Umber

The potential for an alliance between Iuz and the Scarlet Brotherhood creates new possibilities for unpleasantness.  

Sir Geoffrey’s personal assistant and the captain of the Montinelle militia frowned nearly identical nervous frowns as the young woman rode away from the gate toward the manor. Mid-afternoon she’d appeared in front of the town as if she’d walked in on a cloud, wearing that mithril armor that was probably worth more than the market square, with that tame weasel on her shoulder who stared at them with an unpleasant steadiness that on a human face the assistant would have called disdain. The black and silver cloak was new and nearly as expensive-looking as the armor. She’d said that Sir Geoffrey was expecting her, as if his personal aide wouldn’t already know, and before he could even offer her a horse demanded one for the longish trek back to the manor. When the captain asked her to return it to the barracks stable when she left, she laughed.

“I wasn’t planning to keep it,” she said. “Even if you do still owe me money.” Then she rode away, still laughing as the two men stared at her in puzzlement.

“I wonder if that Jasian is going to become a semi-permanent fixture of the town,” the assistant muttered.

“Strange company for a paladin, I’ll grant you that,” the captain said.

“This is what the world is coming to,” the assistant grumbled. “I suppose I should just be grateful that it isn’t a Hextorian. I hear Dunthrane’s command is riddled with them, and the king doesn’t care. Encourages it, in fact. It will all come to grief in the end, I don’t mind saying. Those people should be locked up or hanged, not handed troops and commissions.”

“I wouldn’t express that sentiment too loudly in front of Sir Geoffrey,” the captain warned. “Criticizing the king won’t win you any favor.”

“So now we’re not allowed to speak our minds?”

“I don’t think this is about Hextorians and Jasians,” he scolded. “There’s no profit in getting melodramatic every time Sir Geoffrey has a visitor who makes us look like children playing with wooden swords – or stick pens, in your case,” he added a little derisively. “He was a paladin of some repute before he was a baron. They know people.”

“Visiting Pelorites, fine, but – ”

“Better she’s coming here to chat with Sir Geoffrey than having tea with some Naelax prince in Ahlissa, eh? You should get back to him – he might have work for you to do.”

“Not when she’s here,” he said bitterly. “I sit in the kitchen while the great ones take their counsel regarding matters too grand for my common ears.”

“Maybe they don’t invite you in because the ‘matters’ are too small. Maybe they’re just friends. Maybe she’s – I don’t know – his niece or something. Did you ever consider that?” He laughed sourly at the assistant’s doubtful pout. “Ha – I thought not. Get yourself back to the manor. I have work to do.”

“You look tired,” Geoffrey said as he took Brin’s cloak and draped it over a stand in the corner of his study.

She collapsed into a chair. “A little,” she admitted. “I’ve been helping Canoness Y’Deh in Hommlet with – with – ”

He patted her shoulder sympathetically on his way past. “It’s a hard thing, burying one’s own dead.”

She wasn’t surprised he’d already heard. “They were my friends,” she said faintly. “I knew them all. I ate with them, I prayed with them – ”

“And now you’ve fought with them in defense of their church and their honor,” he interjected, moving to a side table to pour a small glass of brandy. “It is the way of things, for people like us.” He held out the glass. “Drink this.” She gave him a dubious look, then accepted it. “Don’t play with it, drink it,” he ordered as she swirled the liquid absently in the snifter. “You need to relax a little. You look as if you’re going to stick a dagger in the first person who looks at you cross-eyed.”

“Some people might say I always look like that,” she countered, but downed the brandy as he directed. “I keep asking myself if there’s something we should have done differently. If we’d been faster, or…I don’t know.”

He sat down near her. “Tell me about it. Was this Fomgarten fellow involved?”

She nodded. “Canoness Y’Deh told us that he’d been asking more than the usual and other than the appropriate questions about his new church. She was less than forthcoming with information, although that is not typically her way.”

“Because of his history of thievery.”

