The Wizard's Mask

Chapter Eight

Tantaerra tried not to whimper. She was cold-thanks to being carried dangling and naked through the night, by cold metal gauntlets-and felt bruised all over. Every act of resistance had been rewarded by a hard, metal-shod punch to a joint, until she'd hurt too much to struggle. The Telcanors had stripped them then and there in that unfinished building, taking every last thing from them-except, she'd seen through tears of shame and pain, that The Masked must have somehow managed to get one of his fleshy masks in place, because when she managed to catch glimpses of him, he had a normal-seeming face, with a nose and cheeks and eyebrows instead of a melted ruin.

All else was gone, even the lockpicks and little knives in her hair. Naked before the gods, as some priests said. Bared and weaponless, in this chilly stone city of empty mansions and half-built future mansions …

They'd been carried-or, in The Masked's case, dragged-a long way through the sleeping streets of Braganza from where they'd been captured, ducking aside hastily from time to time to avoid Watchguard patrols. The patrols carried so many lanterns that Tantaerra was beginning to think that this was perhaps the point: to give large lurking bands of men and women plenty of warning to keep clear, so patrols would face a minimum of fighting and dying.

Whenever Watchswords were within earshot, the cruelly tight grip on her shoulders or neck became a stranglehold around her throat, quelling any shrieks or calls for help she might have been moved to make.

They'd crossed most of Braganza, she thought dazedly, as they turned through a tall, wide doorway at last. Guards stood aside and heavy bronze doors swung ponderously open, the cobbles beneath their striding captors' boots giving way to polished tiles. Huge low lamps-great castles of shaped glass and dangling ornaments, such as graced many high Canorate ceilings, only here their lowest teardrops were about the height of a short man's waist off the floor-blazed ruddily in a room paneled in dark woods and adorned with weapons hung on the walls. Walls that lofted up far beyond the highest spot she could twist around to see.

So this was either a palace, or a soaring city mansion indeed.

They left the lamplight and its countless ruby reflections behind, their captors hastening deeper into the vast building. More tall double doors, and more gleaming-armored guards, then a wide, curving stair of shallow steps that looked like smokeshot white marble, climbing and curving around to the left, a long way up, to a hallway floored in sheets of bright-burnished copper.

The warriors' boots hissed and slid on the polished metal as they strode down a dim and high-ceilinged passage to another set of stairs, this one narrow and steep and straight, with soft wine-red cloth underfoot. Then another hallway ascended to pair of huge high doors, which parted under the hands of formidable plate-armored guards to reveal a grand upper room that at last seemed to lack any additional stairs.

They had reached the top of this mansion, Tantaerra saw. The domed ceiling above had a great oval opening in its center, an intricate many-paned skylight that was all curlicues, brackets, and gilded glass. Rose-hued light flooded down on its edges from four directions, coming from lamps on half-seen roof spires that thrust up into the night sky.

All very impressive, even beautiful, if she'd felt in the least like appreciating it. So they were here, wherever here was, and their armored captors were seating them in huge stone chairs, chaining their throats so tightly to the backs of these seats that they could barely breathe.

The armored men then promptly departed back the way they'd come. All, that is, but the huge armored mountain of a man who commanded them, who strode to one of the row of doors Tantaerra could see along the back wall of the room and smote a metal panel on it with his gauntleted fist, causing a muffled boom.

Almost immediately, another door in the row swung open. Two servants in identical uniforms stepped out, faced each other across the doorway, and bowed low. Between their bent heads swept a burly, red-faced man whose shoulders were broad, whose jaw was large and heavy, and whose face was haughty, lip curled in a sneer. His hair was swept into a flowing peak, no doubt by the dint of much servants' primping and wax, and he wore a flared tunic that looked like a military uniform made by a ladies' gown designer.

"You two," this grandest of men boomed, sweeping up to the helplessly imprisoned Tantaerra and The Masked, "are foul Mereir spies! You shall die, but not before you've yielded up all you know, and every last villainy you'd planned-and you shall yield everything, under the tortures my experts shall inflict upon you, regardless of how sternly you resist me now! Know this, and despair! Yet I am munificent, I am, and can be so generous as to offer wine, and an evening of civil converse-if you speak freely!"

