King Pinch

17

Pinch swept through the palace halls, leaving a trail of whispers and arched brows in his wake. The regulator paid them no mind. It wasn't how he was dressed, which was a like a proper lord, or the way he passed by. No longer did he casually slouch through the chambers like a bemused man observing the ways of some alien class. No-now he strode through upright and boldly with every sense of possession. He was transformed and carried himself confidently, absolute in the knowledge that he had a place here in his own right and not by the noblesse oblige of others.

These things did not set tongues wagging, although they were noticed and added fuel to the speculation. No, that wasn't what Pinch's sharp ears picked up. It was his very presence at all that set the courtiers abuzz. Clearly, word had gotten around-no doubt from Iron-Biter-that he was missing and not expected to return. It pleased the rogue no end that his entry made such a spectacular impression. Now was not the time to be subtle. He wanted everyone to know that he had returned; the consternation it would rouse in certain quarters was only to his advantage.

It was late in the afternoon, and the palace was teeming with lord, ladies, pages, and squires. Tomorrow was the Festival of Wealth, which alone would have been enough to fill the palace. Tomorrow was a day more than that, though. The Red Priests had declared that day auspicious for the Rite of Ascendancy. Pinch was certain Vargo had played the astrologer for this choice. With Iron-Biter's assurance that Pinch had been foiled, Vargo would want to act quickly before the stakes changed.

Consequently, anyone who hoped to be anything- which meant everyone-had descended on the palace. Counts, knights, poets, and merchants hovered in the halls or held court in the salons. Like gamblers at the track, the courtiers flitted from one faction to the next, trying to guess the outcome of the race. No man wanted to side with the losing party, but no one wanted to look indecisive either.

Friends were to be rewarded, enemies bought or crushed, and neutrals ignored. That was the way of these things.

It amused Pinch to read the faces of those around him, their plots so easily exposed in the astonishment of seeing him. Pinch's appearance upset the odds. Suddenly the Lord Chamberlain's faction wasn't so weak and hopeless as it had been moments before. Everyone knew Cleedis had brought Pinch back to Ankhapur, but no one could say for sure why. Only Iron-Biter had any clue, and even he did not know the whole of it.

Pinch threaded his way through the crowded salons, passing through the circles of courtiers. First there were the revelers, blissfully dumb of the greater stakes that tomorrow held. Dressed in their festival finery, these vain lackwits came to drink, to dance, and to be seen. Pinch perused them with the eye of a poultry buyer at market, making professional note of their plumage and purses. In his other life, these would have been the targets of his trade. Even now he looked at his stiff hand and yearned for a chance to put himself to the test.

Reluctantly he plunged into the next layer, where the ladies danced in stately lines while their lords hovered in knots of casually earnest discussion. This was the realm of hopefuls, those who conspired to advance by guessing the right horse. They eyed Pinch with suspicion and lust, eager to know what he portended, afraid to approach lest they be branded his ally. There was no comparison for them in Pinch's previous life; they had been as far from his reach as the moon and stars. Now he was as much above them and warranted them less concern than he had the revelers of moments before.

The third circle, the core of it all, was his goal. There, in those salons deepest from the city, swaddled in the layers of bodyguards, claimants, and sycophants, were the objects of all concern-the three princes. Cleedis was right where Pinch expected to find him, at the center of Bors's faction. Dwarfed by the soaring pillars of the Great Hall, the shunned coterie of the Lord Chamberlain drifted forlornly, waiting for a vitalizing spark. The princely idiot Bors clapped to the music that echoed from the dancing halls while Cleedis stood in serious conference with the few plump, waistcoated lords committed to his side. They were an unhappy-looking lot, men trapped by their titles, friendships, and favors to what looked for certain a losing cause. Few held any belief that the benevolent gods of Ankhapur would choose Bors as fit to rule the city. Cleedis alone held firm in that faith, futilely trying to rally supporters to his cause.

Pinch's arrival carried that wanted spark. The paunchy old knights, former captains of Manferic's army, drew aside for the younger man, younger at least by comparison.