“And because the church which had dismissed him previously had been savaged: sacred relics taken, and every soul who lived there brutally murdered. He denied any involvement, and nothing could be proven. As his own rooms at the local inn were set on fire at the time of the attack, he even tried to paint himself as another victim, not aggressor.”

“He could easily have done it himself, for precisely that purpose or to cover some other set of tracks.”

“That was our feeling.” She clenched her mechanical hand into a fist. “I wish Y’Deh had let me – interview – him.” Geoffrey winced, imagining how that ‘interview’ would have proceeded. “Instead we had to settle for sifting the wreckage of his last clerical posting for clues. The picture we pieced together from the site and from witnesses was a grim one. Just before the attack, an unnatural storm arose, raining a kind of oily black pitch down on the town and with especial thickness on the church. A man carrying two batons was seen sneaking inside, but before anyone could even think of intervening a reddish glow surrounded the buildling.”

“What fiendish magic was that?” Geoffrey asked.

“A wizard tried to teleport in to aid the clerics – and was repulsed.”

“Sealed in,” the paladin murmured. “Still, a church of Cuthbert would be one of the better-equipped to defend itself. Like a Heironian church, it is likely to be well-staffed with warriors in addition to clerics.”

“And yet,” she countered, “there were no survivors. And fewer signs of any interesting struggle than one might have expected.”

“Ambush?” he asked. “Compulsion?”

“The pitch.” She wrinkled her nose as if smelling a foul odor. “We thought perhaps it was like the psionic parasites, a substance to retard healing processes. I smeared some of it on my hand and cut myself. It wasn’t that I couldn’t heal myself – it was difficult for me to summon any power at all.”

“A rain that retards magic?” he said.

“Only divine,” she corrected him. “A wizard, a sorcerer, an assassin, would all have their entire complement of abilities available to them. A cleric or a templar would have nothing.”

“You said it was difficult, not impossible.”

“That was nearly two weeks after the attack, and it still took every shred of concentration I could muster. And even after two weeks someone like Ammitai, who devotes less of his training and attention to calling upon his divine powers under duress, could not utilize the most basic of them. Couple such a dampening field with the pack of blood trolls, twelve-headed cryohydra, and erynies that assaulted them – ”

“And you have the ingredients for a slaughter,” Geoffrey murmured. “This was more than a disgruntled priest taking revenge for a perceived slight.” He looked at her. “If there were no survivors, how did you know – ?”

“I raised their bishop, a man named Jeard,” she replied. “I had asked for and received permission to interview the corpse, but so many aspects of the attack were so perplexing that I felt we needed more extensive information. We were just coming to a certain conclusion of the Hommlet church’s danger when a constable came running up to tell us that there had been a bright flash emanating from Fomgarten’s charred, abandoned rooms. Corwin and I went to investigate while the others took Bishop Jeard and a sample of the pitch and teleported back to Hommlet. It was our hope that Rufus would be able to develop a counter to the retardant’s influence, or a quick means of washing it away.”

Seeing her expression, Geoffrey said, “He didn’t have time.”

She shook her head. “When they returned, it was raining.”

“And the red glow?”

“Already surrounding the church. Corwin and I made haste to Fomgarten’s room, hoping against hope we’d find something that would aid us. What we found was a small, singed carpet, with control mechanisms sewn into it.”

“You were fortunate that this Fomgarten had sloppy fire-making skills. Whatever it was, it sounds as if he intended to destroy it.”

“Yes, we were fortunate,” she agreed. “While Corwin was experimenting with it, he vanished – and reappeared on an identical rug in the woods just outside of Hommlet. He was then able to use that carpet to appear in the church courtyard. It was the only way in – or presumably out – once the teleportation dampener was in place. If Fomgarten had been more thorough…” she shuddered.

“The same forces were arrayed against Hommlet as the prior church?” he asked.

