quickly left
the inn. The old men awoke from their stupor and likewise departed. The
lone serving girl went around gathering the money into a pouch, then
came over to the bar where Gauth and Mandi stood.
     "That's it for me, then," she said, dropping the pouch onto the
counter. "I quit."
     "Audra, not you too!" exclaimed Mandi.
     The serving girl nodded fiercely. "I've had enough of that evil
wailing, haven't you?"
     "Look," Mandi said, "do you really know for sure what's making that
sound? It could just be the wind, or --"
     "There's no wind tonight!" Audra broke in. "And it's not cats, or
wolves, or whores in the alley!" She fixed Mandi with a look of concern.
In a lowered voice she said, "I don't think you should be working here
anymore, either; it's not a wholesome place. My friend Sandy over at the
Lazy Madame might be able to find work for us there."
     Mandi shook her head and sighed. "They don't need a musician."
     "How would you know that?"
     "I was there last week. They told me so!" Mandi explained that
shortly after the _Vanguard Voyager_ (the trading ship on which she was
the cabin girl) returned to Port Sevlyn, she had gone around to the inns
and taverns that usually hired her to perform on a nightly basis, but
found that all of them had either already hired a new musician or no
longer needed one.
     "In truth," Mandi continued, "this was the last place I tried. If
Rasford hadn't hired me to try and attract more business, I'd probably
be out singing in the marketplace."
     Gauth smiled wanly. "The last place, eh? Not because you'd heard it
was plagued by ghosts, was it?"
     Mandi wrinkled her nose. "Well, I was never sure until last night."
That was when the wailing started, not long before sunset. Mandi had
immediately asked Rasford, the proprietor, about it, but he refused to
answer; instead, he had ordered her to ignore the sounds and to tell the
customers to do the same. When she questioned Gauth and Audra, they had
replied that Rasford had told them not to speak of it to anyone.
     "So, are you coming with me?" Audra said, looking at Mandi
expectantly.
     "If I do, will you tell me what you know about those pox-damned
noises?"
     Audra started to reply, but just then the door from the back room
opened and Rasford strode through. His gray hair was unkempt, and he
walked with an air of resignation. Mandi greeted him, but he didn't seem
to notice.
     The man walked past them and sank down into the nearest chair. He
looked around the empty room and murmured ruefully, "The ghost sounded
last call, did it?"
     Audra moved toward him and began to speak, but he held up a hand.
"I have something to say to all of you." The serving girl frowned and
exchanged looks with Mandi and Gauth.
     "Business has been bad the last few months," he said simply. "I
think you all know the reason. Now, I have only one day's supply of
drink left, and cannot afford any more. When it runs out, I will have to
close down the inn." At this, Gauth moaned and put his face in his
hands. Audra pursed her lips and folded her arms high across her chest.
Mandi felt tears welling up and fought down a rising lump in her throat;
it wasn't so much that she would soon be out of a job, but that Rasford
looked so sad at losing his livelihood. On impulse, she went over to him
and put a hand on his shoulder.
     The man looked up at her, weariness evident in his eyes. "I am
sorry I have to do this." He glanced over at Audra and Gauth, then back
to Mandi. "You will all be paid tomorrow night." He stood, picked up the
money pouch from the bar, then headed toward the door. "Lock up when you
leave, Gauth."
     "Um, Rasford?" Audra said softly. He stopped and turned to face
her. "I --" she paused and glanced at Mandi, who gave a small shake of
her head. "I'll be here early."
     "Thank you," Rasford replied.
     When he had gone, Mandi squeezed Audra's hand. "That was a nice
thing you did."
     Audra bit her lip and nodded curtly. "I have to be going now." She
slipped behind the bar, gathered up a small cloak and a leather pouch,
then left the inn without another word.

     Mandi helped Gauth clean and straighten up the place as they waited
to see if any more customers would come in before they closed up for the
night.
     "So," the young woman said as she wiped off the bar, "now that the
place is about to close for good, you can probably tell me what Rasford
told you not to speak of, right?"
     Gauth set a tray of wooden mugs down at the end of the bar and
shrugged. "Doesn't matter now, I would think." With a rag, he wiped out
one of the mugs, filled it with ale from a small bartop keg, and
motioned for Mandi to join him at a table near the window. After taking
a long pull of the ale he said, "Her name is Dervla."
     "Who? You mean --"
     "The ghost. Yes, it's true what you've heard ..." Gauth went on to
explain that almost one year ago, a girl named Dervla had been snatched
off the street by a drunken sailor. He took her to the Broken Anchor,
brought her up to one of the rooms, and had his way with her before
beating the terrified girl to death.
     "That's so horrible!" Mandi exclaimed, wide-eyed. "Did they catch
the scrud-sucking bastard?"
     "Well ... yes. He admitted his crime, but showed no regrets about
it."
     "And so it's Dervla's ghost that's making all that noise? She
haunts the room where she died?"
     Gauth nodded solemnly and took another sip of his ale. "Almost no
one has rented a room here for months -- since the Night of Souls, in
fact. She'd been quiet up until then, only making the odd thump or creak
now and again." He jerked his thumb at the front door. "You've noticed
that Rasford no longer lives here himself, though I think it's safe
enough. What thief in his right mind would steal from a haunted inn,
eh?"
     Mandi twirled a lock of her short, curly hair. "I suppose that's
one good thing about having a ghost around. Better than a watchdog!"
     Gauth looked out the window at the gathering twilight. "We might as
well go home. No sense in lighting candles when there's no one about but
the deceased."
     "But wait," said Mandi. "Isn't there a way to, um, un-haunt the
room? Make the ghost go away?"
     At that moment, a faint moan floated down from the floor above. The
young woman shuddered. "Sorry!" she called loudly.
     Gauth snorted. "Well, on the day after the Night of Souls, Rasford
asked a Stevenic priest to come to the inn and perform a soul
banishment. The noises stopped, but started up again several weeks
later. Rasford then paid a mage to cast a spell of abjuration on the
room. It was quite expensive, but again seemed to work. We thought we'd
heard the last of Dervla, but last night she began calling attention to
herself again, as you know."
     He drank down the last of the ale and stood up. "Are you ready to
leave? It's getting dark, and I can't wait to tell my wife the good
news." The bitterness was evident in his voice.
     Mandi nodded absently and watched the barkeep move around the room
as he checked the latches on all the window shutters. She mused that
since the priest and the mage had failed to completely banish the ghost,
Rasford probably felt that there was nothing more that could be done and
had just given up. But surely there was *something* they hadn't tried.
Maybe it wasn't possible to get rid of the poor, persistent spirit, but
... perhaps it could be persuaded to be silent?
     Gauth announced that he was going to check the back room. When he
returned, Mandi was ready.