"Lord Chamberlain," Pinch said as he came up behind old Cleedis, who to that point had been quietly haranguing a flagging member of his entourage, the Royal Steward of the Stables.

The old man stopped talking with a sort of choked gasp and turned about all in one go. It was a credit to his years of toadying that the Lord Chamberlain didn't blurt out his surprise. "Master Janol, how fare you? Rumor was spoken by certain mouths that we would not see you again."

"Sometimes rumor are just rumors. I'm well, Cleedis." Pinch let the pleasant smile drop from his mask. "A word, Cleedis. Now. Privately."

The old man arched one graying eyebrow. "Of course, cousin. Glindon, send word to Princes Vargo and Throdus that should they hear tales of their cousin's absence, they are not to worry. Tell them such talk is completely groundless and that he is well and with us here."

The page rolled his eyes, trying to remember the exact wording, and then hurried off to complete his task.

"Lords, excuse me." Taking Pinch by the arm, Cleedis hurried them both into a small side chamber, barely larger than a dressing closet. The old man shut the door, latched it, and turned on his agent, the bluish veins on his temple standing out.

"Where have you been? Vargo's had it out that you're dead or scuppered off someplace. There's been havoc to play with the ranks, positive mutiny. They think I've lost control." The chamberlain was hopping with indignation, furious but dependent on Pinch for answers.

"It was near enough to the truth, but I've made it."

"Do you have them-the items?"

Pinch found the old man's haste annoying. Brokering was a fine art that, properly done, should be approached casually. This eagerness was unseemly.

"They're where I can put my hands on them. Let's talk payment.

"We did. Fifty thousand bicentas."

Pinch regretfully shook his head. "That was then. Now I think the job's worth more."

Cleedis sucked at his teeth, clearly unwilling to name a figure. Finally he expansively offered, "Ten thousand more."

Pinch laughed a short, derisive snort. He held up his branded hand. "My price is another fifty thousand."

It was the chamberlain's turn to sputter. "Fifty more? Impossible!"

"I have the items; you don't."

"What of that? They're not necessary for the plan," the old man snapped.

Pinch pricked up his ears. It was the first Cleedis had let on that he knew the whole of Manferic's scheme. He answered with a heartless drawl. "It would be unfortunate if the genuine articles were discovered by Vargo or Throdus."

"I'll kill you myself first!"

"Harm me and it's guaranteed.

Cleedis glowered. "Thirty more," he finally said with a sullen mumble.

"Forty-five."

"Thirty."

"Forty, or Vargo learns everything."

The old campaigner broke into a hacking cough. "Forty then, damn you," he gasped as the fit subsided.

"Forty more it is, Cleedis." With triumphant cheer, Pinch clapped the other on the shoulder. "In gems-mixed sizes and properly appraised. Don't try to cheat me on that. My friends have good eyes for stones. Agreed?"

"Agreed." There was hardly any cheer in Cleedis. "It will all be ready when you deliver the Cup to Manferic."

"Me deliver? No, I'll pass it to you."

"Our lord insists you bring it to him. The stones will be ready then." It was the chamberlain's turn to drive a hard bargain. "If you do not deliver, there will be no payment."

"When?"

"Tonight-after the banquet."

Pinch didn't like it but he could not refuse. There was still one more card in this game he needed to play. "Agreed, tonight."

Cleedis shuffled to the door. "After the banquet. Now, I must return before more bolt from my side."

Just as the old man started to open the door, Pinch played his last trump. "One other condition, Lord Cleedis. My mother-you will take me to my mother.

The hand stopped on the knob. "That's… impossible. She's dead."

"Don't lie to me, old fool. I know she's alive and that Ikrit guards her." Pinch was bluffing on a dead hand, but there was no need for Cleedis to see that.

"How much do you know?" the chamberlain whispered.

"Everything. Manferic, Mother, all of it."

They locked gazes, gamblers trying to read the bluff in the other's eyes. The stakes were new to Pinch, but the game he knew. Cleedis tried his statesman's best, but in the end the silent struggle went to the younger man.