She nodded wearily. “Most of the Cuthbertian clerics were dead. We could hear the templars fighting with the blood trolls in the barracks and the sacristy. The cryohydra was guarding the courtyard, but Corwin had taken the precaution of arriving invisibly, as did we when we followed after.”

“And the Canoness?”

“We could see her in the sanctuary, although someone had placed a force wall between the sanctuary and the antechamber to isolate her from potential rescuers. She was more dead than alive, alone with Fomgarten, who was shouting abuse at her.”

“Did you dismantle the force wall?”

“We could have, but we didn’t need to. The Canoness has always been generous enough to treat me as she would a member of her own community. I knew the locations of the hidden passages leading to the reliquary and other private spaces. Vayel leapt out from a concealed door and gave Fomgarten a more pressing problem to deal with than a nearly vanquished priestess.”

“Who went to the aid of the templars?” he asked.

“No one.” Before he could do more than open his mouth she said, “We went to the aid of friends. But not only that.”

They stared at one another for a long moment, then Geoffrey said, “I understand.”

“The irony was, we were apparently wrong. There was no apparent focus to the assault. Fomgarten’s mission seemed to begin and end with attacking whoever happened to be in charge both verbally and physically – in this case, Canoness Y’Deh. Dryden stumbled across the erinyes ransacking the Canoness’ private rooms, and the blood trolls served as guards and instigators of general mayhem. They all grew a little more focused when someone who knew what they were up against arrived to oppose them. But only a little more. Once Fomgarten was dead – and Vayel and Corwin ended up effectively killing him twice – the erinyes’ primary concern was with retrieving the batons he had been wielding to such deadly effect.”

“You mentioned those batons before – a curious detail.”

“They – and a curious detail about Fomgarten himself – are the key to something very troubling. Each one of the batons is an artifact in itself. Together, they grant their wielder the occasional power of wish.”

“Which is why you had to kill him twice,” Geoffrey said. “Trinkets of fearsome power.”

She nodded. “The Canoness feared it was the kind of trinket that would be handed out by someone like – Iuz.”

The paladin sighed. “That would explain the targets. Iuz has a great hatred for the servants of Cuthbert, Heironeous and Pelor. There was something distinctive about this Fomgarten as well?”

“His fighting style – and the fact that he was so good at it. He was a priest of Cuthbert, at some time in the past, and the Canoness was puzzled as to how his martial expertise grew so finely honed. Dryden deepened the mystery by telling us that, although heavily armored as he was he clearly was not one himself, he had been trained by monks.”

Geoffrey’s face paled. “Iuz – and the Scarlet Brotherhood?”

“That is what the Canoness fears. I don’t understand – how could they make common cause?”

“The Tharizdunians and the psions did,” he pointed out. “A marriage of suspicious convenience, each ‘ally’ hoping to deceive and then outlast the other – but they can still wreak havoc on the likes of us in the short term.” He rose and crossed the room to stand before a large map of the Flaeness hanging on the wall. Although Brin had any number of questions for him, she remained silent in the face of his evident concentration. Finally he spoke. “I’ve been doing some research into the fortunes of the Scarlet Brotherhood, and it hasn’t been one uninterruptedly rosy success story. They took advantage of the Greyhawk Wars to expand their power enormously, but recent years have seen them lose at least some of those gains.”

Brin stood beside him and studied the map. “Where have they been, and where are they now?”

“Their initial strategy involved seizing control of the southern waterways. To that end, they took over the Lordship of the Isles, the land of the Sea Princes, Onwaal and Idee.” He laid a finger on each region as he spoke it aloud. “They attempted to seize Irongate but its ruler, Cobb Darg, had been aware of their intentions from the beginning and easily repulsed them.”

She looked at the dot on the map that was Irongate. “He must be a powerful man, to maintain his independence when he is apparently so isolated.”