     The sky was noticeably darker when the two of them finally stepped
outside. The heat of the day had diminished, but the air was still
slightly humid.
     "Hold a moment, I forgot my mandolin," Mandi said as Gauth prepared
to lock the front door. The barkeep offered to go back and get it for
her, but Mandi told him she knew where she had left it and would be back
in an instant. She brushed past him back into the common room, retrieved
the mandolin from under one of the tables, then made her way to the door
that led to the back room. She opened it slowly, slipped through, and
silently lifted the latch from the shutters on the window next to the
rear door.
     Just then she heard Gauth calling for her. Damn! She returned to
the common room, hoping he wouldn't be suspicious.
     "Found it!" she said, holding up the instrument. Gauth was half
inside the inn and saw her emerge from the back room. He said nothing,
however, and after he secured the front door the two of them started
walking down the street in the semi-darkness.
     "Well," Mandi said brightly, "I guess Audra's going to find work at
the Lazy Madame, so she'll be okay."
     Gauth shrugged and made no reply. Mandi kept up a stream of idle
chatter until they came to his house. He half-heartedly waved goodbye
and, with a heavy sigh, went inside.
     Mandi continued nonchalantly down the street for a bit, then turned
around and took a different route back to the Broken Anchor. There was
scarcely any daylight left when she arrived.
     She approached the rear of the building with caution, making sure
no one was about. With great care, the young woman pulled open the
shutters near the back door, wincing at each little creak. Finally they
were open wide enough; she slipped her mandolin through the window and
set it gently on the floor, then swung herself up and over the sill.
     Once inside the building, a frisson of excitement -- or was it
fear? -- raced up her back as she moved away from the window and waited
for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. It was a simple idea, really,
and she wondered why no one had thought of it before. Then again, trying
to actually *talk* to a ghost would most likely be considered a very
silly notion in many people's minds. But on the other hand, why *was* it
such a silly idea? Gauth may have been right when he said that Dervla's
ghost was simply calling attention to itself. And didn't everybody need
some attention now and again? It was human nature, after all, and being
dead shouldn't change that. Or did it have something to do with the
actual date of her death? Gauth had said that the girl was killed almost
a year ago, so perhaps the anniversary was drawing near and she wanted
to remind everyone of that fact.
     Mandi felt her way through the kitchen and into the common room.
She located the bar and knelt down behind it, feeling around on the
shelves. Several moments later she found the candle and flint striker
that she had placed there when Gauth had gone to check the back room.
After lighting the candle (which was already in a small brass holder)
and dropping the flint striker into a pocket of her vest, she stood up
and made her way to the stairs leading to the second floor.
     Halfway up the stairway, she realized that she hadn't heard a
single moan or wail since she had returned to the inn. Was Dervla still
haunting tonight? Mandi hoped so, since she didn't want to have broken
into the inn for nothing. But if she could only talk to the girl's
spirit and convince her to stop making such a loud fuss, then Rasford
could re-open the place with the assurance that ghastly noises would no
longer interrupt people's conversations.
     At the top of the stairs, there came a cold draft that snuffed out
the candle flame. Mandi cursed softly as darkness dropped around her
like a heavy cloak. She bit her lip against a rising anxiety as she
fumbled with the flint striker. Relief washed over her when she managed
to re-light the candle.
     The young woman took a deep, calming breath and asked herself,
"Okay, now which door?" There were four rooms on each side of the
hallway, but she didn't feel like exploring every single one. She
thought for a moment, and reasoned that the priest who had attempted the
soul banishment might have put some kind of holy symbol on the door to
the dead girl's room. The mage, likewise, might have also inscribed a
sigil or warding sign. Pleased with her sensible thinking, Mandi stepped
over to the first door on her left and moved the candle close to it,
looking carefully for any markings.
     After similarly examining the other doors, she found what she was
looking for on the third one to the right. The teardrop-and-cross symbol
of the Stevene was painted in red on the door, a handspan above her eye
level; next to it was another symbol, one she didn't recognize, painted
in black. "This must be Dervla's room," Mandi thought grimly.
     The young woman touched the doorknob and immediately recoiled; it
was unexpectedly warm and sticky. Doubt began to form in her mind, and
she wondered if she had completely thought her plan through. What if the
ghost couldn't be reasoned with? How would she even begin to talk to it?
What made her think that she -- a nineteen-year-old girl who almost
never went to church, and who had as much magical ability as a piece of
cheese -- could succeed where holy men and wizards could not?
     Then again, just to *meet* the ghost would be a fantastic thrill!
     With a renewed sense of purpose, Mandi opened the door and stepped
over the threshold. A powerful odor of decay and mustiness assailed her,
and she held her breath for a moment. The room was warm and quiet, and
in the feeble candlelight she was barely able to make out a small bed, a
table, and a chair.
     Something brushed against her foot. With a yelp she jumped back,
her heart pounding. She thrust the candle out in front of her and saw a
small dark shape scurry into the hallway. "Just a rat," she thought with
annoyance.
     After taking a few moments to steady herself, she looked around and
said into the gloom, "Um, hello? Is anyone here?"
     There was no immediate response. "Uh, Dervla? My name is Mandi, and
I, um, was hoping I could talk to you for a moment?"
     Silence. The young woman felt a twinge of embarrasment. Here she
was, talking to herself in a dark, empty room. Well, empty except for
the rat, which she should probably mention to Rasford. Then again, he
was closing the inn tomorrow, so he probably wouldn't bother to do
anything about it. That would be a problem for the next owner, though
...
     The candle flame flickered wildly, and Mandi felt a rush of cold
air coming from someplace. She moved further inside and saw that the
window was closed. The coldness quickly grew heavier, dispelling the
warmth of the room. Mandi shivered and gripped the candle holder
tightly, cupping her free hand around the flame.
     "Dervla!" she said in a louder voice, "If you can hear me, please
show yourself!"
     A faint cry startled her. She spun around but saw nothing. Another
cry came, sounding hollow and distant, as if coming from the other end
of a long tunnel. A moment later the cries became more distinct, and
Mandi could make out the shrill sounds of a girl pleading for someone to
stop what they were doing. Then she heard a low, rough mumble, followed
by harsh slaps. More cries for mercy, then more slaps. Finally, the
girl's cries turned to sobs, then a sharp screech.
     At this point, Mandi felt a sudden jolt of unspeakable loathing.
Bile rose in her throat, and she began trembling as a sense of horrible
violation spread through her like a sick black liquid. The young woman
backed toward the door, determined not to flee, but her resolve started
to crumble as the wailing began. The fearful sound frightened her more
than anything she could ever remember, but she stood her ground,
fighting back every instinct to run from this horrid place.
     The wailing washed over her like an icy wave, then began to build.