With every sentence he uttered, this large and florid man strutted back and forth in front of his prisoners, his chest bulging and arms gesturing grandly. His voice was almost deafening, and he was practically spitting.

"Let us begin," he said, suddenly stopping and bending to thrust his face almost into Tantaerra's, "with your names!"

"Uh," she stammered, terrified and ashamed of being frightened, her face warmed by his breath and spittle, anger rising in her as his gaze dropped from her face to her bare body. "Ah …"

"You are unsubtly vicious and ambitious," The Masked interrupted crisply, "which leads me to suspect that of the Telcanors, you must be Krzonstal Telcanor. Excuse me-Lord Krzonstal Telcanor. Am I correct?"

Tantaerra tried to turn her head to look at the man she'd hired. He was bluffing-he must be-drawing on some of the replies he'd had from citizens earlier in the day. And with torture and death promised, why not bluff? What was there to lose?

It hadn't taken much eavesdropping to learn that the Telcanors were a large and cruel clan, and this Krzonstal was one of three brothers or cousins-she hadn't sorted them out, though she suspected The Masked had-who led them. He wasn't the head of the family, though, she did know that much, and-

Lord Telcanor had swung around to glare into The Masked's face, their noses almost touching.

"I am Lord Krzonstal Telcanor, and I'm not in the habit of repeating my questions. Give me your name. Or Zreem here-" He flung out an arm to indicate the huge armored man who'd so effortlessly broken Tantaerra's dagger in his hand, and who was now standing impassively behind the lord. "-shall force it out of you. Painfully. We usually begin by breaking fingers."

"Do you? The General Lords will be intrigued to learn that," The Masked replied flatly, gazing fearlessly right back at the snarling noble.

Lord Telcanor recoiled as if he'd been slapped, mouth falling open. Then it clamped shut, his eyes narrowed, and he leaned in close again. "Oh? And how will the General Lords learn of it? Enlighten me."

"They'll learn it from our reports. And if anything happens to us and our reports cease or seem false, from those sent to find out why."

"Your reports?"

"Our reports. Our names don't matter, as we won't give you our true ones. We are special investigators of Molthune, working personally for the General Lords."

"What? You expect me to believe that?"

"Lord Telcanor," The Masked snapped, "I don't expect you to do anything. After what I've just heard you say, I doubt your loyalty to Molthune, your judgment, and your sanity. It is not my business, as an investigator sworn into service personally by Imperial Governor Teldas himself, to 'expect' things. My duty is to observe, pry to learn what lies behind what I can observe, and report. Without altering what I say with my own opinions, expectations, or embroiderments. Your beliefs are your own business. Nevertheless, I and the halfling you have chained beside me are investigators charged to observe certain matters here in Braganza and promptly report what we've seen to the General Lords, and if you-"

Lord Telcanor paled, yet looked about to bluster further. Whatever reply he might have made, however, was lost forever in the almighty crash that followed, as one of the largest panes of the skylight shattered and started to rain down shards all over the gleaming floor.

The giant bodyguard sprang like a tiger to catch Lord Telcanor and sweep him back from the ringing, flying shards, but kept his gaze on something behind Tantaerra's chair that had obviously shattered the skylight-and was now descending into the room.

"Before you rush to strike any of the gongs, Onstal Zreem, you and Lord Telcanor might want to hear what I have to say in private," said a new voice from behind Tantaerra. A loud, calmly commanding voice she recognized.

It was the brown-eyed man from the rooftop in Halidon. He was still hidden from her view behind the chairs where she and The Masked were chained, but glass crunched under unhurried boots as he strode around them.

Lord Telcanor was gaping in earnest now, and Zreem had placed himself protectively in front of his lord, hand on sword hilt and face impassive.

The crunchings stopped. "In the name of Imperial Governor Markwin Teldas, I thank you, Lord Telcanor, for capturing these two dangerous spies. They have long been threats to Molthune, and have eluded some of our best warriors and agents. I've pursued them from Halidon to here. Molthune thanks you, and will soon do so by more than merely my words. So loyal and effective a Molthuni deserves high command, that we may all benefit from such leadership and capability."

Telcanor visibly preened, but managed to ask, almost fawningly, "But …but who, sir, are you?"