“He cultivates friendly relations with the dwarves of the Iron Hills and the elven king of Sunndi, which at least helps to buffer him from Ahlissa.” Geoffrey laughed uneasily. “But in truth I’ve heard some very odd rumors about him. Most of what anyone knows about Cobb Darg, in truth, is a matter of rumor. But he’s implacably opposed to the Brotherhood, and that’s good news for us. He had a hand, I’ve heard, in the final liberation of Onnwal. They had risen up against their Brotherhood keepers some years ago, but the invaders maintained control over the port city of Scant, which was still the political and economic heart of the region. More recently, clandestine agents rumored to be associated with Cobb Darg managed to, shall we say, create the conditions which enabled the Onnwal resistance to expel them even from there.

“Their biggest setback, however, was their unusually clumsy attempt to take over Keoland. The resources they had to commit to withdrawal after their overtures failed enabled Ahlissa to ‘liberate’ Idee, and the slaves and former rulers of the Sea Princes to plunge that country into a civil war which still continues today. And when Prince Thrommel disappeared all those decades ago, more than a few individuals believed the Brotherhood had something to do with it. If he has been resurrected with a grudge and regains even a fraction of his former influence, Furyondy could prove a headache for them as well.”

“Oh my,” Brin sighed, “it’s all very confusing, isn’t it? I don’t think I’m going to remember a word of it after I leave.”

“It suffices to say that they are pressed on several sides. We have Cobb Darg here,” he pointed to the region in the far south of the Flaeness, “more or less actively trying to drive the Scarlet Brotherhood back to their peninsula. With Thromell’s return they may need to plan for renewed hostilities from Furondy. We have Clement,” Brin grinned and poked a finger at Spinecastle, “attempting to uncover and disrupt their plans in the north. After their misstep in Keoland they’ve returned to subtletly, but they were discovered in Ratik, and revealed themselves in the North Kingdom for some reason known only to them.”

“I know you said ‘known only to them,’ but do you have any theories?” she asked.

Geoffrey rested his fist over the North Kingdom. “An unsatisfactory Grenell was more useful to us in the short term than a dead one – as perhaps the Brotherhood calculated. Clement’s gambit to rein in the worst excesses of the Hextorians was risky, but it was working. Now there is a dangerous vacuum in the region. Someone will come to power, but who? Will they encourage the Hextorians to return to their old ways or drive them underground, with perhaps much the same result? And who will head the Hextorian hierarchy itself? Many of them despised Grenell, but he was the titular head of the church, and now there is no one.”

“Obviously the king can’t lead the church, but couldn’t he – ?” Brin trailed off as Geoffrey was already shaking his head.

“It may seem a fine line between yielding to the discipline of a superior military mind and submitting to the will of the ruler of a country, but a line there is, and expecting the Hextorians to cross it would, I think, lose them. Clement is still a Heironian, and Heironeous and Hextor are still sworn enemies. If Clement wishes to keep his Hextorians in the fold he cannot take up the mantle of rulership himself, nor can he elevate another Heironian to the position.”

“What is the solution, then?”

“I don’t know. And fortunately he hasn’t tasked me with thinking about it.”

“But you do think about it,” she ventured.

“Of course.” He gave her his roguish smile. “But I have the luxury of doing no more than second-guessing whoever is obliged to produce a solution.”

In spite of the magnitude of the problems confronting them, she couldn’t help but laugh. “But what does all of this have to do with Iuz? And who is he, anyway? People in Furyondy and Veluna seem to speak of him with dread, and I know they’ve been at war with him forever, but…”

“Iuz is the demigod child of the demon Graz’zt and the witch-mother Iggwilv, who some contend has become a demigod herself. He came to power over a century ago after a petty nobleman in what was then known as the Northern Reaches,” he pointed to a region north of Furyondy, “died and left his holdings to a son of dubious origin. The rest, as they say, has been a bloody history, which has seen the Empire of Iuz responsible for more death and destruction than perhaps any other ruler in the entire history of the Flaeness.”

“Has he suffered setbacks recently as well?”