At the same time, a dim shape slowly took form over the bed. As the wail
reached a crescendo, the shape coalesced into the disembodied head of a
dark-haired young girl. Hollow, sunken eyes stared impassively from her
pale, bruised face; a trail of blood trickled from her nose, and a strip
of bloodstained cloth dangled from the corner of her mouth. Shaking now
with true fear, Mandi watched as the head started to drift forward. At
this, the floodgates of panic finally burst open in her mind. With a
strangled cry, she turned and raced down the lightless hallway, taking
no notice as the candle flame blew out from the desperate speed of her
passage.

     Several menes later, the young woman stood by herself at the bar of
a nearby alehouse that stayed open after dark. With a slightly trembling
hand she lifted a mug to her lips and took a quick gulp of the warm,
bitter brew. She had nearly injured herself in her panicked flight down
the stairs to the ground floor of the inn, and her thighs ached from
bumping into furniture as she ran to the back room and out the window,
barely stopping to grab her mandolin.
     The meeting with the girl's spirit had not gone at all like she had
imagined it would.
     Mandi gulped another mouthful of her drink. It would be difficult
to return to that cursed inn, but she would do it for Rasford's sake.
Then she would take Audra up on her offer. Maybe the Lazy Madame didn't
need a musician, but they could always use a serving wench or kitchen
scullion.
     A man approached her, and she recognized him as a regular patron of
the taverns in this part of town. He made a casual greeting and started
to signal the barkeep, but stopped when he caught Mandi's expression.
     "Anything the matter, girl?" he asked. "You look as if you've just
seen a --"
     "I have," Mandi snapped. She thumped the mug onto the counter, spun
on her heel, and strode frostily out of the alehouse.

========================================================================

                               Quadrille
                                Part IV
                           by Alan Lauderdale
                   <lauderd@phadm1.cpmc.columbia.edu>
                               8 Sy, 1012

                      XIV. The Houses of the Holy

     The building stood at the intersection where Layman Street met the
Street of Travellers. It had a commanding view of the distant river to
the west, but more significant was the sight of Pickett's Let, the name
given to the part of Dargon that lay between that building and the
river. Pickett's Let had originally grown up around a stub of the river
named for a man who was now entirely unremembered. The inlet was now
also entirely filled in, though the foundations of the buildings in that
area were as unsteady as every other aspect of the place. Pickett's Let
was not a place that anyone wanted to go to and those who had to be
there took as much care about their safety as they could.
     The building that watched over Pickett's Let was called by some a
temple, but if it still was one to any god, that fact was quite secret.
>From the architecture, it did seem as though the place had been built
for that purpose: Most of the ground floor was given over to one large
chamber, constructed of stone and structured with many pillars and
columns that obstructed vision and created many nooks and alcoves. So
the place was now used mostly as a temple to the transactions
clandestine, to the purchase or exchange of goods that the Duke of
Dargon might have said were no good. Here, items of dubious provenance
might be obtained or recovered. Here, persons skilled in unseemly arts
might be engaged. Here, substances of unwholesome power were traded.
     But all that took place in the quiet, unlit alcoves of the place.
At the center of the chamber was the hiring table for the Longshoremen's
Guild, wherein merchants and captains made sure that they would have a
crew to load and unload their cargoes. And because of that table, almost
anyone coming to Temple could have a legitimate reason for being there,
if they wanted to bother with one. Why did the Longshoremen's Guild
choose to conduct their business in such a doubtful location so far from
the docks where they worked? Because the place was cheap and many
guildmembers had other private reasons for wanting to come there. The
Guild of Longshoremen was rich and tainted.
     Brother Terkan had business at Temple, and a cargo to unload,
though he did the job personally. After receiving his unanticipated
house guests and sending them off to much desired bedchambers, he
removed a modest pouch from a concealed recess in his study and
undertook a long morning walk across the river to Temple. There, he
found a man named Mikl who trafficked in interesting potions and
nostrums.
     Mikl was suddenly afflicted with a splitting headache.
     Brother Terkan quickly hid the unconscious apothecary in a nook
that gave off the alcove he usually frequented, covering him with a
curtain that seemed intended for just that task. Then, Terkan donned a
robe that was quite similar to the one that Mikl generally wore. He
didn't borrow Mikl's both because it wouldn't have fit and because
Mikl's standards of hygiene nauseated Terkan. Then, Terkan waited.
     Almost immediately, the young boy Terkan was waiting for arrived.
He frowned at Terkan and started to protest.
     "I have what you want, though, Herrn," Terkan said in a soft voice.
He opened his pouch and showed the lad the reddish silver contents.
"Hanla's Tears. Highest quality. What you need as well, I fancy."
     The boy glanced in the pouch, nodded, and handed over his coins.
Taking the pouch from Terkan, he lit out without stopping for any other
conversation.
     "Well, there's another one that'll come to a miserable end," Terkan
told himself with satisfaction. "Hurry back to Mistress Margala, you
little piglet. Today is going to be a *good* day." He divested himself
of the robe, pocketed the money, and strolled out of the Temple to amuse
himself for the morning while he waited for his next appointment.
     He remembered the fragmented story his houseguests had told just a
bell or two earlier, about a god or goddess -- or was it god and goddess
named Haargon and Iliara? He'd never heard of either name and disliked
feeling so ignorant. And from a professional standpoint, it smoked his
knuckles to have other people know of some gods he wasn't cognizant of.
He decided to call on Aardvard Factotum. There were reasons not to,
certainly: The man was crotchety and waspish to converse with. The man
was rich because he was grasping. The man had a house that was back
across the river in the Old Town. But the man also had an excellent
library of books on this sort of subject. Terkan sighed and considered
the coins he'd just collected; perhaps he'd splurge and hire a ferry.

                            XV. Discoveries

     "You want to know about *Iliara*?" Aardvard Factotum asked, while
Terkan was still shucking his surcoat. Neither man was inclined to waste
time on social pleasantries -- especially in the presence of the other.
     "And about Haargon. You've heard of them?" Terkan asked.
     "Oh, no," Aardvard replied quickly. "That is, I don't think so.
Unless -- " He started back through his overheated rooms that were
crowded with bookshelves, but then whirled around again, nearly
colliding with the pursuing Terkan. "Boy!" he shouted, pushing Terkan to
one side.
     "What?!" Terkan exclaimed in annoyance.
     "Not you!" the older man responded with equal acid. "You!" he
continued, pointing at the boy who did dash up to the two. "Fetch that
-- that what's his name. Tell him I've found what he was looking for."
     "Yes, sir." The boy ran out the front door.
     "What -- ?" Terkan repeated.
     "Nothing to do with you," Aardvard Factotum assured him. "You just
reminded me of something someone else asked me to look into."
     "What?" Terkan asked again, beginning to feel that his conversation
had fallen into a rut.
     "Cost you a Cue to find out."
     "Oh, come on!"