"I am an investigator for Molthune. The High Investigator, as it happens. I am from Canorate, and my name here is Orivin Ahrkholm. I speak with the authority of the Imperial Governor himself."

"And who are these two?" the noble asked, waving a hand at Tantaerra and The Masked. "They would not give me their names."

"Small wonder; I'd not be surprised to learn they never surrender their real names to anyone. Lord Telcanor, you've captured not just two lying imposters but two veteran spies from Nirmathas! Be assured that Canorate will pay for the replacement of your skylight, but I dared not wait a moment longer when I heard them claim to serve the General Lords."

"Nirmathi," the noble breathed, making the word a curse, as he glared at The Masked and then at Tantaerra.

"They are of the enemy, yes," Ahrkholm agreed gravely, turning back into all the glass.

"Where are you going?" Zreem asked sharply.

"I must retrieve the rope," the investigator drawled, "by which I dropped down into the midst of things."

"Leave it," Lord Telcanor commanded, his booming self again. "An idea has occurred to me, and I must confer with my advisor." He nodded to Zreem, who strode to a particular dark gong amid the row of doors.

"You have an advisor, Lord Telcanor?" Ahrkholm asked softly.

The noble looked smug. "A passing fashion among the great houses," he replied, "but mine is the best. A real sage."

"Oh? His name?"

"Tartesper."

The Masked chuckled, causing both Telcanor and Ahrkholm to look at him sharply. "What's so amusing, Nirmathi spy?"

Tantaerra couldn't see The Masked's face, but his voice was gleeful as he replied, "I think you know, Nirmathi spy."

Ahrkholm's laugh was short and scornful. "I'd abandon any clumsy attempts to mislead, if I were you. You're truly caught now; your career is over."

"And how often have you uttered that triumphant little phrase and been wrong, Nirmathi spy?" The Masked asked, his words a sneering challenge.

Tantaerra wished she could see The Masked's face. Did he truly know this Ahrkholm? And other spies, of Molthune and Nirmathas and the gods knew wherever else?

For that matter, was the man of so many masks she'd hired a Nirmathi spy, or a spy for Molthune or someone else? Was Ahrkholm?

And whatever answers she got, from either of them…how could she be certain of the truth?

A door beside Zreem opened, and a black-robed man strode through it. He was short and burly, his jaw fringed with a curling line of ginger beard. He had a pockmarked face, and eyes as hard as two deep brown nails. "Lord Telcanor?"

As he rasped out those two words, Tartesper's gaze swept across everyone in the room-and Tantaerra shivered. This one would kill you as soon as look at you. To him, everyone was a tool to be used. Everyone.

The noble turned quickly. "Ah, Tartesper! I need your wise counsel, to be sure." He lowered his voice to a murmur and drew the sage aside. Zreem shielded them both from Ahrkholm, giving the self-proclaimed High Investigator a stern warning scowl.

Ahrkholm stayed right where he was.

It seemed a very long time before the two men broke off muttering, and Tartesper strode closer to the two chairs and gave their occupants both a long, level look. Tantaerra could read nothing in the cold, dead eyes that locked with hers. No triumph, no contempt, nothing. He did keep his gaze on hers, though, never looking below the chain stretched across her throat.

Then the advisor turned his head to regard Ahrkholm, and it felt like he'd slashed a taut cord binding her to him. Yet even as she slumped in sighing, sweating relief, Tantaerra saw something different had surfaced in the sage's face as he looked at Ahrkholm. These two men knew each other, but were pretending not to. Why? Was it just that Tartesper was a spy for the General Lords, too? Or something more?

Likely something more, because I don't believe Ahrkholm is working for Molthune at all. No Molthuni would have done what he did to those soldiers in Halidon.

Abruptly the advisor spun on his heel and strode back to his door, pausing beside Lord Telcanor to mutter something that made the lord frown and look at Ahrkholm. Zreem held the door open for Tartesper to depart, and firmly closed it again after him, coming forward to flank his lord.

Who smiled broadly, dusted his hands together, and announced to his prisoners, "I have decided to let you live. Freed and unharmed, too! There is, however, a condition."

He fell to pacing back and forth in front of them again, his head lowered between his shoulders as if to shelter from a bitter wind. Cunning was now written across his face-and obvious glee at being able to demonstrate his cunning.