Geoffrey seemed not to hear her. “Every star on this map,” he mused, “represents a man or a woman with the ambition to carve out a space for imposing their will – malefic or benign – on whoever had the good or ill fortune to live there.” When she arched an eyebrow at him he added, “Yes, even Clement.”

“Yet you follow him.”

“I follow him because I believe that, were all the inhabitants of Oerth to wake up tomorrow morning and find themselves each able to govern his or her own actions without the need of imposed authority, Clement would gladly put down his scepter and his sword and join them. I’ve met few other men or women of whom I could say the same, who exercise power without power exercising them.” Brin turned away abruptly, busying herself in the perusal of a bookshelf. “What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing to do with the matter at hand.”

“But something,” he prompted.

After a space of silence she spoke. “In Hommlet, we buried those who were to remain dead.”

“The Canoness will be restoring some of her subordinates?”

“Some,” she said. “But not all.”

“And you think she should – ?”

“No,” she replied vehemently. “The Jasians are taught to be sparing in the use of power over life and death. But every time I do use it, or see it used, I wonder…what is fair? What is just? Who will the Canoness bring back? Those who were strong? Those who were weak? Those whose company she enjoyed the most, or those who challenged her? Should she just select at random, let those who return be in the hands of fate? I have resurrected men in the name of sentiment, information, even blackmail. How worthy were my motives? Sometimes I wonder if we should just refuse to perform the rites at all. Because I look within myself and cannot honestly say whether the power that I have – is exercising me.”

“As you say, though, you are taught the boundaries of that power’s use. And as long as you are faithful to those teachings, can’t your conscience remain clear?”

“Yes, we are given guidelines. They seem straightforward. They are straightforward. You raise the strong, the learned, the worthy. Yet sometimes I wonder why. Why do they deserve life – more life – than the farmer and his ox?” She ran her fingers along the leather binding of a thick history book. “Sometimes I could almost hate him,” she murmured. “For bequeathing me all of his moral uncertainty, and now cheating me of his company.”

“Having to wrestle with your uncertainty makes you stronger. I would think your goddess in particular would approve of that.”

She turned to look at him, her expression still troubled. “You’re right, of course.” She returned to the map. “Let’s speak of Iuz.”

He watched her for a moment before returning his own attention to the northwestern kingdoms of the Flaeness. “You were asking if Iuz has suffered setbacks, and the answer is yes, although they are not so much recent as ongoing. He was well on his way to overwhelming the entire Flaeness when Canon Hazen of Veluna, as you know, employed the Crook of Rao to purge all demonic influences from the land. It was a crippling blow to Iuz, but in the intervening years he has doubtless been striving to recover from it. He can be no more pleased than the Scarlet Brotherhood at Clement’s efforts to unite the eastern kingdoms. Much of Clement’s work is done quietly, as with Ardel of Nyrond, but both Iuz and the Brotherhood doubtless have their spies and strategists predicting his next moves. Iuz may also be disturbed by the return of the Crook of Rao to Veluna, afraid that it will be used against him once again.”

“But from what I understand, the repercussions of using it were terrible, on both sides.”

“Yes, seven of the bishops who attended the ceremony still suffer from madness and a wasting disease that defies identification or cure, and Canon Hazen himself has never been the same. But Iuz has no qualms about bringing suffering on his own people. They are fodder, not subjects, and he will no doubt measure others’ actions and motives by his own. And there is another reason why Iuz may prefer not to be on an unsteady footing.” Brin looked at him expectantly. “His circle of closest advisors are known as the Boneheart: six greater, and six lesser. While he was still alive, his father Graz’zt told him that one of them would seek to murder him and take his place.”

“So any sign of weakness could encourage this would-be usurper to make his move? Or is there something more specific?”

“It’s difficult to say. If I were Iuz I might be seeing pieces of a mosaic drawing unpleasantly close together.”