"I can't," he whispered. "I didn't even know she'd survived all these year until you came. Ikrit was supposed to have killed her long ago."

Pinch smiled grimly. The bluff had succeeded; what he'd guessed was true. "Why, Cleedis? Why did he deny me for all these years?"

The chamberlain shook his powder-white head. "That you'll have to ask Manferic when you see him- tonight." With that, the weary official slipped away before Pinch could impose any more conditions.

The questions asked, Pinch suddenly felt the weariness of his life settle over him. He'd been about for days now with barely a rest, twice beaten, twice healed, underfed, and overimbibed. He couldn't take another revelation, another wonder, without first the benefit of sleep. With a perfunctory bow to the lords assembled, he took his leave of Cleedis's clique and headed for the relative safety of his rooms.

As he passed a small salon, he was hailed by a voice that could not be ignored.

"Cousin."

Pinch stopped and gave a weary bow. "Greetings, Prince Vargo."

"Cousin Janol, stay awhile. I want a word with you." With a sharp signal, the dark-haired prince dismissed those clustered around the chaise where he'd been lounging. "Sit here and attend me." Vargo pulled aside the sweep of his dressing gowns to open a seat for his guest.

Pinch inwardly cursed himself for blindly straying too close to the prince's orbit, but now snared he could not escape. A quick scan of Vargo's hangers-on revealed Iron-Biter was not present, and that was a small relief. There was no saying how the dwarf might greet him and Pinch was not ready to find out. Stifling his resigned sigh and falsely filling himself with enthusiasm, Pinch took the seat offered.

"There was word you were unwell, cousin," Vargo said as he sipped at his morning tea. He oozed the charm of an unquestioned superior merely marking time to his ultimate victory. "Everyone was concerned."

Pinch accepted the tea a servant offered. "My lord, as you see, I am quite well. You should be wary of those who spread gossip. Perhaps they sought to embarrass you."

"I considered my source unimpeachable." The false concern was slipping away from his royal host.

"And yet I'm here and your source has been impeached."

Vargo set his cup aside. "What service have you done for old Cleedis? I know you, Pinch. You're a guttersnipe playing at nobility, like you always were and always will be. Well, guttersnipe, name your price. I can make you a wealthy man. That's what you want, isn't it?" The words hissed with soft anger between them.

Pinch ignored the cut. His pride could not be wounded by hollow words. There was only one thing untrue in what Vargo said-he wasn't just playing at nobility. He had the blood in his veins-all these years. Vargo's taunt was the finger that released the bolt, the magical words that triggered what was locked inside him. All the memories that he'd forgotten, set aside, and ignored roiled back to the surface-the slights at his parentage, the constant reminders that they were greater than he, the threats and promises that always began, "When I become king…" Vargo was right, he did have a price. So why not steal from them the only treasure they cared for? It would be the grandest theft of all and it warmed the cold side of his heart.

Draining the last of his tea, he stood and politely bowed to his enemy. "What I want, you won't pay me, Vargo."

"Name it. Gold? Magic? Women? Charter for a thieves' guild? Iron-Biter? Maybe you'd like the dwarf for your revenge? Take him, do what you want. He's yours if you want him."

Pinch just shook his head. "Your crown, the one you covet. For that I might even give you back your life."

The prince's face went red, then purple, and Pinch thought for certain he was about to explode in a gale of rage. All at once Vargo burst into a thunder of laughter. The servitors and courtiers craned their necks to see what was happening even while they pretended not to notice.

"Wit-even in the face of defeat!" the noble kin croaked out through gasps of air. A tear moistened his cheek. "It is one of your most pointlessly admirable traits, dear Janol.

"But know this, cousin," he added as his fit subsided, "you've made a bad choice of stars to set your fate by. Bors will never be king. Should it be Throdus or should it be I, we'll pluck you from our scalp like the flea you are. Now begone. You no longer amuse me."