     "A Mark, then."
     "Never mind," Terkan said quickly. "Let's get back to Haargon."
     "And Iliara," the sage said.
     "And Iliara," Terkan agreed.
     The pair hunted through a number of likely tomes in Aardvard's
library, but though they spent all the morning bells on the search, they
found nothing at all about Haargon and only a single mention of Iliara.
Iliara, according to Yrtulayn's treatise, _On_False_Religions_, was the
second of the three Wise Ones who ruled over Trade. Terkan doubted that
that was germane.
     At length, feeling hungry and deciding that he'd wasted enough time
on idle curiosity, Terkan offered Aardvard a half-dozen Pence for his
time and the reference on Iliara. The bookmonger stared contemptuously
at the coins, though, so Terkan pocketed them and left. The good news,
he realized, upon returning to the street, was that failure was cheap.
Odd though, that Aardvard hadn't argued with the miserly sum he'd
offered.
     Aardvard turned from watching the door close and nodded to Alec.
     "His name's Terkan," the sage said. "He knows even less than you do
about this Iliara," he added. "But he's definitely got someone with him
-- not right now, you understand -- who's worried about Haargon.
Actually, he himself seemed a little worried about Haargon. Two Mark."
     "What?!" Alec squawked. "I'll never be able to get that much back
from Cl -- from my client. I'll give you a half of Sterling."
     "All right," Aardvard nodded. "I can see that you're an
impoverished and starving young man who doesn't really *need* any
answers to life's more puzzling questions -- "
     The heavy sarcasm was annoying. Alec produced the six silver coins.
"Take it or leave it," he said.
     "I'll take it," Aardvard gave the man a cold smile, "if you tell me
who your client is."
     "Cleo the Priest." Alec threw the coins at the scholar, then ran
out after Terkan. That was still likely to be money he'd never see from
his customer again. And, with Aardvard in possession of Cleo's name it
would likely soon be well known that he sold customer's identities
cheap. He wondered if he would ever get another client.
     But at least he was in the hunt again.

                     XVI. Sleeping in Strange Beds

     Alec trailed Terkan through the busy streets of midday Dargon. The
quarry was slight and dressed unremarkably, but was taking no special
effort to mask his trail. Indeed, he dawdled and seemed so indifferent
to his surroundings that Alec had decided to risk joining him on the
same ferry across from the Old City.
     Gulping a bowl of Gundi's stew -- he preferred the medium version
-- Alec watched Terkan enjoy a more leisurely repast seated at a window
in a taproom. However, when the sixth bell rang, Terkan concluded his
meal abruptly and hurried out into the busy street again. Now Terkan
moved briskly, with a definite goal in mind. Alec was still able to stay
with him easily, though.
     Terkan hurried into a part of Dargon that was quiet -- and also
much seedier than Aardvard's neighborhood was. It didn't feel dangerous,
exactly. At least, not much. It was more as though the area was a trifle
embarassed to be out in broad daylight and would prefer to have no one
take note of the fact. Alec averted his gaze and focussed on Terkan.
     In the end, his destination was pitifully easy to identify. It was
a well-kept looking house just north of Ramit Street that was surrounded
by open land that appeared to be resting between practical uses. A
small, neat kitchen garden bordered on several large trash piles. With
no crowds around to mask his movements and not even any other buildings
nearby, Terkan quite obviously went into the house. The problem for Alec
was finding a concealed vantage that wasn't absurdly far away, wherein
he could wait for the man's exit.
     He did the best he could with a corner of another building that
hadn't fallen down completely. There, he watched nothing happen for a
while. Occasionally, people came -- generally in pairs of opposite sex
-- and people departed at about the same rate. Alec listened to the
seventh and eighth bells sound.
     This Terkan evidently proposed to stay a while, so Alec decided to
try to find out what this house had to do with Iliara. In some ways, he
was getting tired of this assignment, so he decided to take a direct
approach. He walked over to the door of the house and knocked.
     The woman who answered the door was old but sharp. She sized up
Alec quickly and said "Yes?"
     "I'm here about Iliara," Alec said.
     "Who?"
     "You know." Alec lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Iliara."
     "No, I don't know," the woman replied unhelpfully. "But I think,
young man, that you're lost. Whoever -- or whatever -- directed you here
has erred. Good day." She swung the door closed.
     "What about Haargon?" he asked, but the door closed anyway.
     Alec shrugged. Well, he thought to himself, Terkan didn't have to
spend every waking moment concerning himself with Alec's problem, but it
would be nice if the old man could lead Alec to Ariel sometime today.
Still studying the house, since this was probably his one chance to look
at it up close without arousing any more suspicion than he already had,
he backed away toward his loitering place. Doing that on a fairly
deserted street, Alec of course ran into someone. He was just lucky that
way.
     The someone was a woman, so the man she was with started shouting
at Alec for being careless even before Alec had finished falling to the
ground. And the woman was tough enough not to need the man's
solicitousness, since it was Alec, and Alec only, who fell.
     The woman was wearing a silver half-mask over part of her face.
Stumbling to his feet, his ears burning with the man's insults, Alec
stared at the semi-masked woman for what seemed like a full mene before
realizing that the woman's companion was increasing the hostility of his
remarks. Quickly, Alec mumbled an apology and hurried past them, but
then he stopped and turned around. She was a Peacekeeper; Alec had
remembered that already, having seen her several times at Market Square.
But now, he remembered who had hired her: The Fifth I. Why would the
Fifth I be interested in this seedy house? Did that old woman at the
door owe them money? Were Fifth I Peacekeepers also assigned to collect
debts? Did the Fifth I own this place?
     He watched, interested to see if they were going to lean on anyone
he knew, like an annoying old woman. But the man turned and stared at
him. He didn't say anything now, but it was the sort of stare that made
Alec take an inventory of everyone to whom he owed money and wonder
whether any of them was upset about the debt. The man's stare seemed to
promise that there was someone who'd appreciate Alec being persuaded
painfully to hurry up a repayment. It was, in short, not a nice stare.
Alec decided to move along back toward his vantage and the Peacekeepers
were admitted to the house without any trouble at the door.
     Back at his post, Alec tried to be patient. The house had absorbed
Terkan of the Obscure Gods, a Peacekeeper employed by the Fifth I with
companion, and several pairs of other people, but it appeared
unaffected.
     The Fifth I, Alec mused. They might have something to do with that
murdered bookkeeper at Camron's. The Fifth I competed with Camron. And,
Alec had heard, sometimes those merchants' competitions could get
deadly. Perhaps the Fifth I's Peacekeepers had done in the bookeeper. Or
perhaps the dead bookkeeper had been telling Camron's secrets to the
Fifth I, was caught, and now --
     Alec found himself stuck for plausibility for a moment. But his
imagination soon rallied.