Tantaerra was interested to note that Zreem had moved to face Ahrkholm, and dropped his hands to the hilts of his sword and his dagger. What was going on?

"You two," Telcanor said, "must perform a service for me-something I doubt any true special agents of Molthune would shirk, being as it will benefit our country at the expense of vile Nirmathas."

He turned, smiled broadly, and paced back the other way. "I'm letting you live on the condition that you go to Nirmathas and retrieve something for me."

He spun around and went back to The Masked, thrusting his face forward again. "Well?"

"Speak on," the man chained to the chair replied flatly.

The noble straightened up, simpered, and went to Tantaerra. "Lady halfling, have you ever heard of the Shattered Tomb?"

Tantaerra found her mouth suddenly dry. She licked her lips. "I–I've heard of many," she managed to say. "Which particular shattered tomb do you mean, Lord?"

Telcanor beamed at her. "This one," he said smugly, starting to pace again, hands clasped behind his back, "belongs to a long-dead wizard named Mahalagris. All Nirmathi should have heard of him-but then, you claim to be of Molthune, of course."

Tantaerra had heard of him, but only as a name attached to a passing tale about a mighty spellcaster who'd turned to evil-and there were so many of those.

"I need you to go to his tomb, which I'm told stands at the heart of the ruins of Hurlandrun, in Nirmathas." The noble spun back toward The Masked. "You know where Hurlandrun is, I trust?" The man chained to the chair smiled thinly. "It's a small, abandoned town near the headwaters of the Deepcut River. Abandoned by people, that is, and roamed by beasts. If I can trust the words of a certain veteran agent, back in Canorate, that is. I've never been there."

"Neither have I, but what you've said about it is what I've been told, too." The noble started pacing again, passing in front of Tantaerra now. "In that tomb is something I need you to find and bring here to me, surrendering it without demand or price, and not using any of its powers against me or mine."

"Powers?" The Masked asked quietly.

"Powers. It is a famous thing of magic. The Fearsome Gauntlet, once worn by the Molthuni war hero Korlhar Rahoring, before Mahalagris slew him. A metal gauntlet such as Zreem here is wearing-but this one can blast foes with magic."

"Lord Telcanor," Ahrkholm erupted, "I cannot believe what I'm hearing! You have in your power two enemies of Molthune, and you're setting them free? On some wild treasure hunt they'll forget all about the moment they're out of your reach? What's to stop them just disappearing into Nirmathas? And if they find this gauntlet, what's to keep them from turning it over to their masters in Tamran? I forbid you, in the name of the Imperial Governor-"

Lord Telcanor whirled to face the man who'd shattered his skylight, drew himself up to his full height, and bellowed loudly enough to make Tantaerra's ears ring. "Who are you to forbid me anything? I am Krzonstal Telcanor, and you are a stranger-an intruder into my home-who claims to speak for the Imperial Governor. Well, so do these two prisoners, here in my power!"

Tantaerra blinked. Gods! What had that advisor said to Telcanor to change his attitude to Ahrkholm so utterly and abruptly?

Suddenly the noble let his shoulders, swelling chest, and volume all drop, smiled sweetly, and added, "And as for what's to stop them abandoning their task and just fleeing Molthuni justice-you are. You shall accompany them and watch over them …and when their work for me is done, you can have them, to do with as you will."

Ahrkholm flung out an almost imploring hand. "But-"

"But, sir," Telcanor purred, "I have only your word that you are the Imperial Governor's High Investigator and they are Nirmathi spies. One of them-we all heard him-calls you a Nirmathi spy. Who then am I to believe? A loyal and prudent Molthuni must proceed with care, for we have only the one country to hazard-and possibly, if we are too rash, lose. And I am a loyal and prudent Molthuni. One of you is lying, the other telling the truth. As long as I send both of you, there will be at least one true investigator there to watch over Molthune's interests."

He started to pace again. "So I am firm in this-" He glanced at Zreem, who gazed expressionlessly back at him …but had the bodyguard given his master the slightest of nods? What was going on?

"— and these two shall go to Nirmathas for me. Accompany them if you wish, or go elsewhere if you prefer. I know what a loyal Molthuni agent would do. And I think you do, too."

