"Masters, friends, and brothers," Slavers' Guildmaster Yryn said, his slate-gray eyes flashing as he shook his ma.s.sive head slowly, "hidden in this overpolite scorn is a sad truth." He paused, likely more for effect than anything else. "And that sad truth," he went on, "is that Karl Cullinane is almost correcta"I say again: almost." He turned to Ahrmin. "Which is why, Master Ahrmin, by order of the council, permission to attack him is again denied."

"Noa""

"Yes." Yryn tapped a thick finger against the parchment scroll, then drummed his nails on the age-smoothed oak of the table while most of the other dozen masters nodded in agreement. "You will leave Karl Cullinane alone," Yryn said. "For the good of the guild."

"For the good of the guild." Ahrmin carefully kept the scorn in his voice to a bare minimum as he repeated the words. The others respected calm and self-control; a display of temper would only, could only, lower his status in the Slavers' Guild Council.

Turning the ruins of the right side of his face away from the others, he sat back in his chair, forcing himself to be calm. Anger wouldn't help.

It was tempting to let it flow. The idiotsa"even after all this time, they didn't understand. Despite the raiders who had, only a few tendays before, hit a caravan only a day's ride from Pandathaway.

And despite the blatant provocation of Cullinane's letter, they didn't understand.

Well, he thought, then I will make them understand. "We must kill Karl Cullinane, Guildmaster. He is too dangerous."

"He is too dangerous," Lucindyl put in. "And that is precisely the guildmaster's point, Ahrmin." He was the only elven master slaver present, and tended to fawn over the guildmaster; he was far too willing to support Yryn, no matter what the right of the situation. "He is too dangerous. You have crossed swords with the emperora""

Ahrmin started to slam his fist down on the table, but caught himself. Be calm, be calm. He raised his hand up before his eyes and examined it, as though for the first time.

"That dog," he said quietly, his voice barely louder than a whisper, "has no more right to the t.i.tle of emperor than a Salke peasant has." He lowered his hands to his lap and folded them together with exquisite gentleness as he looked away, shrugging away the half-hood of his robes and bringing the horror of the right side of his face into view.

Even Yryn shuddered.

Ahrmin didn't, not after all these years, not even when he looked at himself in a mirror. For years, he had forced himself to stare at what Cullinane had left of him: the puckered scars where the fire had burned away flesh and seared the bone beneath; the tattered ridge of callus that was all that remained of the ear; the raw-looking welts that were the right side of his lips.

"No." Yryn swallowed, twice. "He has the right, my friend." Yryn shook his head and settled himself more firmly back in his chair. "He holds Holtun-Bieme by force of arms, and by force of lawa""

"His law."

"a"and by popular support, it seems. At least among the commoners and 'freemen,' " Yryn finished, p.r.o.nouncing the Englits word like a curse. "Though I understand that some of his barons are not so pleased." He shrugged, dismissing the subject.

"But some are, no? And he is well liked among the lower cla.s.sesa"for an emperor," Lucindyl added, raising an eyebrow. "A very popular man, this Karl Cullinane."

Wencius, a young man whose dark slimness was almost effeminate, toyed with his gla.s.s of wine, dipping a manicured finger into the purple liquid, running his fingertip along the rim of the gla.s.s until a bell-like note momentarily sounded. "He is very popular, Ahrmin. Or were you too . . . distracted to notice?"

"And as I was saying, Master Ahrmin," Yryn said, glaring Wencius and the elf to silence, "each time the guild has come up against Karl Cullinane, we've emerged the worse for it. First, it was your father losing to him in the Coliseum. Then, after Karl Cullinane had freed the sewer dragon, when Ohlmin attempted to capture him, Karl Cullinane killed him, and more than twoscore good guildsmen. And again, in Melawei, whena""

"I know all this, buta""

"a"and the time when Thermyn thought he had trapped Karl Cullinane outside of Lundeyll, and . . ." The guildmaster leaned back in his chair and took a thoughtful sip from his water goblet. "Worst was the last time you went up against him, when you tried to use the Middle Lands war as a source of supplya""

"Which it should have been."

"Indeed, it should have been," Wencius said, his very agreement infuriating.

Yryn pursed his lips. "But it wasn't, Master Ahrmin. Instead of a profitable venture, we stood a sizable loss: powder, guns, and more good guildsmen than I care to think ofa""

"Then let me hire mercenaries! Ia"" He raised his hands to his face and bowed his head into them. "I apologize, Guildmaster. Please continue."