     Suppose Ariel, who was also a secret informant for the Fifth I, was
here in this unimpressive house on a seedy street to report to Fifth I
Peacekeepers and Terkan --
     Why was Terkan here?
     Alec shook his head. Ariel wasn't really here. She'd sent Terkan to
represent her. Yes, that was it. She still had to hide from the Watch.
They'd seen too much the night before. She needed a quiet way of getting
away from the city and in return for her keeping quiet about the I's
involvement in the murder --
     If the I was involved in the murder.
     If Ariel was working for the I and the I was involved in the
murder, then that would involve Ariel pretty thickly in that auditor's
getting killed. And Alec didn't believe that Ariel was a murderess.
Didn't want to believe it, he realized. So, start with Ariel's being
innocent of murder -- but a little commercial spying? That would give
her spice.
     All right, what if Ariel was an agent of the Fifth I but neither
she nor the Fifth I had had anything to do with the auditor's getting
killed. Sure, that was unlikely, but it was possible. And since Ariel
was catching the blame for the killing, it made sense that she would
turn to the Fifth I to help her get out of this mess.
     Alec folded his arms and smiled grimly. Now, he understood what was
up. Terkan was meeting with agents from the I. Then, after his meeting,
he'd likely go and report back to Ariel what the Peacekeepers were
offering. So, if Alec wanted to find her, all he had to do was wait.
     He could do that. Waiting was the boring part of his job, but at
least he was experienced at it. And it was quiet, contemplative work. In
moderation. Talking to that Cleo the Priest was irritating, but at least
you knew you were alive while doing it. This waiting outside buildings
was pure tedium. In spite of his logical deduction as to what action he
should take, Alec was just about ready to go back to the house and ask
if he could sit in on Terkan's meeting when a pair of riders mounted on
exhausted horses cantered up to the house.
     These two were clearly in a hurry. One leapt off his horse and ran
straight to the door. The other at least made a gesture of securing her
horse's reins to a post before she hurried after the first. Also, they
didn't knock at the door or call any greeting; they just walked in. Alec
frowned and listened for a protest from within. If there was one, it was
quickly quieted. He waited to see who might come flying out of the
building next.
     He wondered how these two might fit in with Terkan and the Fifth I.
They'd had a scholarly, rather than muscular frame; perhaps the Fifth I
had sent a couple of accountants or scribes? This didn't seem to Alec to
be the sort of meeting where detailed numbers would be discussed, let
alone any sort of recordkeeping. In fact, it occurred to him, it may be
that this man and woman had nothing to do with Terkan or the Fifth I
Peacekeepers at all. Perhaps they were here merely to collect rent from
the obnoxious old woman. That would explain why they didn't bother
announcing themselves at the door.
     But rent collecting, Alec knew, went much easier when the collector
was physically intimidating. And it didn't look good to seem to be in a
hurry. No, that wouldn't be it. Alec rubbed his chin. He doubted that
the two lived in the house: They dressed too well and would've disposed
of their mounts more securely -- in a nearby stable, say -- if they were
residents.
     Alec gnawed his lip. Those two might be associates of Terkan, he
mused. Perhaps they had some word from Ariel, or about Ariel. Maybe Cleo
had found some other way to locate her, had taken her away to his
underground, Haargonite temple, and those two were useless guardians who
now had to report that she was missing. They looked useless enough and
careless with their horses. Alec watched one of the mounts wander around
toward the side of the house, cropping grass.
     He shrugged: Do a good deed, satisfy a little curiosity. Alec went
over to the wandering horse. Calmly, he introduced himself to the steed,
whose reaction was indifferent. Guiding the horse close to the side of
the house, Alec finger-combed its mane and made admiring remarks about
the animal's good behavior. As a reward, the horse allowed him to
inspect the tack and saddlebags for any indication of the identity of
his owner.
     The horse was getting the best of the deal. Aside from a brand on
the saddle that Alec failed to recognize, he found no clue. He was still
looking when he heard the front door opened and some people come outside
again.
     "How many horses did you bring?" he heard an oddly rasping voice
ask.
     "Bother!" another voice responded. "Cherup's gone wandering again.
     Quickly, Alec brought the horse around to the front again. "This
your horse, m'lord?" he asked, tugging his forelock. "Fine animal he is,
too. Given to wanderin' a bit, he is. That patch o' grass just a few
feet further away, that's the one's sure to be tastier than this stuff
underfoot, that's what he's a thinkin' -- Oh hell." Alec looked up from
his servile act at the woman in the silver half-mask, the one who worked
for the Fifth I.
     "You again?" she rasped.
     "Uh ..." Alec's mind raced. What should he admit and what should he
ask?
     "You know him?" the man who was with her asked. Alec glanced at him
and saw with relief that it was not the intimidating starer. Rather, he
was one of the riders.
     "No," the woman said, taking the reins of the other horse. "We
collided earlier. Accident. That's all."
     "Really?" the man asked, taking the reins of Cherup from Alec.
"Where?"
     "Just about where you're standing, maybe a pace to the right." The
woman mounted the other horse.
     "Hey!" Alec finally decided to say something. "That isn't your
horse!" Immediately, he felt like an idiot. "I mean, didn't you come
here on foot?" He turned to the man. "And wasn't someone else riding
with you before?"
     "I don't see that this is any of your business," the man said.
Idly, he traced a sigil in the dirt, then looked up at Alec. "I think
you should be on your way. Colliding with women you don't know is not a
socially acceptable habit, you know."
     "The last man who told me that put it a lot more bluntly," Alec
replied. He glanced at the drawing in the dirt, but it meant nothing to
him. Certes, it didn't match the brand on the man's tack. He looked up
at the woman. "By the way, whatever happened to him -- ?"
     "Why are you here?" the man abruptly demanded.
     "I -- " Suddenly, Alec wanted to explain everything. He felt like
telling all about what he was investigating and, particularly, he wanted
to talk about Ariel. "I'm looking for a girl," he said.
     The man and woman glanced at each other quickly. "What, and you
think she might be in there?" the man asked, gesturing at the house.
     "I hoped so, yes. You see, I'd been following -- "
     "Then if I were you, lad," the man interrupted, "I'd go in there
and get her out of there right away." He mounted his horse. "Do it now."
     "But -- " Alec frowned. He'd scarcely begun explaining and he
didn't think they understood the matter aright.
     "Believe me," the man insisted, "this house is a bad place to
visit. Get her out."
     "But -- "
     "Come on Je'en." The two cantered away.
     "But ..." Alec watched them out of sight, feeling frustrated. Then
he felt confused. He'd wanted so much to tell the man all about his
mission and his concerns about the Fifth I and Camron's and the dead
auditor and all of it, but he'd barely gotten started. Now, he couldn't
understand why he'd wanted so much to explain about it all to a perfect
stranger. He shook his head. There was still this feeling he had that he
should go into the house and get Ariel out of there as quickly as he
could. And, even though he was fairly certain that Ariel wasn't inside,
Alec walked up to the door of the house and simply went in.