Silence fell. Then Ahrkholm sighed and said, "I shall accompany these two to the Shattered Tomb, and see that they bring you back this gauntlet, and then pass into my custody."

Telcanor smiled triumphantly. "Go, then, with my bodyguard-" He waved at the mountainous Zreem. "-who shall conduct you to suitable quarters for the night. You shall be served a fine meal, and I shall join you later for pleasant conversation, over good wine."

"Lord Telcanor, I have other business to conduct this even-"

"Cancelled. A pity it'll have to wait until this pressing mission for Molthune is done. If it's just passing on a report to a fellow spy for the Imperial Governor, I'm sure you'll manage to do so between here and the Nirmathi border. If it's dropping through someone else's skylight, well-" The noble shrugged. "-they do say that a pleasure deferred is a pleasure intensified. Though I've little personal experience of that, aside from a few private little matters of revenge …"

"Lord Telcanor-"

The noble turned away, and said over his shoulder, "Your meal awaits. A bath, if you'd like. High Investigator Ahrkholm, you are dismissed."

"But …"

Telcanor merely waved a denial, and Zreem started ponderously forward. Tantaerra heard Ahrkholm sigh again.

"This way, sir," the huge bodyguard said courteously. "Mind the glass …"

Tantaerra heard a door close, somewhere behind her. The nobleman rubbed his hands together with a satisfied air, then paced over to stand before his two prisoners in their chairs.

"If you can deliver the Fearsome Gauntlet to me," he said with an almost fond smile, "I'll believe you truly are investigators from the General Lords, and we can work together. For the rest of our lives, and for the greater glory of Molthune. Even abandoning our feud with the Mereirs if need be."

Then he spun away from them-and right around to face them again, the smile replaced by a scowl. "Yet know this: if you are the imposters that high-ranking liar claims you are, and somehow slip away from him and do not bring me the gauntlet, I'll have you hunted and slain on sight, anywhere in Braganza, or Canorate, or Korholm, or any corner of Molthune. Even into Nirmathas. The Telcanors are many, and we have allies few suspect. Believe me, our reach is long-and our wealth reaches farther."

He strode to the wall of doors, struck a gong, and departed the room, leaving them still chained to their chairs.

Tantaerra swallowed. "Masked man, are you …all right?"

From the other chair came a dry chuckle. "I've been better. Our future looks rather bleak."

Tantaerra tried to nod, found the taut chain made her attempt queasily painful, and settled for sighing instead. "This Lord Telcanor seems less than sane to me."

The chuckle from the other chair was heartier this time. When it ran down, he asked, "Are you sure you or I would really be all that different, if we never had to be polite or hide our true feelings, and had almost our every whim satisfied? Many nobles are little better than spoiled children, and this is one of them."

"Oh? Just how many nobles have you known?"

"You'd be surprised."

Tantaerra opened her mouth to say something sharp to that, but four of the doors facing them opened in unison and the armored men who'd brought them here marched into the room, heading right for them. She sighed again, and fell silent.

∗ ∗ ∗

Tantaerra felt like a prized piece of meat. The guards had been no gentler this time. They'd taken The Masked to another room, handling him even more brutally. She doubted he screamed easily-and he'd screamed more than a few times.

Once she was locked into her own chamber, however, only three of the armored guards had remained, and they'd done nothing but sit and watch as some of the largest and most muscular human women Tantaerra had ever seen had washed her, trimmed her hair and nails, then laid her on a table in a shallow heated and scented bath and gently massaged her bruises. They all had red plump fingers liberally adorned with rings, and they'd washed her wounds with mild wine and covered them with some sort of sticky, daubed gum that smelled of bruised pine needles, that they then covered with strips of new cotton cloth.

Then they'd bundled her into a much-too-long warming robe, sat her in a chair, and fed her the nicest meal she'd ever eaten, some sort of wonderful herbed cream broth over cut-up roast fowl. They'd even brought her seconds when she lifted up the bowl to lick it, then topped it with sugar-iced biscuits and a tiny glass of berry cordial.

Well, if this is how Lord Telcanor mistreated guests, he could mistreat her every night of her life, from now on.