At another wave, the courtiers closed back in again. The audience was over. Pinch snaked through the chambers, brushing away the insignificants who wanted to talk to him, and returned to his rooms. There the magnificently overstuffed featherbed welcomed him with outstretched pillows. Pinch collapsed into it like a sailor drowning in the arms of the sea.

"Sprite, you here?" he asked as he lay staring at the canopy.

"Aye, Pinch," came the halfling's nasal voice in answer.

"Any troubles?"

"Getting in? No-slipped in behind you and you didn't notice," Sprite bragged. "You're getting almost as bad as those guards, blind as posts. It was an easy walk."

Pinch smiled where he lay. It was true, the halfling had managed to evade him completely. "What about out?"

"I can crack the door and slip behind their backs without notice," the little sneak answered with great confidence. "Like I said, blind as posts."

Pinch closed his eyes and felt the abandonment of sleep flowing over him. "Excellent, my friend. Now, get out of here and see that the others are ready, then be back. The meeting's tonight. Be ready to follow me when we leave. Don't fail me on this one, Sprite. I've got the feeling that this one could be my neck. Do you sense it?"

"Aye, Pinch. The fur of my feet's quivering," drifted in the halfling's reply, and then there was darkness.

The scrape of stone on stone alerted Pinch and he sprang out of bed, still fully dressed, with the expectation of constables pouring through the door. There were no constables, no bed in a cheap stew, no laughter of harlots down the hall, only the warm night air that played over the thick tapestries. In the moment it took to establish his whereabouts, the secret door in the bedroom wall swung open and a sword waveringly emerged from the darkness. Satisfied that no one was lying in wait, Cleedis entered the room, brushing dust and cobwebs from his robes.

"Good," he noted, "you're ready. Let's go."

"Go through there?"

The chamberlain scowled. "Of course. Did you expect me to traipse you through the halls for everyone to see? People would wonder what we were about at such an hour."

If all was right, Sprite was waiting outside for just that signal. Going through the tunnels meant bypassing the halfling and that meant his entire plan was for naught.

"This seems like an ill idea to me. There's things down there, trying to kill me. I say we use the door-I can lose anyone who tries to follow us."

The old man was adamant. "The tunnels-Manferic waits for us there."

"It's too dangerous."

"Nothing will harm us."

"How can you be so sure?" Pinch challenged in feigned anger, his voice rising in hopes that Sprite would hear it through the door. To increase the odds, he strode into the sitting room as if in a restless fury.

"Because I am the chamberlain of the Famisso household, right hand of Manferic the Great, and nothing down there will dare attack me or anyone carrying the privy seal of our lord," Cleedis blustered in exasperation. "Now, end this nonsense and let us go-unless all this is just to hide your own failure. You do have the regalia, don't you?"

The clear suspicion in the lord's voice warned Pinch not to press the issue any further. "Very well," he practically bellowed in his false temper, "we'll go by the tunnels!" Even as he did, he prayed to Mask and any other god who cared to grant Sprite particularly sharp ears.

Gathering up his goods-his well-used short sword, a fine black cloak, and the velvet sack that held his treasure-Pinch followed his guide.

"Close it," the chamberlain grunted as he set a taper to the lantern he'd brought with him. The rogue seized the handle and pulled the heavy wall shut. Just as it was about to close, he slipped the hem of his cloak into the gap so that it dangled like a pennon on the other side. Though it pained him to ruin such fine clothes, Pinch slashed the fabric away before Cleedis was done. He was barely able to manage it, forgetting until that moment that he had only one good hand.

When the sputtering lantern was finally lit, sparks rising from its wick, the old general led the way. The cobweb shadows quivered like veins against the crumbling stone walls. The lantern gave barely enough light to see the way by.

"You could have brought a wand or something enchanted with daylight," Pinch sourly observed.

"Lord Manferic disapproves," was all the explanation he got.

"Of course, I forgot. He's dead."