     The room inside was dark and hot and smelled like too many things
had been burned with not enough windows left open. It also contained the
annoying old woman. She came toward him. "You again!" Her mood appeared
unimproved. "What do you want?"
     "Ariel -- " Alec shook his head. He didn't know where Ariel was but
he had watched Terkan come into this house only a few bells previously.
"I mean, a man named Terkan." Alec stared around the room while his eyes
adjusted to the dimness. He noted a large glass globe on one table, a
side table crowded with half-burnt candles, and a shallow shelf upon
which were arranged a number of small ceramic bowls. The setup looked
mystical. "Seems to me you should've known that already," he added.
     "I don't waste the Power on trivia," the woman snapped. "Get out."
     "No Master Terkan?"
     "Never heard of him."
     Alec sighed. "Guess I'll have to do this the hard way," he
muttered. Then, on a whim, he asked "What did the Peacekeepers want?"
     "Who?" The woman quickly changed her mind. "None of your business."
     Alec shrugged. A staircase led from the occult parlor to the floor
above and there was also a doorway leading toward the back of the house.
The place was quiet, except for the voices of the woman and himself. He
started toward the stairs.
     The woman blocked his way. "I told you to get out," she said.
     "And I told you I wanted to see Terkan," Alec replied. He shoved
her aside. "I know he's in here. I saw him come in and he hasn't left
yet." He started up the narrow stairs. "Now, do I have to go through all
the rooms in this house or are you going to be helpful?"
     "Can't be helpful if I don't know who you're looking for," the
woman grumbled. Alec kept going. "You're going irritate a lot of people,
snooping around and disturbing their quiet meditations. Including those
Peacekeepers," she added.
     Alec stopped. "They left," he told her. "One of them, anyway."
     "My, but you are the knowledgeable one, aren't you?" the woman
replied, advancing up the stairs toward him. "Still, if you don't want
to run into the other one all accidentally, perhaps you'd better have me
show you around up here, eh?" Alec nodded and the woman led the rest of
the way up the stairs.
     At the top, the woman wasted no time on pleasantries like knocking.
Instead, she opened the nearest door and strode in, announcing "Wend,
this man is annoying me!" Then she stopped and muttered "Spit!"
     Alec, who'd followed her in before realizing that she hadn't really
intended to be helpful, looked around her at the motionless figure lying
on the bed. The man was the right size and garb to be Terkan, but his
head was wrong: His face was -- gone.
     Half gone, anyway. Alec stepped forward, staring at the mess that
used to be his quarry. Enough of the man's features remained that Alec
was fairly sure that this had been Terkan only a brief while ago. Now,
though, the man's face was covered by several large, leprous blotches
that appeared to be expanding even as Alec watched.
     He was breathing -- gasping -- shallowly, his nose being a part of
the man's face that was already melted away. The man's expression under
his diseased flesh appeared to be anything but peaceful. Alec indulged
his revulsion for a moment, staring at Terkan, but then steeled himself
and, grasping the man firmly by his mercantile robes, tried to shake the
man awake.
     No flesh fell off Terkan's body. The pudding-like patches that Alec
could see on the man's face and hands held in place. But the remaining
uncovered eye didn't open either and the pained expression didn't alter
when Alec started shouting Terkan's name.
     "Hush!" the woman admonished. "You'll wake the other guests."
     Alec ground his teeth. "I'm trying to waken *this* one," he
reminded her.
     "And I have a business to run, which I doubt this person will be
contributing to any further." The woman folded her arms and stepped a
pace further away from the sickbed. "If you've found what you're looking
for, please take him with you and leave."
     Alec stepped away from the dying man. "If you don't know him as
Terkan, do you know this man under another name?" he asked.
     "Barrin," the woman admitted gracelessly.
     "And do you know anything else about him? Where does he live?"
     The woman smiled sourly. "This isn't the sort of establishment
where clients share personal details like that," she explained. "Most of
them'd rather that no one knew they came here. And me especially, lest I
use the Power against 'em. As if I would." She nodded at the dying man.
"He doesn't come here often and when he does, he pays poorly. I sha'n't
miss him. That's all I know. Now, will you leave?"
     "Have you seen a girl -- young woman named Ariel?" Alec asked,
feeling that the question was a little desperate. "Medium height, long
straight brown hair and gray eyes. Pretty. Walks fast. Usually looks
wistful. Talks about Iliara -- "
     "Ah," the woman interrupted. "Iliara again." She nodded, staring at
Alec.
     "She was wearing a lavender dress and a full lightweight cloak over
that, but she went for a swim in the harbor last night, so I'm not sure
what she might be wearing today. Or how soaked she might look. She
doesn't smile often, but when she does -- "
     "She's beautiful," the old woman broke in again. "All young women
are beautiful when they smile. Didn't you know that? And is she fond of
you?"
     "Huh? Well -- "
     "It's dangerous work, being a rescuer," the old woman observed.
"But the rewards are sometimes great. Sometimes nil," she added sadly.
"So take care; watch out for yourself." She gave Alec a cloaked, wistful
smile. "A little free advice from one with the Power. I haven't seen
your Iliara, though. You will have to look elsewhere for her."
     Alec shrugged and started for the door.
     "You're sure you won't take him with you?" the woman asked
hopefully.
     "Where to?" Alec asked. "I know less about him than you do." He
opened the door and realized immediately that he'd found the closet
instead of the hall. He stopped to look inside for a moment.
     "I've found that other Peacekeeper," he announced.
     The woman came up beside Alec and looked at the fatal knife wound
the dead Peacekeeper bore. She sighed.
     "Today," she prophesied, "is not going to be a good day for either
of us."

                    XVII. A Polite Exchange of Views

     Mouse sat in front of the open book on the reading table in
Terkan's library. Having spent a good part of the previous night
flitting about the harbor area of Dargon Town, she'd spent most of the
day sleeping. Now, awake again and having gorged herself on most of a
plum that the occasionally helpful Bret had produced, she was staring at
an introductory mathematics treatise. It failed to hold her attention.
     Instead, she was plotting ways to get back into Camron's warehouse
and at least recover her dress and other possessions that had been left
behind when she was kidnapped. While trying to cobble up that plan, she
was frequently sidetracked into wondering who it was who had murdered
the auditor and kidnapped her and generally made such a mess of her
visit to Dargon. While her explanations were colorful, she knew they
lacked any facts that might make them aught besides speculation. She
sighed and looked at the words in front of her, wondering if there was
any help to be found in algebra.