Tantaerra winced at the vivid imaginings that thought brought her, and ruefully reflected that if this little task was half as dangerous as he'd made it sound, there wouldn't be that many more nights of her life. After all, if fetching this magic gauntlet from the Shattered Tomb was easy, someone would have done it years ago.

Yet it must be real, because if Telcanor had just wanted them dead, he could have had his guards wring their necks instead of chaining them to those huge stone chairs-the presence of which suggested he pranced and preened in front of prisoners often. She wasn't sure she agreed with The Masked about his sanity, after all.

She wouldn't be at all surprised if there weren't some secret way into this room, and that His Blustering Lordship wouldn't come creeping in on her before morning.

"Come," one of the guards said brusquely, getting up out of his chair, the other two warriors rising in his wake.

They let her keep the robe, and didn't even lay hands on her, but merely surrounded her and conducted her out of the room, down two long passages and a short one, and brought her into a smaller, cozier bedchamber, windowless but well furnished, with a fourposter grander than any bed she'd ever slept in before. There were two chamber pots, a water-ewer and basin better than the best inns provided, and even a small decanter of what looked like wine, or something stronger. With two crystal glasses, yet!

"Clothing and gear will be brought to you when it's time for you to awaken," the guard announced. "Weapons will be bundled into cloaks and given to you outside the city. Please hold out your arm."

Tantaerra did so rather warily, but all he did was give it a good long look, then ask, "Sword arm right or left?"

"R-right," she answered, taken aback. She was a dagger girl, not really a swordswinger, but-

The door slammed and locked, and she was alone. Barefoot but warm in this room of thick rugs, tapestries, and warmth coming from …

She drew aside a tapestry.

…an honest-before-the-gods ventilation duct! With an elegant cast metal grate over it that she could have off in a trice, even barehanded, and a horizontal stone shaft far too cramped for any but the smallest human children-but quite big enough for a small halfling. Oho, yes!

Of course, she'd best also search for His Lordship's secret trysting door, not to mention any spyholes she could be watched through. In the ceiling, perhaps, or over the bed …

No, it had a full canopy. So, the wall panels …

It took some time, but in the end she could find no holes, and if any panels slid, were hollow, or had hinges, they showed no signs of it to her eyes.

Which of course didn't mean there wasn't a hidden way. Yet if she simply wasn't to be found when Telcanor came calling …

She shrugged off the robe, went to the grate, and was into the dusty, cobwebby, rough stone shaft in that self-promised trice.

It ran a long, straight way before darkness hid the rest of it from her. This mansion must be huge.

Well, if she were going to get any sleep at all, the time for crawling was now. She set about it, bare-skinned but pleasantly warmed by the breezes blowing along the shaft from distant hearths and the continuous run of metal plates that was meant to carry their heat. Just a halfling doing what halflings all too often did: quietly going where they shouldn't, just to have a look around, and see what advantages might be revealed.

The shaft had gratings opening into room after room, most of them dark and empty. A row of bedchambers, none of them holding The Masked or anyone else she knew. No one was entertaining anyone abed or sorting through jewels or weapons or doing anything else of much interest, and when the shaft came to a sudden bend, she wondered if she should turn back.

Well, not until I've seen the end of it, at least …

The bend proved to be a dogleg around an older wall of massive fitted stones, like a castle wall. It probably was a castle wall.

Light ahead. More rooms. She almost certainly couldn't do more than look, because the gratings that were so easy to remove from the room sides seemed impossible to shift from inside the shaft with anything short of a smith's hammer or vials of strong acid. But looking was what halflings did.

Someone was talking from the nearest room ahead. Two men, at least, and-

Voices she knew.

With infinite care, Tantaerra crawled forward.

The gratings in her bedchamber and the row it was part of had been down by the floor, but here she was looking down into a room. A small but palatial room.

Lord Telcanor sat at an ornately carved dark wooden table made to seat four, dining alone. There were no nearly nude concubines waiting on him, or anywhere to be seen for that matter, in this bedless room of sideboards and glorious maps and a handwoven carpet the hue of old blood.

Telcanor was being waited on by his formidable bodyguard, Onstal Zreem, who somehow looked even larger and more muscular out of armor. Zreem wore some sort of dark, high-collared jerkin, and was pouring wine and then standing beside his lord with a mouth-cloth held at the ready-but he was talking to Telcanor almost as an equal.

