She stood to follow.

"No, no. Stay there. You were impressed with the gold goblet, right?" he said amid door creaks and chest slams. Finally he reentered and walked to the table. He slammed something down on it.

It an enormous brick, as thick as her arm and nearly as long. Gold.

"One gold ingot. Think of it as four hundred gold coins melted together. We currently have just under thirty of these, plus enough other gold coins and knickknacks to equal perhaps one hundred more. The Alliance Army, for a reason that we are not entirely certain of, is willing, nay, eager, to pay us one hundred and twenty-five of these for your corpse and the sword you carried," he said.

Myranda's eyes locked on the block of gold and widened.

"However! That is merely the base price. If you are still breathing when we hand you over, the price is increased tenfold. One thousand, two hundred and fifty of these bits of auric masonry. That is equal to five hundred thousand gold coins. Five million silver coins. Two hundred and fifty million coppers. I would say that you are worth your weight in gold, but that is a ma.s.sive understatement. You are worth something on the order of three hundred times your weight in gold. You are the single most valuable thing I have ever seen," he said.

"But . . . why?" she asked, dumbfounded.

"As I said, their motivation is a mystery to me. Most interesting is the fact that they did not even want specifically you. At least, not at first. Their orders were to retrieve that sword of yours, which we have by the way, and anyone who touches it directly and lives. We were also told not to touch it ourselves, if we value our lives. I do and I have not," he said.

Myranda's mind began to stir.

"That sword . . . that sword belonged to the swordsman. That sword is what gave me the mark. It has something to do with the Chosen. And they want me, alive . . . " she thought aloud.

Deep in Myranda's mind, thoughts and instincts clashed together. Thoughts that had been forming since Lain had first told her the truth about why he captured her. Longings and hopes merged as she tried to find some explanation for such actions. Almost hammered into her mind at birth was the belief that the Alliance Army had the best interests of the people and the world at heart. That thought planted the seed of an idea. They wanted the person who touched the sword, if possible alive. The seed grew until finally it found its way to her voice.

"They know! They know about the prophesy! They came to the same conclusion I did, that the person who is scarred with the mark by the sword is the one who will join the Chosen together. They must want my help!" she said, more certain of it with every moment.

"Possible. I have seen greater stretches of the imagination come true," he said, nodding thoughtfully, then frowning. "Not the least bit likely. In fact, now that I th-"

"Desmeres, I must meet with the Alliance Army at once!" she said.

"Not so quickly, I am afraid," he said, dropping the interrupted thought and embarking on a new one. "You see, when Lain decided to free you and keep them at arm's length from you, it made them believe that we were no longer willing to turn you over. That has put the two of us on a very exclusive list of insurgents who are to be killed on sight by the Elites. It is clear that those very same Elites are the ones who seek to claim you as well. Until we can establish that Lain's little idiosyncrasies are harmless and that we are indeed still willing and able to relinquish yourself and the sword, we are going to have to wait."

"I will just go to them myself," she said.

"That would not be wise. Lest you forget, the attempts to capture you have been less than pleasant in the past. The rest of the agents out after you are not so well disciplined as the Elite, and I would wager to say that they have not been offered the same compensation as we. If you meet them first, which you most certainly will, they might be just as willing to turn over a corpse as a captive," he said.

"I will take my chances. I can take care of myself," she said.

"That freshly healed wound on your leg and the close calls of the past would seem to indicate the contrary," he said. "Besides, if you go off and turn yourself in, we will not get paid, and that would just be a tragedy."

"Hmm. And Lain is Chosen. I would have to find him again after all," she said.

"Precisely. So what do you say? You stay on as our guest until I can smooth out relations just enough to allow an exchange. That is, of course, unless you don't want to, in which case you will need to stay on as our prisoner. I would suggest choosing the former. It has better accommodations and the conversations are a tad less one sided. That will give you time to convince Lain of his place in the cosmic way of things, and it will allow us to protect our investment. Then you and he can go off and find elementals and all manner of other eldritch companions and create a tale we can all tell our children about," he said, lifting the ingot to return it to its storage.