     The door opened and Ariel drifted in, followed by Bret. Though
somewhat dryer than last night, she looked no less forlorn. Mouse spun
on the table to face her. "What do you want to do now?" she asked.
     "It doesn't seem to me that there's much you can do," Bret quickly
answered, "except sit tight here. The Watch is probably still looking
for you pretty hard. And Master Terkan said he'd see what he could do
about looking into the matter -- "
     "See what he could do?" Ariel repeated angrily, glaring at the
apprentice. "What *can* he do? He's never even heard of Haargon and it's
obvious that one of their agents was at Camron's last night making it
look like I was killing and robbing -- and so on. Mouse, we have to find
some way of exposing them."
     Mouse nodded. "Do you have any ideas how?" she asked. "I just got
into town and I'm afraid I'm with Terkan on this one: I've never heard
of Haargon either."
     "It's a secret struggle," Ariel said. "Between the forces of dirt
and darkness and the forces of light and air. Stefan said that. I just
didn't realize how secret a struggle it was. But there must be some way
to reveal it."
     There was a hammering on the front door of the building.
     "Perhaps it's about to get revealed sooner than we thought," Mouse
suggested.
     Bret started out of the room, then stopped and turned to the two
women. "Stay here," he ordered. "I'll go see who it is." He went out,
pulling the door closed. There was the sound of fiddling with the latch
before he walked away.
     Ariel looked at the door a moment before going over and trying it.
"Locked!" she exclaimed.
     "I guess he really wanted us to stay here," Mouse said.
     "And where did he think we were going to go?"
     "Perhaps he was locking up in case that was Master Terkan," Mouse
suggested. "He said, when he was letting me in here, that Terkan doesn't
like having anyone able just to wander in and out of the library. Terkan
prefers to have this place locked up."
     "But not with us in it."
     "No. Not with us in it."
     "Mouse," Ariel whispered, coming over to the reading table, "don't
you think he's awfully creepy?"
     "Terkan or Bret?" Mouse closed the book and leaned back against it.
It slid out of the way.
     "Either, I guess. But I was asking about Bret."
     "I didn't think he was that bad," Mouse admitted. "But I didn't
have him sticking to me all day like a leech."
     "He hates Terkan," Ariel said. "He sat next to me while feeding me
lunch and told me all about what a cold, mean, petty, ungrateful man
Terkan is. Everything a master could do wrong, I think, Bret holds
against Terkan. And he supported each charge with incident after
memorized incident. It's too bad. I think the lunch was pretty good, but
I just couldn't stay hungry."
     "Try a plum," Mouse suggested.
     "They're on the other side of a locked door. Why do you think Bret
stays with Terkan if he loathes him so thoroughly?"
     "I suppose he's a good teacher, for all his other faults," Mouse
said.
     "But Bret also complained that Terkan was always keeping things
secret from him."
     "And I suppose he omits mentioning all the things that Terkan did
condescend to teach."
     "I don't know that I could -- "
     "Sh!" Mouse jumped up and ran to climb onto Ariel's shoulder. Ariel
now also heard the footsteps in the corridor. They stood, watching the
door, while the latch was tried. There was a brief, muted conversation
before the key was turned in the lock and the door swung open. Brother
Terkan walked into the room, followed more circumspectly by Bret.
     Seeing Ariel and Mouse, he stopped and frowned. "Oh," he said.
"You're -- " He stopped again.
     "I was just reading one of your mathematics texts," Mouse said
quickly, indicating the book. _On_the_Conversion_of_Economies_. Ariel
was keeping me company -- " She looked up at Brother Terkan and abruptly
stopped talking.
     "Yes?" Terkan responded, in vague puzzlement.
     "I'm Ariel," the sometime air-sorceress said, hoping to be helpful.
"Mouse's friend, remember?" She indicated the friend on her shoulder.
Mouse said nothing right away, so Ariel poked her lightly.
     "Yes!" Mouse squeaked. She broke off her stare at Brother Terkan to
glare at Ariel. "I'm Mouse. From Rockway House. Upriver. And Brother
Caleb? He wrote to you that we were coming and we showed up on your
doorstep today before dawn, bringing greetings and strange gods. Didn't
we go through all this already? Bret, can you help us out here?"
     Bret said nothing for a moment, but then Terkan finally seemed to
recover his wits. "Yes, Rockway House!" he exclaimed. "Of course. I
don't know how I could've forgotten. Mouse and Ariel. Yes. And those
gods, uh, Haargon and -- and that other one."
     "Iliara," Ariel said. "Did you find anything else out? You were
going to see what you could do." She glanced at Bret, who was, as usual,
staring at her. He was even more overt than usual, she decided.
     "No," Brother Terkan said. "I'm sorry. Now, if you'll excuse me,
Bret and I have some work to do. So if you could -- "
     "Ce -- " Bret interrupted, then corrected himself quickly. "Master
Terkan, this is Ariel." His voice rasped peculiarly.
     "Yes, I know that Bret," Terkan replied.
     "Ariel from Camron's," Bret rasped again. "Remember? I told you how
everyone at the Fifth was talking about it this morning."
     "The Fifth?" Mouse asked.
     "Fifth I."
     "What's that?"
     "She's wanted for murder and robbery." Bret stepped in front of the
library door.
     "I'm aware of that, *Bret*," Terkan said. "She explained about that
last night."
     "She did?"
     "More or less," Mouse said. "It's pretty confusing, actually. Do
you want us to go through it again?"
     "But shouldn't we have the Watch arrest her -- ?" Bret started to
ask.
     "That's not what we're here for," Terkan declared. "If you
remember."
     "Then what are you here for?" Mouse asked. "If you're not here to
arrest us and you aren't Terkan and Bret?"
     "They're not?" Ariel asked.
     "No. Interesting disguise though." Mouse nodded. "Look close," she
suggested. "Really see them. Maybe it'll help if you think airy
thoughts," she suggested.
     Ariel backed away from the false Terkan and Bret. "Who are you,
then. Are you from Haargon?"
     "I don't think so," Mouse said. "But Bret might be from someone
with a real fondness for silver. She's wearing a mask -- "
     "She?" Ariel asked. "A silver mask? Like the Peacekeeper working
for the Fifth -- ?"
     "Does everyone in this town know about me?" the false Bret rasped.
     "They talked about you at Camron's," Ariel explained.
     "Merchant chat," Mouse suggested. "I'll bet you're well known among
all the traders. It's like how everyone in the world who cultivates
mushrooms knows Sister Anne." Everyone looked at her in puzzlement.
     "Who?" the false Terkan asked.
     "You're not a mushroom sage, are you?" Mouse asked.
     "I *thought* I was reasonably well informed about them -- " The
false Terkan shook his head. "Look, I have work to do and I'm not
feeling very well. Could you -- "
     "She *ought* to be handed over to the Watch," the false Bret
rasped.
