Goпmgar glanced over at Tungdil. "I don't blame you for being concerned," he said with feeling. "I wouldn't want to be chased by a band of дlfar who know exactly who I am."

"Yes, but that's because you're a coward." The insult left Bavragor's lips before he had time to consider.

"If you haven't got anything useful to say, you may as well go to bed," Tungdil told him sharply. They won't give each other a chance.

He saw Goпmgar look at him, then pick up his sword and shield and take up position on his bed, keeping a careful eye on the window and the door.

Tungdil couldn't be sure whether the artisan was sitting watch for himself or the others. He was still considering the matter when he fell asleep.

It was dark outside when Tungdil opened his eyes.

His boots and clothes were drier than they had been in ages. No one else was awake, not even Goпmgar, who was snoring with his head lolling back against the wall. From the nose down, there was nothing to be seen of him except for his shield.

It seemed a good time to get on with procuring the ponies and provisions, so Tungdil pulled on his warm clothes and dry boots, slipped into his mail tunic, and jammed his ax into his belt. At the last moment he decided to leave the sigurdaisy wood behind for safekeeping; then he left the chamber and went down to the bar, stopping to tell the publican that he'd be back in a couple of hours. He stepped outside.

The rain was still falling in torrents. A cold, malodorous wind gusted through the narrow streets. Nothing in his surroundings hinted at the opulence of the dwellings that graced the city's upper slopes. It's all very well for the rich folks in their mansions, high above the slums, he thought to himself. Everyone down here is forced to look up at them, not knowing whether to hate them or admire them for their wealth.

He had several run-ins with particularly persistent beggars and on one occasion he was chased by a pair of aging harlots who demanded to know if certain parts of his anatomy were as small and hairy as the rest.

Tungdil ignored them because they offended his romantic sensibilities. His idea of love was gleaned from fiction and from Frala and her husband. He stroked his lucky scarf and tried to picture her in his mind. Knowing that he would never see her or her children again was even harder to deal with than the death of Lot-Ionan. He would have done everything in his power to be a good guardian to Sunja and Ikana.

The incessant rain, gray skies, and general squalor of Sovereignston did nothing to improve his mood. He had to walk for what seemed like hours before he found a dealer who sold ponies, and even then he was instructed to call back the next morning. His next stop was a grocery store, where he bought provisions for the journey and succumbed to the temptation of buying a cake. He hadn't felt hungry until he saw it, but the mixture had risen perfectly to form a soft brown crust. The cinnamon streusel topping had melted in places, and delectable golden clumps nestled alongside rum-soaked raisins and sunken slices of fruit. Tungdil took a deep breath and bought the whole cake to share with the others, trusting to the baker to brighten his mood.

In the dark he set off through the streets, carrying his well-wrapped cake and other purchases. Mud and detritus clung to his boots, making them squelch unpleasantly. Not all the streets were properly cobbled, and parts of the waterlogged city were no better than mud slicks. Why would anyone want to live in this godforsaken place?

It was inevitable that he would fall over, and fall over he did. He stepped on a soggy pile of horse dung, skidded on his right leg, and stumbled, reaching down with one hand to save his clothes from the worst of the muck. Somehow or other he managed not to drop the cake. Underground vaults and strongholds are a thousand times better than this.

His thoughts were cut short by a sudden gust of wind. Something whizzed to the left of his head, grazing his ear. Whatever it was, it was painful, and he yelped in surprise, reaching up to touch his neck. Warm blood trickled over his fingers.

Turning sharply, he whipped out his ax. "If you think you can part me from my money or my cake-" The threat was left unfinished. They've found us.

Waiting at the other end of the alleyway was the дlf from Mifurdania who had tried to slit his throat. His cloak was fluttering in the stinking wind. He nocked a second arrow to his imposing bow and drew back his hand to release it.

At precisely that moment,' Tungdil was bowled over by something that charged toward him from the side. All he saw was a flash of violet light and a mask of gleaming silver before he was hit with such force that he soared through the air and landed in the next passageway, skidding four paces and cutting a channel through the mud.

What on… Head spinning, he rolled onto his back and held his ax at the ready, bracing himself for the дlf to find him and kill him. Nothing happened. Groaning, he stumbled to his feet. Every link in his mail shirt was oozing thick black mud. He looked dirtier than a pig that had been rolling in the muck.

He peered around the corner warily. His cake was lying where he had dropped it, but the alley was deserted and his footprints had been washed away by the driving rain. The only evidence of the disturbance was a black arrow and a strange yellow fluid that formed a garish trail through the puddles and the mud.

Tungdil's earlobe was throbbing. Why didn't the дlf kill me? Did someone stop him? His body felt as if he'd collided with a wall. He tried to recall what had happened. If I didn't know better, I'd think Djerun had…

He gave up on the idea and bade a mournful farewell to the cake, then hurried through the streets, keeping an eye out for any дlfar who might be on his tail. On reaching the tavern, he raced upstairs and burst into their chamber to find Boлndal on the point of going out.

"Hello, scholar. Is everything all right?"

"Not exactly," said Tungdil, telling him quickly of the дlf's ambush and his miraculous escape.

"The sooner we leave Sovereignston the better." Boлndal frowned in concern. "What possessed you to go wandering through the city on your own? An ax and a bit of learning aren't enough to protect you in a place like this." He thought for a moment. "If you ask me, it's not just the sigurdaisy wood they're after. Nфd'onn wants us dead because we know his secret." He woke Bavragor and Goпmgar to tell them what had happened, then went to join his brother in the stables. There would be no more sleep for any of them that night.

What if it was Djerun after all? Tungdil dismissed the idea. The armored giant and the maga were miles away in the Outer Lands.

At first light, the three players were waiting at the gates as agreed. Narmora was wearing a leather cape and the red head scarf that she never seemed to be without; and Furgas had put on a long coat to keep himself as dry as possible while the downpour showed no sign of letting up. The impresario seemed to have dressed in a hurry and was scanning the crowds nervously. The dwarves rolled up with their ponies and provisions.

"What's wrong?" Boпndil asked Rodario. "Are the дlfar about?"

"It's not дlfar he's worried about," replied Furgas. His tone implied that he had witnessed the scene before. "After last night's performance, he put on a private showing for the innkeeper's daughter and his wife."

"Shush! Do you want me hounded out of town?" hissed Rodario, glancing back and forth on the lookout for angry faces. "They told me they were separated!"

"There's always an excuse," Narmora said cynically. "It's a pity their cuckolded husbands won't believe you."

Boпndil whinnied with laughter. "The innkeeper's wife and his daughter?"