"But look who got the last laugh!" I shouted, latching onto her hot little hand and dragging her unceremoniously after me toward the bustling dining hall. "You didn't lure the rich and powerful folk of Faerun, but only more magical charlatans such as yourself. You've traded grubs and garbage for ore flesh and feces!"

I couldn't have timed it better. As though on cue, the magic failed again, and before my outflung hand, we both saw the filthy, debased, rank, and horrible creatures that sat around troughs and mangers in that barn. Scrofulous magic-users all, whose gold coins were nothing more than trans.m.u.ted river stones, whose paper notes were merely mildewed leaves, whose august n.o.bility was only a beautiful mask cast over their true tired, warty, awful flesh. Their powerful magics had temporarily made real what was false, and the lie of their lives had shriveled their true selves as full-plate armor shrivels the body inside into white, wrinkled nothing.

"And how dare you act as though the great finder, Bolton Quaid, has not solved this mystery of yours? The reason your illusion magic is failing is that it is surrounded by more illusion magic. One illusion piled atop another piled atop another makes for a swaying emptiness that must and will fall. It's your worthless guests and their worthless bark and twigs, all dressed up in magic to look like creatures of import, that has made your worthless barns and hovels and caves show for what they truly area"no great pleasure dome of the Thunder Peaks.

"How dare you hire mea"me!a"thinking a nonmagical dolt from the docks would be too stupid to see through your schemes?"

I was so pleased with having solved the mystery that I'd missed the biggest illusion of all. Literally, the biggest.

She lurked just behind me now. -From the green whiffs of caustic breath, I knew even before I turned what I would see, but still the sight shocked me into trembling numbness.

A great green wyrm. She towered over me in the toothy cavern of her lair. Not Xantrithicus, for this was a she-lizarda"but perhaps his mate, Tarith the Green. Her ver-million scales gleamed like ceramic plates across her bunched haunch, which rose easily the height of my head. Above that was the lizard's mighty rib cage, expanding now in an in-drawn breath in preparation to poison me and all the critters cl.u.s.tered fearfully in the barn behind me. Atop that bulging set of ribs were two long and wicked arms, clawing eagerly at the air, and then a mange-scruffed neck, and then a huge red-fleshed set of jowls. The eyes that sat atop that smoldering snout were the same green eyes with which Olivia had so enticed me when I arriveda"the same, except for their size, like twin turkey platters.

This time, it was the hook that hid the wyrm.

I knew I was dead. My feet were rooted to the smooth, chill floor of the cavern, and my once-so-proud tongue lay like a dead thing between my clattering teeth. I would not escape. I could not escape. Oh, if I were a lucky man, the magic would return now, so that she would shrink to her human form ... but good luck was too much to hope for.

She reared back, lungs full, and the reptilian muscles along her rib cage slid obscenely beneath her scales. I felt the gagging green gas billow, sudden and fierce, over me, burning eyes I'd instinctively shut, and nose and lips, though I held my breath.

No, a guy from the Dock Ward of Waterdeep can't count on good luck. Thankfully, though, he can count on a wily scamp of a partner.

The cloud suddenly ceased, and some of the thin fumes traced backward toward the open maw of the dragon as she gasped for air. I cracked my eyes just enough to see Filson straddling the creature's tail and yanking one plate-sized scale up against the grain. It had to be more surprise than pain that had made the wyrm gasp, but whatever it was, I had my opening.

s.n.a.t.c.hing a loose timber from the rotting side of the barn, I heaved the thing up toward that sucking gullet. My aim was true, and the decaying wood lodged itself in the creature's throat. Had there been people in the barn behind me instead of filthy, sorcerous subpeople, I might have taken a moment to shout for them to run. As it was, it didn't matter. They were running anyway.

Instead, I repaid Filson by dashing around the struggling bulk of the beast and s.n.a.t.c.hing him from the tail. My feet had just touched ground on the other side of the huge appendage when the beam-bearing mouth of the dragon slammed down where we had just been. Filson was yammering something, but there was no time to listen, no time to think. He had his own legs, and I made him use them as the two of us bolted for the far end of the cavern.

We heard a huge hack and cough behind us, and the rotten timber shot out like a ballista round over our heads to strike the stone wall and obliterate itself there.

"Back to the rooms!" I shouted to Filson, thinking the caverns that held the suites would be too small for the dragon to navigate.