They ventured farther into the tunnels and Pinch could not say if these were routes he'd traveled before. Unsure that Sprite could follow their dust-marred trail, Pinch set to slicing off more bits of his cloak, scraps of cloth for the halfling to follow, assuming he made it this far. He was barely able to grip the fabric in his crippled hand, and the task threatened to be noisy. To cover his actions, he became unusually talkative. "Why do you serve him, Cleedis? He's dead and it's better he was gone."

"Lord Manferic is a great man."

"He's not a man anymore, and he was more monster than man when he was alive."

"He did what he must to protect Ankhapur from its enemies. The city is strong because of him."

"What about me, Cleedis? What reason was there to hide my past from me?" Pinch shot back. "How did I threaten the city?"

"I'm sure he did what he thought he must," was the old official's icy reply.

"Is that what you'll say when he turns on you?" The rogue cut free another strip of cloth as they reached an intersection. He let it drop at the start of the branch they took.

"I have been loyal to Lord Manferic and he recognizes that. He will reward me for my effort."

"I see. Bors will be prince, you'll be the regent, and Manferic will dangle you both before the crowds as his puppets. Always the dog, never the one holding the leash, eh, Cleedis?"

The old man never broke his slow stride, though Pinch knew the words stung his warrior conscience. "There is no dishonor in loyalty, no shame in the rewards. I have done well by my life, far better than your mangy existence."

Another piece cut away. Pinch palmed it and continued his work. "I, at least, have my freedom. I choose what I want and I take it."

"Hah! That pathetic lie. Tell me, Janol, are you here now because you choose to be or because you've been trapped by your own greed and lust? You scramble for what I have, and not able to earn it by your own skills, you steal it from others. Or you used to-I've seen your hand though you try to hide it. Tell me, what becomes of a one-handed thief?"

Suddenly, Pinch lost his taste for conversation. He followed behind his guide, who was showing unusual vigor as they wound though arched passages, down stairs, and through vaults until they finally reached a large crypt just beyond a bridge that spanned an underground stream. Even before they entered the chamber, Pinch could feel the tingle of fear that had touched him in the necropolis. Manferic, cold and decaying, was near.

Cleedis stopped at the entrance to the room, sheltering the light from the door. "Lord Manferic, I've brought Janol," he announced to the darkness.

"Bring him in," resonated the chill voice of the dead.

Pinch paused at the door. If Sprite had followed him, he needed to stall for as much time as possible while the halfling scurried back for help. His plan, such as it was, depended on the others. He had few doubts what fate Manferic intended for him once the goods were passed over. He needed the distraction the others would provide if he wanted to escape alive.

Cleedis was in no mood to dawdle, perhaps motivated by fear of his dread lord. He impatiently drew Pinch through the door and into the center of the floor. The chamber had the pungent air of shriveled leather, the peculiar dry scent of decay.

The chamberlain fiddled with the lamp, lowering the wick until the flame was little more than a spark. It exaggerated the limestone walls even further until they were black canvases upon which played a grotesque shadow play of leaps and shimmers.

Something moved at the very outer layer of this bleak hell. Pinch saw it only by a shadow that stretched the thin limbs into an enormous insect scuttling across the wall. The shadow moved with a chiseled rattle that spoke of bones. It sounded like a skeleton the rogue had once stumbled into while breaking into an alchemist's garret, but it made him feel like a moth drawn too near the deadly flame.

"Chamberlain, you kept me waiting. There is no time for waiting," the shadow rasped like a bellows wheezing stale air, whispery yet harshly echoing from the stone walls.

"My apologies, Your Highness," Cleedis fawned. Using his sword as cane, the old man stiffly got himself down on one knee and bowed his head before the former king. "The path here confounds old men, my lord, and makes them loose their way. I have brought you Janol so that you can reward his service."

The shadow scraped closer, stepping into the edge of the dim light. In the sheltering darkness of the catacombs, Manferic the lich stood uncloaked before them both.