Yryn smiled. "Now, both Bieme and Holtuna"and increasingly the rest of the Middle Landsa"are closed to us.

"This is not good, Master Ahrmin, not good at all. For the sake of the guild, we will leave Karl Cullinane alone. Let him be distracted by the ruling of his little empire; the guild can survive that, at least for his lifetime. We can survive him, Ahrmin."

Ahrmin didn't answer at first as he brought his fingers up to touch the ravages of the right side of his face.

Karl Cullinane was a very popular man, indeed. There had been a time, years and years before, when Ahrmin had watched this popular man, this gem of a human being, run through the pa.s.sageway of a burning ship, while Ahrmin lay on the deck, writhing with the pain of his shattered jaw, his crushed fingers reaching for the bottle of healing draughts while the fire raged. . . .

Again, Yryn tapped his finger on the parchment. "There is more. I have been talking with the Wizards' Guild. They don't want to have anything to do with hima"there is that d.a.m.ned sword involved, and that is . . . involved with Arta Myrdhyn. None of that guild want to involve themselves with Arta Myrdhyn; the last time that Grandmaster Lucius went up against Arta Myrdhyn, they turned the Forest of Elrood into the Waste of Elrooda"do you want to see the Waste of Pandathaway? Do you want to leave that as a tribute to our time as masters of the guild?"

No, Ahrmin thought, that's not at all what I want to leave behind. What I want to leave behind is Karl Cullinane's head.

"The time may come, Ahrmin," Yryn said. "The time may come when we can take his head. But the time is not now. Not while he is where he is; not while his threat stays limited. As long as he stays within the confines of his paltry little empire, you will leave him alone. Completely alone. Understood?"

Ahrmin forced a hesitation. "Understood, Guildmaster. Masters, friends, and brothers," he said formally, "I obey the will of the council." He looked from face to face.

"I obey," he said.

Enough, he decided.

Enough waiting, enough patiencea"enough. For the past five years he hadn't even tried for Karl Cullinane's head, and there had only been a few furtive a.s.sa.s.sins sent out since the Bieme-Holtun war fiasco. He had hoped to regain the support of the council, but support or not, his patience would have to end.

There had to be an opportunity. Soon the waiting would be over, or Ahrmin would take matters into his own hands. Despite everythinga"despite the resistance of the other members of the council; despite the yearning of the craven Wizards' Guild to cower in the corner whenever the name of Arta Myrdhyn was mentioneda"he would act. He would.

Still, it would have to be handled carefully. The proper bait would have to be selected, and the proper location, as well.

It couldn't happen while Cullinane was within Holtun-Bieme, of course; that left far too many ways for things to go wrong.

But there were other places in the world besides that tiny empire, other places with other charms.

How much, he wondered, would Grandmaster Lucius pay for the sword that killed wizards?

And how much for the head of the one person who could take it from where it lay?

And how much would Karl Cullinane risk for the ones he loved?

The answers were the same: everything, of course.

Still, an opportunity would have to be cultivated. It would all have to be done carefully. Rumors would have to be placed with consummate care, rumors that would have to be discredited in the appropriate quarters, only to be reinforced and believed elsewhere, to prepare the way to tempt Karl Cullinane away from his empire, away from Home.

No. Not to tempt him. To force him away.

I am cleverer than you are, Karl Cullinane. I will take the extra step. Plant the rumors, and wait. That was the key. The emperor would, someday, have to go for the sword. Perhaps he could be hurried along.

It would be tricky, but it could be done. Slowly, quietly, carefully.

It must be done. And it will be done.

One Year Before, in Wehnest:

Doria and Elmina.

I'm worried about Karl, Doria thought.

"Doria, Doria," Elmina chided as she shook her head, sending the cowl of her robes falling back to her shoulders, revealing the stringy black hair that had been hidden beneath.

The fish-belly pallor of Elmina's skin would have been shocking under other circ.u.mstances, but here it was to be expected. It was almost rea.s.suring, because it spoke of healing. Healing, even when the healing consisted only of stabilizing someone as badly wounded as their present patient, drained magical, physical, and even mental reserves; Elmina had just pushed all of hers as far as possible.

"Worry isn't for us, Doria. Only soothing. Only restoration. Only healing." Trembling with weakness, Elmina laid a soothing hand on the arm of their patient, an unwashed peasant who had been brought to the Hand temple in Wehnest, barely alive after being carried into town by the same ox cart that had accidentally been pulled over him, its ironclad wheels shattering an arm, crushing his ribcage, rupturing his spine.