Filson nodded his agreement, and we shot out toward where the stairs should have been. They weren't stairs, though, but the picked-clean skeleton of a coiling dragon neck. The head lay upside down where the desk had been, and from it curved yellowed vertebrae up to a ledge of stone, where the half-rotted corpse of the great wyrm lay. The belly of the beast had been slit lengthwise, and the green scales flayed back from the midline to expose the layered rotting matrix of dragon organs.

Xantrithicus. She'd gutted her own husband to get the Dragon's Pearl from his stomach, then turned his corpse into an inn for the wealthy and powerful. I could not have known it from where I stood, but something told me in that moment I had, indeed, slept last night in a dragon's heart.

She'd done it all for the Dragon's Pearl. The Dragon's Pearl!

"Come on," I shouted, and motioned for Filson to follow.

Not a moment too soon. The profound thunder of the dragon's clawed feet came upon the cave floor like cannon-shot against a wall. The kid and I pelted toward the descending cave that led to the vault and the pearl, though with the rumble and rattle beneath our feet, each step forward was shortened by a half jolt back.

*Tou can't escape me, Bolton Quaid!" raged the dragon. I derived some small satisfaction from the raw sound of her voice. The log had more than done its work. "You can't escape this place without magic."

I planned on getting myself a little magica"sooner rather than later. We'd reached the descending shaft and just started down it when that great coiling neck of the dragon shot forth, the mouth opening wide like another cavern of stalact.i.tes. Her muzzle smashed against the opening.

I dived down the sharp slope, but Filson wasn't with me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that my stouthearted partner had glory instead of survival in mind. He leapt the other way, landing in the dragon's mouth. Scrambling up the creature's forked tongue, he brandished his little shiv as though it were a great sword. The tiny knife bit into the red roof of the dragon's mouth, and though it sunk to its handle, the wyrm could not have felt more than the smallest pinp.r.i.c.k.

Surely, Filson would die for his courage.

And he would have, had the dragon bitten down on him instead of venting a great gust of poison gas from her lungs. The sneezelike blast blew Filson, shivless, off the creature's tongue and out of its mouth, flinging him into me, where I had landed in a crouch and was preparing to rush for the vault door. Stuck together by the wind, we were hurled down the pa.s.sage to strike the very door I sought.

In the face of that gale, it was tough to grasp the lock. It was tougher to do so without gasping to inhale breath, which would have been instantly deadly. But I succeeded, spinning the thing, rushing through the combination I'd memorized when Olivia opened the lock.

The poison blast spent itself, and the combination was done. Still without breathing, I yanked the vault door open and dashed to the side.

There came a dragon scream from up the pa.s.sage, just as I had hoped, and a huge forearm thrust its way down toward the revealed pearl. My hundred traps went off beautifully, with a sound like a thousand mosquitoes taking flight. Even the circular deadfall block came down to crush the dragon's claw, in the process cracking and peeling away my three iron boxes like layers of skin from an onion.

But it would take more than that to stop her. I clambered over her twitching wrist and onto the deadfall, finally took a breath of the fresher air, and grabbed the stone.

Touching it was enough. The contact of flesh to gem triggered its magic. The huge green dragon resumed the form of green-eyed Olivia. Her small, hot hand, crushed beneath the stone, caused her to be yanked forward into the vault as her form shrank. Down the stairs she rattled, then slid to a stop just within the doorway. I lunged at her, wanting to kill her in human forma"lovely, lovable human forma"before she could become a dragon again.

You see, I'd forgotten about the shiv.

She did not move. The small knife had been more than large enough to kill her, forced up through her human palette and into her brain. When I pulled her head up and back by her silken black hair, the blood gushing from her mouth told the story. The blood, and those lifeless green eyes.

Companionship. I knew it then. That was the one other hook for this wyrm. She'd killed her mate for the pearl, and then used the pearl to gain back all she'd losta" wealth, power, status, and companionship. Perhaps that's where a six-foot-three street rat from Waterdeep came in.

The poison gas was gone from the air, and I gasped a breath when I saw those emerald eyes.

So did my new partner.

The magic resumed a moment later, with explosive results, since the corpse of the dragon couldn't fit in that tiny vault. Luckily, Filson and I had expected as much, and were scampering across the cavern beyond when green chunks of dragon started flying.

We didn't even try to take the Dragon's Pearl with us. We'd had a bellyful of trouble from it, just like old Xantrithicus had. Besides, there was already plenty of false affluence and deceptive beauty in the Dock Ward of Waterdeep.