Myranda frowned at his mocking tone toward the end of the speech. When he reached for the gold, it made Myranda realize something.

"Wait. The war is good for you. Why would you allow me to help bring peace?" she asked.

"Do you honestly believe that you will be able to convince Lain to join forces with the Alliance Army and put his life on the line to somehow put this war to an end? They have hunted him for decades, and when they caught him, they tortured him for a month, if my sources can be believed. He will never work with them without what he considers to be a very good reason, and I doubt such a reason exists," he said frankly.

"He will see the light," Myranda said confidently.

"Yes, well, I sincerely doubt it. People like Lain have lived in the dark so long, when they see the light they tend to close their eyes. Say . . . why do you a.s.sume the war is good for us?" he said.

"Lain told me how the hatred it stirs up is what gets you your business," she said.

"Mmm. It would generally be true to say that war is good for the business. Of course, a war would generally only last a few years and be far less widespread. During a normal war there are mad scrambles for power. People stabbing each other in the back to grab a hold of the largest slice of power and land. This war has been going on too long. Everything has stabilized. Anyone who wants power and has the means to get it has done so, often with our help. The rest are too weak to hope for anything better or too poor to manage it. Now, if this war were to come to a sudden end, chaos would ensue. The bottom would be pulled out from under society. The old guard would panic and throw money at anyone who could help them hold onto any power at all, and newcomers would jump at the dozens of holes in the hierarchy. We would barely be able to keep up with the clients," he said.

Myranda shook her head.

"You would end the war because it would be profitable to you? You would do the right thing for the wrong reasons," she said.

"I never said I would stop the war. And besides, who cares about the reason, so long as the right thing gets done?" he reasoned. "But enough philosophy. Would you care to have a look around? There isn't much to see, but I am quite proud of it all."

Myranda grudgingly agreed, and she and the dragon left the room, following Desmeres through the opposite doorway. There Myranda found a chamber of equal size with three large bookcases, mostly filled, along the far wall. The rest of the room was filled with various valuables scattered in a haphazard manner. There were half full chests of coins, some silver, most gold. There were statues, goblets, ornate daggers, swords, and helmets. Here and there a satchel could be found filled with papers. Desmeres explained it all.

"The fortune is self explanatory. These papers are deeds. We own a number of very large tracts of land as part of Lain's pet project. On the back wall is the catalog of our business to date. The first two shelves are the somewhat disorganized records contracts. They hold the specifics of the deals that we have made, as well as anything worth noting about the way the task was performed. That last shelf has to do with Lain's little project as well. He's been doing it since before I began working with him," he said.

Myn approached the third bookshelf and sniffed at it with much curiosity. Whatever those books held, they had enough of a scent to pique the interest of the dragon. Myranda approached the bookshelf and looked over the spines. They were unlabeled. Some of the books seemed old and well used. Others were fresh. Myranda reached for one of the books.

"I wouldn't. You'll have to face Lain's wrath if you do," he said.

"I have reached an agreement with Lain that any question I have of him must be answered," she said.

"How did you manage that in less than a year when I haven't made so much progress in seventy? I have tried practically everything to gain his absolute trust," he said.

"I knocked one of his teeth out with a training sword," she said, pulling one of the books from the middle of the case.

Desmeres nodded thoughtfully.

"I hadn't tried that," he quipped.

"He made a wager that I would never be willing to draw blood, and if I did, I deserved to have my questions answered," she explained.

"Ah," he replied.

Myranda opened the book. There were no words, only brownish red stains, dozens of them, on every page. She flipped through, only to find more of the same. Replacing the book, she opened one of the older ones. More stains. She replaced it and chose a newer one. This had an addition. Below each small stain was a name, each scrawled in a different hand.

"What is this?" she asked.

"You'll have to ask Lain. This is a secret of his, not mine. Besides, I have more to show you. We've still got my favorite room left," Desmeres said.