Doria nodded. "Healing is for us," she agreed, then laid her hands on their patient.

The farmer wasn't in good shape, but he was alive, and the damage was repairable.

The first priority had been to prevent the screaming man's life from deserting him, and the second to quell his pain. Elmina had done both. The result left the man unconscious but safe, the pooled blood in his crushed chest refusing to either clot or flow from his body.

"Doria . . ."

"I know. Shhh, Elmina; be still now."

Doria licked her lips once, and reached back into her mind and soul for the spell. It wasn't as though she was speaking deliberately; she simply let the words depart from her as she began to chant the evanescent words of healing, letting the power flow gently with the airy syllables. And, as always, she was never totally certain if the warm glow surrounding the peasant was in the air, or her eyes, or her mind.

But, as always, it warmed her while it healed him.

The split and shattered pieces of bone welded themselves together, while torn muscle and snapped sinew flowed gently back into their proper places around the now-rea.s.sembled substructure, joined by nerves and blood vessels snaking their way in and a.s.sembling themselves.

The last was the blood itself. Crushed red blood cells anda"worse, more difficult, more draininga"shattered platelets rea.s.sembled themselves and then flowed through capillary walls, until they stood waiting, poised in place in veins and arteries, a column of soldiers waiting for the command to march to be given.

The command was given: The blood flowed; the healing continued until the horrid, deathly pallor left the man's face and his consciousness gradually returned to him, "Very nicely done, Doria," Elmina said. She laid a finger across the farmer's dry, cracked lips, still flecked with dried blood and vomit. "Be still, friend. You are under the care of the Hand, and all will be well with you."

She turned to Doria.

"As it will be with you, sister, in one manner or another."

Doria nodded. What the Matriarch called her "feel for the way of things" was growing daily, and that feeling pointed to a confrontation. At least one.

And then there was the memory of the Matriarch speaking to Karl: Never will the Hand aid you again, she had said. Never will the Hand aid you again.

"I understand." Elmina nodded. "But for now, we must . . ." She swallowed and swayed for a moment, then strengthened, her wan, almost transparent skin seemingly gaining thickness while it gained color. "For now," she said, her voice gaining force, "we must restore our powers. Both of us. And we will continue to do so, but perhaps someday, we will do so for different reasons, is it not so?"

Doria nodded. "It is so."

A Few Tendays Before, Just Outside of the Old

Warrens: Ahira and Walter Slovotsky.

"I'm worried about Karl," Ahira said, leaning back in his rocking chair, squinting against the setting sun.

"You worry too much. Do more; worry less." Slovotsky glared as the dwarf eyed Karl's latest letter. Again.

Not that there wasn't enough to worry about.

For one thing, it had recently occurred to Ahira that Walter Slovotsky's daughter Janie was getting close to husband-high, and there wasn't even anyone of the right species around.

Ahira chuckled to himself. I don't mind being a dwarf, but I wouldn't want my G.o.ddaughter to marry one.

"You worry too much," the big man repeated, whittling at a piece of green pine as they sat on their benches at the entrance to the Endell warrens, waiting for the night to come on. "Particularly at the end of the day. I thought you were a dwarf, not a human. You're supposed to enjoy dusk."

"There's some truth in that, at least." Ahira nodded. Evening was the best time of the day, as the annoyances and labors of the day vanished into the oncoming night.

Or were supposed to, at any rate. That was the trouble with Slovotsky; while he tried to get along, he didn't have a dwarf's feeling for timing.

Not his fault.

Blood and bone are just clay; the world wears them down,

With a moan and a grind, a grunt and a groan,

A shudder, a quiver, a frown.

So let the world go away, at the end of the day.

a"the old evenchant began; a simple reminder that night was a time for rest and sleep, and that the worries of tomorrow could well wait until tomorrow.

A simple idea, but dwarves were good at understanding simplicity. It came with the territory.

Timing was a part of that simplicity.

As the two friends sat chatting, the dwarves who lived in the so-called Old Warrensa"although they were not the oldest warrens in Endella"were finishing their day, preparing to return to the warmth and safety of the warrens for the night.

Some astride small ponies and others afoot, they all made their way home to this entrance to the warrens, preparing for the onset of darkness. Some sweaty and dusty from the day's work in the King Maherrelen's fields, a rare few returning home with wagons laden with trade goods from the southa"all managed to make the final or only leg of their journey so that they arrived at the entrance just before sunset, no later.

Dwarves had a talent, a gift, for timing, the way that humans excel at swimming. Dwarves didn't swim, of course. Dwarves couldn't even float.