It wasn't beneath us, however, to make a quick search of the rest of the place, hoping to sc.r.a.pe together enough real wealth among all the bits of glitter and twine to make our troubles worthwhile. We could not. Apparently, the dragon's h.o.a.rd was nothing more than fantasy built on illusion built on air.

Gone were the riches, and gone too the wretches, fled to whatever icy refuges they could find when the dragon first appeared. Most would likely die out there. I feared we would, too.

About then, I heard the greatest sound in the worlda" the impatient champ and whinny of a very real winged horse. Apparently, even the pearl's illusory magic could not have reached to Waterdeep, so the lady had had to send the genuine article. I tipped my hat to what was left of her corpse, thanking her for inadvertently showing me you get what you pay for.

With my new a.s.sociate mounted on the stallion behind me, I urged the pegasus toward the bright, snowy daylight, and from there up into the bracing sky.

To Waterdeep," I told the creature, patting it fondly on the shoulder. "The Dock Ward. I'd like to see some genuine squalor for a change."

GUNNE RUNNER.

Roger E. Moore

It would be a grand night in Waterdeep. An old friend, the Yellow Mage, had invited me over for First Tenday dinner; he'd do all the cooking, and he was a master. I knew from experience this was also his chance to show off his latest toy, if he had one, so I made sure I wore something bulletproof but comfortable. No sense in my spoiling the evening by dying unexpectedly.

I needed dependable full-body protection instead of a metal chest plate or displacer cape, so I poked through my ring box until I found my Unfailing Missile Deflector of Turmish. It was my special prize, a little gold band that could turn aside anything short of a flying tree trunk. Even better, it was subtle and wouldn't offend the Yellow Mage. I didn't want him to think I didn't implicitly trust his handling of smoke-powder weapons, never mind that incident three months ago when he blew his priceless Shou Lung clock into little blue gla.s.s shards with a Gond-gunne. The bullet missed me by three feet at most. We all make mistakes.

The Yellow Mage's given name at birth was Greathog Snorrish, so I readily understood why he never told anyone else in town about it. He apprenticed late in life, the moment he came through Waterdeep's gates, and could now toss only a pair of spells a day. Still, he was a wizard, and that, for him, was what counted.

Minor pretensions aside, Snorri was really just a kid at heart, which was why everyone in the North Ward of Waterdeep who knew him liked him. He was a big puppy, into everything and always excited at his latest find. A sloppy dresser, yes, and not much of a wizard, but he could cook, he told the best stories, and he had a great laugh. You can understand how intent I was at getting to his place on time that evening, and you can understand, too, why the world just wasn't the same when I found out he had been murdered.

It was an hour before twilight when I arrived at his street, but I could see fine; I had light-enhancing lenses in my eyes. I rounded the stone-paved corner onto Saerdoun Street, clutching a gift bottle of Dryad's Promise, then saw the knot of townsfolk outside Snorri's doorway. They were peeking through the shutters into his home when they weren't talking among themselves in hushed tones. Some of the gawkers glanced at me, then turned away, not wishing to stare at a stranger. Two of the onlookers, though, seemed to recognize me from previous visits. As I came up, they nervously stepped back and grew silent.

Something bad had happened. I knew it instantly. I clutched the brown wine bottle like a good-luck charm. Maybe things will be fine anyway, I thought. Snorri and I will have dinner, tell our tales, pour a few goblets, trade spellsa"

The little crowd fell back from the Yellow Mage's door as it opened. Someone inside came out. An old woman gasped and put a hand over her heart.

A Waterdhavian watchman carefully stepped out, his green cloak m.u.f.fling the clinking of his golden armor. He held the handles of a stretcher with a body on it. Someone had tossed Snorri's hall rug over the body, but the corpse's right hand had fallen down from under the rug, and it had the bright topaz ring of the Yellow Mage on the middle finger, just where Snorri always wore it.

Someone else could be wearing his ring, I thought dumbly, stopping. Snorri could just be drunk. It could be his twin, if he had a twin. If he was really hurt, thena"

I stepped forward. "Your pardon," I mumbled to the watchmen. My chest was tight, and I barely got the words out. The constables saw me and hesitated, eyeing me for trouble. I pointed to the shape under the hall rug and tried to frame a sentence.

The watchman at the figure's feet understood and simply shrugged. "Take a look," he said tiredly.