Myranda shook her head, replaced the book, and followed. They entered the room that Desmeres had been standing in the doorway of when they had arrived. As soon as the light of his lamp entered, it glinted off of a dozen polished surfaces. He moved along the walls, lighting wall mounted lamps as he went. Each new light revealed more of the room. The walls were hung with weapons of every type. Swords with carved blades, bows, arrows, axes, and countless other weapons in racks, on stands, and even hanging from the ceiling. Other stands contained bottles, vials, tools, and books.

"Behold, my gallery. Nearly half of the weapons I have made since I began working with Lain are here. I tried to make one of every type, and Lain can use them all, but lately he has been using only daggers and the occasional light sword. I guarantee he will be asking me for a new one soon, what with Sasha's disappearance. No matter, I've got two in the works. I think I can finish one off in a week or so," he said, filled with pride.

"Look at all of them. You have spent so much time on making tools for killing," she said, slightly disgusted.

"Tools, yes. Killing, only sometimes. Besides, I have got widgets and gadgets for all sorts of purposes. Potions for healing, potions for sleep, frankly, I've got potions for everything. I never could get the hang of spell casting, so I make potions instead. It isn't my greatest talent, but I get by. This one here is my favorite," he said, lifting a small, innocent looking vial filled with clear liquid. "It is a poison that will kill anything but Lain."

Myranda shook her head.

"Why?" Myranda asked.

"Why the poison? Well, surely you see the usefulness of . . . " he began.

"No, why any of this?" she asked. "I can understand why you would spend your time on such things in Entwell, but why here? You seem like such a decent person. Why do you occupy all of your time with death?"

"Oh, so now it is just death? I liked 'tools for killing' better. Regardless of your terminology, I simply need something to do," he said.

"That is it? You need something to do?" she said.

"I see that you are confused. First of all, how old do you suppose I am?" he asked.

Myranda considered his appearance. His white hair was a bit less carefully kept than the last time she had seen him. His clothes were of the finest variety. Overall, he looked as though he might be her age, though the way he phrased the question made her believe he was older than he seemed.

"Thirty," she said.

"I was thirty when I left Entwell. I am now just about to celebrate my one hundred and third birthday," he said.

"What? No," she said.

"Father was, and is, an elf. I get the longevity from him. I get the appearance from mother. It helps me blend with the human population. Never mind that, though. You were looking for an answer for why I squander my life so. Think of every old man or old woman you've met. I'd wager half of them are angry all of the time for no reason at all, or simply numb and apathetic. Why? They are world weary. They have done and seen everything that they care to see or do. There is nothing left for them. Humans have the mixed blessing of a short lifespan. By the time you run out of ambitions and motivations, the end is usually near. Elves are not quite so lucky. We live on and on. As a result, if you are immortal, you need to find something to occupy your vast time. Something endless to fill your days. A pa.s.sion. I have two. First, and foremost, I am a weapon crafter. I strive for perfection. I will never reach it, at least I hope not, but I get closer with each new weapon. My second pa.s.sion is more difficult to explain. I like making money," he said.

"How n.o.ble," she said with a smirk.

"I do not mean it in a greedy way. I lived the first thirty years without the need for money at all. I simply love the negotiation, the planning. I love reading people. It is as much an art as weapon craft, and just as rewarding. I don't care about the money once I have it. I would give it away, but that would rob me of the joy of haggling prices for the things I buy," he said.

"If you love money so much, why don't you just sell your weapons? At least then you wouldn't have to work with an a.s.sa.s.sin directly," she said.

"No. Never mix the pa.s.sions. Weapons are weapons, money is money. I have only sold fifteen pieces in my lifetime, and I have spent the years since trying to hunt them down and buy them back. There are still three out there, and it burns my mind to think of it," he said.

"Why?" she asked.