The noble gulped wine like a starving drover, then set his glass down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before Zreem could get the cloth to it, and said dismissively, "You are angry and suspicious-but this is hardly new. You're always suspicious. Particularly of Tartesper. I know the man's a cold and scheming worm, but so is every last sage on all Golarion-odd, every one of them, in one way or another. It's the weight of all that useless knowledge they've crammed between their ears, crushing their brains like soft cheese, I tell you!"

"Lord," the bodyguard replied heavily, "let us pretend I'd never met Tartesper before today, and knew nothing of him. So I confine myself only to what I saw and heard from him when he was in the solar, while you were confronting the two prisoners."

He refilled Telcanor's glass, and the noble swigged from it, set it down, and spread his hands. "Very well. Just what you saw, heard, and sensed in the solar, and have wildly conjectured since. Convince me."

"Lord, Tartesper recognized the man we brought in with the halfling, the one with the masks. I saw that. And he and the one who came through the skylight, too-they know each other, from before tonight. Yet he concealed this from you. For both men. This is some past trickery or unfolding plot of his own. He's using your authority and involving you in it. And it's foolish, lord, a needless risk that weakens your standing among your kin and endangers you personally. Who knows who these fools will talk to, what they'll say when they fall into the wrong hands? They'll name you, sure as-"

"I want them to," Krzonstal Telcanor interrupted firmly, setting down the roast goose he'd been biting into and using that hand to gesture grandly. "How else am I to stand out, among all my posturing and preening uncles? Or rise in the regard of the General Lords? And if they somehow succeed, with the Fearsome Gauntlet I can slay Lord Cole and the Mereirs and anyone else who defies me, and so become Lord of Braganza, in truth if not in name." He shrugged. "Or openly, if I choose to."

"Forgive me, Lord, but how is it that you know so much of this magical gauntlet? I hope you're not trusting overmuch in the details of some tavern tale. Such embellishments-"

"Zreem, Zreem, I have a map showing the location of the tomb-Runstrer's busy making three copies of it for our expendables right now-and I know all about the Fearsome Gauntlet."

"How so, if it's not overbold to ask?"

Rather than being irked at his bodyguard's inquisitiveness, Lord Telcanor sounded gleefully overeager to enlighten the man. "I know what I know, loyal Zreem, because the recovery of that gauntlet from the tomb was a task I was asked to accomplish ten years back, by one of the General Lords, to prove my loyalty and worth."

"What happened to you?"

Telcanor sneered. "I don't gallop to my own suicide because a General Lord orders me to. I never undertook it. I relocated from Korholm to Braganza instead, letting it be known I did so because my latest prayers to Abadar had been answered by a vision showing me dwelling here."

"I see," Zreem said, his voice perfectly neutral as he refilled his lord's glass.

"However," Telcanor said brightly, "no one should be greatly surprised if I take great satisfaction-in the unlikely event that any of our three dolts succeed-in having any survivor who brings me the Fearsome Gauntlet murdered, then claiming the recovery of the Fearsome Gauntlet as my own deed. Redeeming my standing in the eyes of the General Lords."

Zreem let a slow, thin smile cross his face, nodded as if in satisfaction, then asked if his lord had any other orders for him before he retired.

Smooth. Not a hint of contempt, yet Tantaerra could feel it clear across the room and through the grating. On the other side of the metal, Lord Telcanor was now dismissing his bodyguard and taking personal possession of the decanter and all that was left in it. He was well on his way to being too drunk to molest anyone whose bedchamber he got into, thank Cayden Cailean.

Tantaerra decided it was high time she returned to her room before her absence was discovered, and hastened back along the shaft. She scraped the worst of the cobwebs off on the grating, settled it back into place, and dived into bed.

The covers were barely up to her chin before the door opened without knock or warning to reveal a trio of the large women who'd bathed her, all of them warmly gowned. The foremost bore a silver tray.

"A posset for the night, lady? Warm milk from His Lordship's own herd, boiled with the finest from the cellars! No finer to be had in any palace in any land!"

The rearmost pair of women had brought a warming pan to make her toes toasty.

Tantaerra blinked. She could get used to this. And, well, it just might be the last wine she'd ever have, so boiled with milk or not …