I reached down with my free hand and pulled the hall rug from the body's face. I had the idea that none of this was really happening, so I thought I could come away unscathed.

I had a moment of trouble recognizing the Yellow Mage, partly because he was so expressionless and still, and partly because so much rust-colored blood was caked over his lower face. Most of it had come out of his mouth and nose. His blue eyes were open wide, dull and glazed in the way of all dead people.

I pulled the rug back farther. Streaks of blood were flung across Snorri's neck and upper chest. His yellow shirt was soaked in red. In the middle of his chest was a b.l.o.o.d.y hole the size of my thumbnail, like a little red-brown volcano crater. It punched through his sternum and probably went all the way through the rest of him. Bits of pale bone stuck out within it.

I stared at my dead friend Snorri for maybe a minute, maybe five, my head swelling with mad plans to bring him back to life. Money, I thought; sure, I could get money, lots of it, then a priest, and all would be fine. Haifa dozen local temples would be glad to raise the dead for cash.

The constables were very patient. Perhaps they could tell that I was a wizard, and so were inclined to humor me.

"I'm sorry," said a watchman at my left elbow. I started; I hadn't noticed her before. The gray-eyed elf grimaced and brushed a lock of red hair from her face, then went on. "We were able to summon a Dawn Priest of Lathander who was nearby, but when the priest attempted to restore him to life, the spell did not take. I am truly sorry."

I blinked at her, looked down at Snorri, and realized what she had just told me. The spell did not take. Snorri was staying just as he was. He was gone.

Suddenly I didn't need to look anymore. I gently pulled the rug back over my friend's quiet face, tucked him in, and whispered good-bye. The elven watchman nodded to the others, then the three made their way off toward the guard post at Saerdoun and Whaelgond, only a dozen houses up the street.

I stood stupidly, not knowing what to do next. I'd seen a few dead men when I'd been with the city guard a decade ago. I could tell that Snorri had been dead only a few hours, maybe six at most. I'd spent most of the afternoon preparing a security report for a client in the Castle Ward who constantly worried about thieves breaking into his ugly little mansion. During what point in my writing had Snorri died? How did it happen? I couldn't figure what that ghastly hole in his chest had resulted from; it wasn't a knife wound, anda"oh, of course. His latest toy, or one of the older ones. He'd screwed up and shot himself. Snorri, I thought, you dumb b.a.s.t.a.r.d, you and those d.a.m.ned smoke-powder toys of yours.

The watchmen had pulled Snorri's front door shut, but it had opened a bit. I looked through the dark doorway into the old-style plaster-and-timber home. Without thinking about it, I walked over to the doorway and went inside. I closed the door after me but did not lock it. I saw no need.

Snorri's home was a nice but unexciting one-story, cramped and cluttered inside, but still pleasanta"if you were an average guy. A little kitchen, a privy, a tiny bedroom with only a floor mat and quilt, a stuffy web-filled attic, and a living room the size of the rest of the ground afloor put together. Snorri was no decorator, either: a half-dozen badly stuffed fish mounted on the living-room walls, rickety chairs held together by leather thongs, three round tables with cracked legs, some filthy rugs, and a dozen huge cabinets and shelves to hold all of the collectibles he'd gathered. The perfect home for the obsessed, confirmed bachelor.

The place smelled bad as I went in. There was roast boar in the air, coming from the kitchen, but it mingled with the stink of dead, stale blood. I remembered the latter odor from the old days. The air even tasted bad, and I swallowed to keep my stomach down.

I looked away from the line of mounted fish and noticed a spot of cracked plaster on the wall between two shelf cases. I moved closer to get a better view, but looked down just in time to avoid the wide, dark pool on the floor and the Gondgunne that lay in the middle of it. The Gond-gunne, no doubt, with which he'd carelessly shot himself.

"Mystra d.a.m.n you, Snorri," I muttered, shocked at my sudden heat. "Mystra d.a.m.n you. You knew better."

"No one heard a thing, you know," said a voice behind me. I barely kept myself from whirling around, instead extending my senses to see if I was in trouble. The voice had a youthful but professional tone to it. A watch officer, likely.

"Nothing at all?" I said without looking around, as if commenting on the weather.

"Not a sound. Not even us, and our post is just a stone's toss up the street. Curious, I think." The speaker paused, perhaps sizing me up. "If you were a friend of this gentleman, you have my sorrow and sympathy. Nonetheless, I ask that you please do not touch anything until we've completed our investigation."