She studied the map. “Forces in the south and east both beginning to pull themselves together into what, once started, might build into a more united opposition?”

“And one outstanding, unknown player.” He pointed to the mountains of the Abbor-Alz, just north of the Bright Desert. “A splinter cult of Iuz has taken up residence near Hardby. Rumor has it they’re looking for Lord Robilar.”

Brin started. “Of Rary and Robilar?”

“Robilar once came very close to murdering Iuz. Is this particular band of cultists looking for him for revenge, or hoping for a successful second act? No one knows.”

She sagged against the nearby bookshelf. “So Iuz and the Scarlet Brotherhood may or may not be allied. Furyondy may or may not decide to take up arms against not just Iuz but now the Scarlet Brotherhood as well. Robilar – and probably by extension, Rary – may or may not decide to get involved in the whole mess. Now that we’ve taken out Fomgarten, these attacks on churches of Cuthbert in Veluna may or may not continue.”

“That, too, is the way of things,” Geoffrey said.

“I think sometimes I preferred being pointed in a direction and told to attack, in blissful ignorance of the antecedents and consequences. Evolving from a cur in the kennels to a fully sentient human is a painful process.”

The paladin laughed. “More brandy?”

“No,” she grinned. “Thank you.”

“Speaking of being pointed in directions and told to attack, how goes Corwin’s effort at acquiring a new weapon?”

Brin’s smile instantly faded. “You should probably sit down,” she said. Seeing his wary expression she added, “It’s nothing to do with Corwin. It’s – well, I’ll explain.” As Geoffrey took a chair she went to his sideboard, poured a second glass of brandy and handed it to him. “You should drink this.” She sat down next to him. “I don’t know if you’ve heard of an artifact called the Shadow Staff.” He shook his head. “It’s a very powerful artifact. This sword is very similar in design, formidable even if diminished in its capabilities.”

“Did you lose the bid?” he asked.

“No,” she replied, “we won. The sword is in our possession. But the whole process by which we came by it disturbs me now.”

“You said that Corwin was contacted by an intermediary, and that a meeting was to be arranged.”

“The meeting was in Johnsport, in a warehouse, at midnight.”

“How atmospheric,” the paladin said wryly.

“Corwin asked me to accompany him to – analyze the weapon’s magical properties.”

“And in case this was a trick and not an auction?”

She smiled thinly. “The seller was present, but the warehouse was darkened. Either he was moving about from place to place or throwing his voice, which was quite obviously disguised. He stayed well beyond the range of our detection spells.”

“And the weapon?”

“The weapon levitated, spotlit, on a platform. I tried to perform a simple magic detection, and my spell bounced everywhere but where I intended it to go. We were informed, then, of the ‘rules’ of this transaction. The weapon was contained within a dispelling buffer. If we chose to examine it, we would have to cross the buffer.”

“Stripping you of all magical defenses,” he interjected.

She frowned her acknowledgment. “Once inside the buffer we could perform any magical or martial tests we wished on the blade. He had provided platforms of various substances – including adamantine – for the purpose. Each buyer was allowed one bid, and one only, high bid winning. We were allowed to ask three questions. We asked him who he was.”

“I assume he refused to answer that one.”

“Yes, but he left enough clues that we figured it out. Perhaps he meant us to.” She looked at the glass. “You haven’t finished your brandy.”

“Do I know this person?” he asked as he complied.

“Oh, yes.”

“What were the clues?”

“For one thing the sword wasn’t forged. It was – constructed – with entirely arcane processes. But there was still a maker’s mark on it – a stylized ‘K.’ And after we left the warehouse, we chanced to see him leave as well. But not in the form of a human – it was something batlike.”

“A vampire?” he asked, puzzled. “A demon?”

“That’s what we thought at first. But then I remembered: a mage, who during the time of the Totems chose for the Bat, whose first initial was K.” Geoffrey looked at her uncomprehendingly. “It was Keraptis.”