It wasn't as disgusting as Pinch expected, in fact it was barely disgusting at all. The thing that had been his guardian-Pinch could not change guardian to father so quickly-this thing almost looked alive. Certainly at midnight Manferic could have hurried through the streets unremarked, at worst a poor consumptive in search of good air. His face was drawn and stripped of fat. The skin was pearly gray and translucent as if someone had painted it over with wax. Pinch had expected the eyes to be deadest of all, but it was just the opposite; they burned with a life more ferocious than any living man's. They were the furnaces of Manferic's will, the driving ambition that kept him alive.

In that gaunt face, Pinch barely recognized the likeness of his guardian, now father. Death had not changed him nearly as much as the fifteen years apart from each other. He was thinner and sharper of bone, and he stood half-hunched as if bowed by some great weight. But when he moved and when he spoke, even in that sibilant whisper, he was still Manferic, the imperial arrogance just as Pinch remembered.

As Manferic stepped farther into the light, the first impression was denied. A flicker of the lamp highlighted a white spot on the lich's cheek, a spot that suddenly wriggled and twisted. Pinch was suddenly aware of the pale grave worms that wriggled out of the smooth skin and dropped to the floor with every step. They crawled out of the ruin of the lich's ears and tangled themselves into the matted filth that remained of his hair. Manferic, when alive, would never had tolerated this. Dead, the decay that was corrupting his flesh was of no concern. The lich was sustained by the dark combination of magic and will; the body was only a husk to hold it all. This was no longer Manferic the king, but a thing that Pinch could never call else but "it."

"Give them to me," the thing coldly demanded. It turned its burning gaze full on Pinch. The fires of its desire riveted him and then proceeded to pour into his soul the cold terror of its existence.

Although the lich was appalling to behold, there was no logical basis for the intensity of his fear. Had it been his sword, his purse, even a friend that the lich demanded, Pinch very certainly would have succumbed, so oppressive was the fear on his heart. Fortunately, what the lich demanded cut to the soul of what mattered for Pinch-to surrender without profit.

The rogue clutched the bag. "Payment first."

The Manferic thing scowled, unaccustomed, as both lord and omniscient horror, to resistance from a mere mortal. "Indeed," it clicked through its lipless mouth. "And what is that?"

"Fifty thousand nobles," Pinch responded, the burden of fear lifting from him. Haggling with a broker, no matter how fearsome, was something he understood, and understanding broke the dread awe.

"Vile rogue! The price was set at forty," Cleedis interrupted.

Pinch assumed an air of great injury. "Liar? I spoke the truth, dread lord," he lied brazenly.

"Enough," rasped the undead thing. "I can well guess the truth of it, Pinch. You forget; I know who-and what-you are." Those fire-filled eyes blazed into the thief, boring pits through the bone. A dread discomfort crawled like lice over the regulator's brain, itching and poking at the very thoughts of his mind.

Pinch fought the feeling, tried to block it out. He knew what it meant. The lich was probing his mind, rummaging through the tangled mass of his thoughts and memories. Pinch knew the trick well enough; it was one of Maeve's old standbys.

"I see it clear. You hoped to cheat me of forty-"

Manferic cocked its head with the looseness of death. "Father," the lich whispered. Without breaking its transfixing gaze, the thing spoke to the chamberlain, who had prudently stepped aside. "Cleedis-he knows," the mealy lord hissed.

"Yes, my lord," the old man fawned, trembling at the darkness in his lord's voice. "He only just confronted me."

"So, Janol-you are fatherless no more."

Perhaps there was still a mote of sentimentality in the creature that Manferic had become, for the thought probes retreated. Pinch held back his sigh of relief. The lich's feelers had come too close. If Manferic learned he was bargaining for a fake, that would be the end of the whole plan, and Pinch's life, too. Of course, if Sprite didn't arrive soon with the cavalry, it would all be over. He needed to stall.

"It explains much," he answered, doing his best to sound detached from the emotion it raised in him. "And nothing. Why did you deny me?" the rogue asked as calmly as he could.

Manferic's eyes flared as if to say, "I do not answer to you, mortal," but then the light of hate died away. "You are a bastard. When Manferic was alive, it was not proper to acknowledge a misconceived son."