His condolences lacked somethinga"a sense of heart, I thought. He was unmoved, disinterested. I calmly turned around. A short, lithe figure in gold chain mail and green cloth stood idly by the now-open front door. A three-foot metal watchman's rod hung lightly in the gloved fingers of his right hand. His curly black hair was the color of his high boots.

A halfling watch captain. A tall halfling, though. He came up to my sternum.

"My friend's house," I said. "We were going to have dinner."

"And your name is ..." said the halfling.

"Formathio," I said. "Formathio, of Rivon Street."

"I thought I recognized you," the halfling said, nodding slightly. "You gave a talk for the watch officers last year on illusions and contraband. Your advice came in handy." He glanced past me at the Gondgunne on the floor. "Will you a.s.sist me in resolving this sad matter?"

I realized I was still holding the bottle of Dryad's Promise. I set it down by the wall beside me. "Of course," I replied. Of course I would.

"You must forgive my manner as we proceed," the half-ling said as he abruptly walked over and pa.s.sed by me with a measured tread, his eyes scanning the darkening room. It occurred to me that he, like me, was having no trouble seeing in the poor light. "I never mean to be rude, but I wish to get to the heart of a problem as swiftly as possible." He suddenly looked up at me, chin high. "I am Civilar Ardrum, by the way."

He looked away again before I could respond. "Tell me about your friend, the Yellow Mage," he said, looking at the bloodstained floor and Gondgunne.

I collected my scattered thoughts. "I met him five years ago, when he came to Waterdeep from the south, from Lantan. I did a security check for him, of this house, and we became friends. We got together every so often to talk over things, to trade gossip about the order, trade spells anda""

"The Order of Magists."

"Yes, Magists and Protectors. He was ... Snorri was ..."

My thoughts came to a dead end. It hit me. I'd just said was. Snorri was really dead. For good. Forever.

Strange, I thought in my shock, that I have no intention of crying. How odd of me, and sad. My best friend is dead, and no one cries for him. I breathed the knowledge in, over and over again.

I don't know how long I was lost like that. When I looked up, Civilar Ardrum was eyeing me curiously. The room was almost completely dark.

"We should have light, if it will not bother you," he said. With a last look at me, he reached down and pulled open a pouch on his belt. A moment later, bright light spilled out of the pouch across the room. He lifted an object like a candle on a stand and placed it on a nearby shelf beside a bra.s.s paperweight. Clean white light streamed from the top of the short stick.

"Better," said the civilar. He pulled off his gloves, tucking them into his belt. "We have much to do and little time. I believe that the Yellow Mage's murderer may be about to flee the city, if he has not already done so. If you have any powers to aid our investigation, please tell me now, and let us begin our work."

"Murderer?" I repeated. I was doubly stunned. "His murderer?"

"Did I not say that no one heard any sound from this place?" The halfling was clearly irritated. "Yet he lay, clearly shot by an explosive projectile weapon. A girl selling scent packets found his door ajar and looked in, summoning aid. Five washerwomen gossiped outside not two doors from here for half a day and heard no sound of struggle, no explosion, nothing at all. As silent as a tomb, one said of this place. Yet the Yellow Mage died not earlier than noon. No wizard leaves his house door open and unlocked, even on the hottest day on the safest street. Do you?"

I opened my moutha"and closed it. "No, never," I said. Inside, I was still thinking murderer.

The halfling officer nodded with slight satisfaction. His manner was oddly comforting even if he was as empa-thetic as a stone. I looked around at the shelves, the furniture, the fish on the wall. A murderer had been here. "I received my training in the college of illusion," I said automatically, like a golem. "I worked for the watch ten years ago, then apprenticed myself and set up my own security-counseling business." I thought, then said, "To answer your earlier question, I believe I do have talents to lend you."

"Good." Civilar Ardrum knelt down to look at the Gond-gunne. He put his watchman's rod on the floor beside him, then pulled a small bundle from his pouch, unwrapped another magical light stick, and set it on a tabletop to his right. White light and doubled shadows filled the room. "You said you were once a thief, Formathio. When you gave your lecture last year."

"Yes." I added nothing, continuing to scan Snorri's jumbled possessions for missing or out-of-place items. I greatly disliked talking about the mistakes of my youth and how I'd paid for them. "The'knowledge has since helped me greatly in my business."

"So I would imagine. What were you hiding for your friend?"