"They are in the hands of inept fools! I can't stand to see one of my weapons misused. It soils the workmanship. My weapons can make an amateur into a master, but they can make a master invincible. That is why I work with Lain. He is one of only a handful of warriors I deem worthy of holding my handiwork, and his business offers limitless potential for my other skills. As long as he continues to satisfy my needs, I will work with him. If he ever ceases to, I will find someone who will. Simple," he said.

"That is so self serving," Myranda said.

"That is another trait of immortals. Since we are going to outlive most of the people we know anyway, we tend to focus on ourselves. It is also the nature of things you are pa.s.sionate about. You have a way of making very poor decisions to indulge them. Like, say, deciding that the people who have been hunting you for nearly a year are actually trying to help you," he said, not a hint of apology in his voice.

Myranda gazed at the weapons and armor. Were she able to bring herself to forget their purpose, she might have been struck by their beauty. Instead, all she saw was death. Her dark thoughts were interrupted by an odd scratching sound. She turned to Myn, the source of the interruption, to see her clawing madly at her neck. The dingy scales and skin were starting to give way.

"Well, well. Is our friend shedding? I'll get a blanket," he said, hurrying off to the supply room.

When he returned he placed the blanket on the ground. Myn seemed to know it was for her, as she rolled on top of it and began clawing at her belly. For the better part of an hour, Myranda and Desmeres discussed the specifics of her adventure that he had not learned on his own as Myn shed the old scales to reveal immaculate, gleaming ones underneath. When her focus returned to her neck, Myranda untied the charm and removed it.

"Say, you didn't mention that little thing. Let me see that," he said.

Myranda handed it to him. He turned it all about in his hands, held it up to the light, and tapped on the metal.

"I remember this. This was on Trigorah's helmet," he said.

"You remember seeing it there?" she said.

"I remember putting it there," he said, rubbing it on his shirt to restore its l.u.s.ter.

"You made her helmet?" Myranda said, shocked.

"No, just the charm. One of my better pieces. It lets healing and such through, but blocks most other spells. It was something of an anniversary gift," he said.

Myranda's jaw dropped.

"We weren't married. Not officially. But we were . . . involved for some time," he said, returning the charm to her. She was too stunned to reach for it, so he took it back.

"How . . . " she managed.

"How long? Six years. I gave this to her on our fifth," he said, trying to answer the half asked question.

Myranda shook her head, still struggling to find the words.

"How long ago, perhaps? I'd say I first spoke to her perhaps thirty years ago. No, that still isn't it, eh? How . . . How involved? Well, I have a son she never told me about," he said, grinning at his last statement.

Myranda stopped searching for words and simply stared, dumbstruck.

"She's got him squirreled away somewhere up north. He's twenty-five now, with some military job. Croyden is his name, if I recall correctly. I wonder if he's given the boy my name or hers. Must check on that," he said.

Myranda finally found her voice again, and finished the question he had failed to guess.

"How could you?" she asked.

"Well, she has been after Lain since before I started working with him. She is no fool, so in following his trail, she found herself led to me time and time again. I have always felt that one likes to keep his enemies close, and she felt the same way. That is how it began. The entire time we were together was like a sort of dance, each of us trying our best to learn the intentions of the other. She is very attractive, and we share membership of a fairly unrepresented race. As we played each other for information, we found that we had a great many things in common. What can I say?" he said.

"But she wants to kill you!" she said.

"That is only a recent development. Back then she only wanted to kill Lain," he said.

"Even still, he is your partner!" she said.

"It began as a means to protect him. I feel no shame," he said with a shrug. "It is just the two of us in this partnership. We do what we must."

"Just the two of you . . . wait . . . didn't you mention a woman?" she asked.

"A woman. I don't believe I did," he said, attempting to recall.

"Yes, you did. Sasha," Myranda said.

"Oh . . . Oh. A misunderstanding. Sasha is a what, not a who. Sashat Mance. Bag of tricks. It is the sword Lain had been using," he clarified.

"What? No. You said that she never said a word, but she sang, and that they would try to coax secrets out of her," she objected.

Desmeres chuckled and pulled a sword from its mount on the wall.