     "That would hardly be a gracious thing for her host to do," the man
who wasn't Terkan said. "After all, I -- that is, Terkan -- did agree to
give her shelter. And she says she isn't the murderess."
     "Murderesses always say that."
     "You know a few?" Mouse asked.
     "As a matter of fact -- "
     "Don't answer her," the false Terkan ordered the woman who still
looked an awful lot like Bret. "That little one's very good at steering
a conversation into fogbanks. Now, let me remind you that you no longer
have to assist the Watch in their inquiries. You're retired from
Peacekeeping."
     "I haven't told Tranell yet," the false Bret rasped.
     "Look," the man who wasn't Terkan sighed. "You don't need to have
them arrested. Just get them out of here. I have work to do." He stared
at Mouse. "And I need to concentrate."
     Mouse stared back. "Nope," she announced. "I've never seen you
before." She glanced at Ariel. "What about you?"
     "I don't know," Ariel said. Through the whole debate, she'd been
trying to concentrate on seeing the pair truly.
     "All right, it appears our deception is broken for now, at least,"
the false Brother Terkan declared. "And, Mouse, it does sound as though
you can see us as who we really are. I congratulate you -- "
     "Are you agents of Haargon, then?" Ariel asked again.
     The man who looked remarkably similar to Brother Terkan glanced at
her. "I've never heard of Haargon," he said.
     "That does seem to be the most common refrain about him," Mouse
said.
     "I am Cefn an'Derin," the man said. "Perhaps you've heard of me? I
have developed no little skill in the arts arcane."
     Mouse and Ariel looked at each other before returning their gaze to
Cefn. Both shook their heads.
     "But neither of us has been in Dargon for long," Mouse said.
     "Even people who've been here a while haven't necessarily heard of
him," the false Bret rasped.
     "True," Cefn agreed. "By the way, this is Je'lanthra'en. It's
enough just to call her Je'en."
     "And where's the real Bret?" Mouse asked.
     "Secured in a closet downstairs," Cefn replied. "He may awaken with
a slight headache, but he's basically unharmed."
     "Mmm. It isn't that we like him especially," Mouse said, glancing
at Ariel, "but we have no idea what you two are up to. What about
Brother Terkan?"
     "Brother Terkan," Cefn said. "Yes. What about him. By the way, do
you mind if Je'en and I don't dispel our disguises? They're a bother to
apply and I don't think I'm finished with them."
     "I don't mind," Mouse said, "if you can give us a good reason for
wearing them."
     "Very well, then. I'll see what I can do." Cefn walked over to the
reading table and seated himself in a chair. The one named Je'en,
however, remained at the door. "Have you heard of Jhel?"
     "No," Mouse said. Ariel also shook her head.
     "Jhel is a power whose delight is in grand destruction, misery and
annihilation -- " Cefn started to explain.
     "You mean like Haargon?" Ariel asked.
     "Another evil god?" Mouse demanded. She glanced at Ariel. "This
town has way too much religion," she declared.
     "Mouse, I don't know anything about your Haargon and you, I take
it, have never heard of Jhel," Cefn said calmly. "So it seems to me that
no one has yet been obliged to deal with too many evil gods."
     "You don't think any is too many?" Mouse asked.
     "Point taken," Cefn said, quickly adding "and what Je'en and I are
about is the final eradication of Jhel's worship from the face of
Makdiar."
     "That sounds like a good thing," Mouse admitted, "if this Jhel is
as thoroughly evil as you say. But what's that got to do with Brother
Terkan?"
     "Yes, Brother Terkan." Cefn steepled his fingers. "I trust you
didn't consider him a good friend."
     "Good customer, at best," Mouse declared. "For books. I only met
him last night. What else should I know?"
     "He was part of the last circle of worshippers of Jhel. A circle
holed up here in Dargon."
     "Was?" Ariel asked.
     "Most likely, he's dead by now," Cefn said. "If he isn't dead, he's
trapped in a fatal situation and will be soon."
     "What kind of fatal situation?" Mouse asked. She jumped down from
Ariel's shoulder to sit on the reading table in front of Cefn.
     "He was trying to misguide Je'en into handing her sword over to
him."
     Mouse frowned. "On the face of it, making that into a fatal
situation sounds like someone was over-reacting."
     "Hmmm. I guess you want the long version," Cefn said. He steepled
his fingers again. "The last circle of worshippers of Jhel believed that
Je'en's sword carried great and particular power. If they could persuade
her to hand it over to them willingly, they believed it could be used to
bring about a massive and disastrous manifestation of Jhel in the world.
The end of the world, if you like."
     "I don't like. Were they right?" Mouse asked.
     "I believe so -- "
     "But why would they want to do that?" Ariel asked. "Why would
anyone want to destroy the world?"
     "I expect they thought the world would be replaced by some new
version over which they would be placed in charge," Cefn shrugged. He
frowned and seemed to call up a reluctant memory. "Something like that,
anyway. In order to persuade Je'en to hand over the sword, Terkan
crafted an elaborate plan to attack Je'en's dreams and then bring her to
a sort of dreamland in order to alleviate the nightmares. I, however,
found out about the plan in time to intervene. The result of that
intervention was that Terkan was trapped in the dreamland, where he is
likely soon to die. And Je'en and I now know enough about the workings
of the final circle of worshippers of Jhel to destroy them and this foul
religion forever."
     "Can we do anything to help?" Ariel asked.
     "And have you any evidence to support that story?" Mouse added.
     Cefn laughed. "And what evidence can you provide to support your
stories about Haargon, Iliara, and the mysterious kidnapper at -- where
was it?" He glanced at Je'en. "Camron's?" he asked. She nodded.
     "That's fair," Mouse admitted. "A lack of evidence all around, I
guess. A standoff. So why did you come here to Terkan's house?"
     "I, as Brother Terkan am going to call another meeting of the
remaining worshippers of Jhel," Cefn said. "A final meeting. One that
will gather very soon, before word of the real Terkan's demise gets out.
He's not known under his own name where he's dying, so we'll have a
little time, anyway. As for me, I'm just passing through here until we
can go to that gathering and finish my mission forever."
     "You'll be taking your assistant with you?" Mouse asked, indicating
Je'en.
     "Partner," Cefn corrected. "And yes, she'll go with me."
     Mouse nodded. "And you'll refrain from involving yourselves in our
problems with these agents of Haargon?"
     "Are you sure that this Haargon really exists?" Cefn asked.
     "Whether or not he exists -- " Mouse said.
     "Of course he exists," Ariel declared.
     "Cefn," Mouse ignored the comment, "are you and Je'en going to
ignore our problem with the Watch over that murdered man in Camron's?"
     Cefn looked at Je'en, who shrugged.
     "I think we could do that," he said. "But I also think that this
house won't remain a good place for you to hide for too much longer."

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