The lich spoke of its living existence as if that were the life of another being.

"So why did you keep me around?" Pinch demanded before Manferic could press him for the regalia. He needed the time talk bought.

The lich shuffled closer, rotted lips drawn back to show yellow-black teeth, a horrid grimace that might have been a smile. "Because-because Manferic liked you.

"Do you think it was an accident-or chance-that Cleedis brought you here? There are a hundred thieves in Ankhapur, but I sent Cleedis for you. It was no accident; it was planned. With your help, I will rule Ankhapur." The lich rattled to a pause, letting the offer register in Pinch's eyes.

"I need your eyes and ears, my son. You will be the master of my spies, you will find my enemies and reveal them to me." The ragged Manferic looked at his maggot-ridden hand with bemused interest. "You will introduce them to me and I will entertain them," he whispered more to himself than to Pinch. Just as abruptly, he once more fixed his fierce gaze on Pinch. "I'm offering you Ankhapur, my son, not just a handful of paltry coins. Who else will do you that well? Give me the regalia and let us share the glory."

"So you can kill me as soon as I do?"

"I could kill you now and take it," the lich rasped, "but I want you at my side. Manferic knew this day would come."

"You and your plots drove me out of Ankhapur."

"Strength in woe-that was tempering. You would not be who you are now if you had stayed. You would be a lackey of your legitimate brothers." Manferic pointed a skeletal finger at Pinch's chest. "Now you are strong and resourceful enough to take a place at my side."

"Lord Manferic…" Cleedis finally found the wherewithal to speak. The old man had pulled from inside himself the fearless cavalryman of his youth. His stooped shoulders were pulled up, the lined face smoothed with determination, and all framed by the billows of his thin white mane. Gone were the trembles, the ague, and the arthritis that had bled his majesty. So firmly outraged, Pinch could see the Cleedis of years past, the fencing master and horseman Pinch had so long ago admired. His voice was filled with cautious indignation. "I have served you loyally, great king, in expectation of my due-"

"Lord Chamberlain, my faithful servant." The lich twisted around to look on the old officer. "There has always been the most honored of places for you in my plans. Indeed, your greatest service is about to come."

The chamberlain smiled and bowed with all the humility of a fox, but before he could look up a ray of light the color of an algae-choked pond lanced from Manferic's fleshless finger to strike the loyal noble in the center of his head. It was as if the old man had been struck by a hammer. With a scream, he reeled back but the beam played on him. It rippled over his head and across the side of his face. Everywhere it touched, the skin festered and burst into red-black sores of diseased corruption. Cleedis flailed his arms as if he could beat the light away, but all that did was crisscross his arms with the bloody sores.

The scream became a whimper and the whimper became a sloppy gurgle of pus and blood as the ray destroyed deeper and deeper flesh. Cleedis stumbled backward until he fell to the floor and then, mewling, he crawled away, smearing a track of red slime over the rough stone floor. Manferic kept the grotesque ray mercilessly playing over the chamberlain's body as the pathetic wreck tried to drag himself to safety.

As the whimpering became bubbling sobs, Pinch turned away. Even for Cleedis, with all his ambitions and lies, this was no deserved end-this ulcerated mass that was bleeding its life out on the floor. Pinch didn't look back until the crackle of the spell had faded. What was left of Cleedis was unrecognizable-a mass of blood-soaked clothes and bubbled flesh that spared not a single feature.

"You killed him," Pinch gulped. The grotesque execution stripped away the rogue's normally chill demeanor, leaving him only to gawk at the horror on the floor.

"It has all been planned for," Manferic croaked, teeth bared in a garish smile. The undead king turned to Pinch once more.

"Give me the regalia, Janol, my son. Join me against your half-brothers and we will be masters of Ankhapur."

"Or?

The lich ratcheted its head toward the oozing mass. "Or die," Manferic promised.

The cavalry had not come; the choice was no more. Reluctantly, Pinch opened the bag at his side and carefully set the Cup and the Knife on the floor.

"Ankhapur together it will be, Father."