“Are you certain?” The paladin’s hand tightened around the glass with such force she was afraid for a moment he was going to break it. “Then why the charade? Why the auction? I thought he was your friend.”

“Corwin asked him that – if he was still our friend – when Keraptis contacted him to let him know he’d won. Well, he hadn’t been the high bidder, he’d come in second, but the winner tried to cheat and steal the sword, so Keraptis killed him.”

Geoffrey closed his eyes. “And how did he answer Corwin?”

“He laughed.”

The paladin set down his glass with exaggerated care, then passed a hand over his face and rubbed his temples. Brin thought she’d never seen him look so old, or so tired, or so angry. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought you’d want to know.”

“Of course.” He patted her knee, smiling weakly. “Never kill the messenger.”

“It may mean nothing. He was upset that Achomed didn’t let him go with us. Maybe he just wanted to prove to us that he had spent the years learning a few tricks of his own.”

“It’s a childish way of going about it.”

“I think that,” she sighed, “is why Achomed didn’t let him go.”

“What do you think his laughter meant?”

“I don’t really know,” she shrugged. “It could have been approval for figuring out who he was, or dismissal of our past acquaintance. It’s hard to say.”

“Can you guess based on your past relationship with him?” he asked. “I assume the two of you formed some bond, given the similarity in your ages, and certain experiences…” he trailed off.

She laughed humorlessly. “But I was the one who needed someone else to revive me after I died. Keraptis did it all by himself.”

“One might say that there were people who desired to come to your aid, where Keraptis had to obtain his assistance by force.”

“One might, but Keraptis didn’t.”

He stared down at the floor. “Then my efforts with him were wasted.”

It disturbed her to see the paladin looking so defeated. “Not necessarily. So far, as you say, he’s just been childish. That doesn’t mean he’s turned against us.”

“That doesn’t mean he was ever turned toward you. That was how history records the Keraptis of old, enamored of no one and nothing except himself and his cleverness.”

“But the king would say we must judge the man before us.” She risked a dry smile. “And we possess the conscience of the king, not our own.”

“I’ll thank you not to employ my own lectures against me,” he scolded, but his face looked more relaxed. “Did you ask Achomed about Keraptis’ whereabouts?”

“He doesn’t know where he is at present. He’s not on the island.” She hated to disturb his fragile mood, but added, “He said shortly after Keraptis had gone he came upon a badly damaged lab. He doesn’t know how or why it happened.”

“May I ask what you paid him for the sword?”

“Three hundred and fifty thousand gold. Perhaps we shouldn’t have, but – ”

“No, I wouldn’t have wanted to see it used against myself either.” Geoffrey sighed heavily. “I hope he intends to put it to good use.” The clock in the hallway struck five. “It’s still an hour before dinner, and I could use a little air.” He opened the door to the sight of his much aggrieved personal assistant striding down the hall. “We’re just going for a short walk,” he said. “We’ll be back in a bit.” As he helped Brin into her cloak he said, “This is an interesting fabric – I’ve never seen anything quite like it before.”

Brin recalled their recent visit to the cursed elven servants of the titan Thraximel, their lost implements for spinning and weaving that the mysterious dwarves on the Plane of Earth had somehow contrived to have she and her companions return, the newly woven glove of Thraximel that was in fact the targeting mechanism for the odd energy weapon they had given to Vayel. But above all else she remembered their promise not to reveal the elves’ existence to the outside world, as the last time they had permitted themselves to be distracted by that world they ended up the victims of a six-thousand-year-long curse. “Do you like it?” she said. “It was a gift from some – acquaintances – of mine.”

“It’s quite remarkable,” he replied. “Sturdy, yet elegant.”

“You should see the matching glove,” she said.

The assistant couldn’t fathom why the paladin found such hilarity in couture; as their light chatter receded down the hall he entered Sir Geoffrey’s study, cleared the two brandy glasses and began organizing tomorrow’s schedule in no especially good temper.