With the laying to rest of the unquiet spirts of the Harlath (and more importantly, if not widely known, the dispatching of the proto-demon ultimately behind it all), work was able to begin on the refurbishment of the grand old theater. Given it’s long, fearful, and well-deserved reputation, Toran had suspected that it might be hard to convince the various tradesmen involved to undertake the task; but Marliza Farim was not only a shrewd merchant, but a very canny public relations maven.

She quickly found a living playwright who was willing to give poor, undead Angus Rapling’s magnum opus a final polish, while she publicly played up the drama and the tragedy of it all in the weekly broadsheets. The same broadsheets that were also spreading the reputation of the Hand across the City – a process which fascinated almost all of the group. Paper was still a fairly new thing in Ukalus and the surrounding states of northern Ysgareth, its introduction from the West little more than a decade past; the very idea of collecting news and stories and printing them for sale was completely unheard of back home.

“I understand they’ve only been doing it here in Avantir for about 15 years,” Draik said one morning as he and Mariala were perusing the latest edition of the Imperial Cryer together over breakfast pastries and steaming cups of chocolate. “Paper itself has been around for at least a century here, but it only really took off after Lord Kavyn introduced this mechanical printing contraption, a bit over 20 years ago.”

“Hmmm, but paper is rather cheap-feeling, don’t you think,” Mariala said fingering the sheet she held and wrinkling her nose. “Parchment is both thicker and… well, just more pleasant feeling.”

“And about ten times as expensive,” Draik laughed. “But what did you think of those documents you and the others received from the University, confirming your rank and privileges as new Vendari? Those were hand-written, not printed, sure – but they were written on paper, a very high-quality type of paper.

“I understand there’s many grades of paper, and of course the broadsheets use the cheapest, to keep costs down. That’s why they can sell ‘em for two copper bits each week, not two silver coins. The printers putting out books use a better grade, of course, and the rich and noble use the most expensive grades for their correspondence.”

“Well, our guild documents were very nice,” Mariala allowed. “I didn’t really pay attention to the medium, at the time, but I do remember thinking the “parchment” quite fine, very thick and substantial. If paper like that is cheaper than parchment, perhaps I should think about experimenting with it for my Remote Writing enchantment…”

“Oh, it’s more expensive than what the broadsheets use, but still a lot cheaper than the good parchment you use.” Draik leaned in and dropped his voice conspiratorially, even though they were alone in the sun room. “In fact, I’m thinking about having that marvelous hand-made copy of Merasid’s Illuminated Botanica that Vulk gifted me last year reproduced in print, so I can sell them in the shop back home. It’s an extraordinarily thorough encyclopedia of plant life around the globe, and so rare that I’m sure I could make a fortune if I could produce affordable copies.”

“I’ve seen the book,” Mariala laughed. “Printing the words I can see, but wouldn’t all those hand-painted illustrations still keep it prohibitively expense?

“If I tried to recreated them exactly, sure. But that Bizwyk fellow you guys picked up has been buried in my copy practically since I showed it to him. I’ve mentioned my idea to him, and while the money side doesn’t particularly interest him, the idea of being able to spread such knowledge more widely really does.

“He’s actually a very gifted artist himself – have you seen those sketches of his from that volcanic island you visited? He’s volunteered to do recreations of the botanical illustrations ‘in a more scientific way,’ one which can be etched onto printer’s plates. Which I like for a number of reasons…”

“Not least of which, I imagine, is that it would keep your hand-made original’s value high,” Mariala noted with a slight smile.

Draik shrugged, but didn’t deny it. After breakfast, the two of them made a trip down to a paper manufactury in the Fourth Circle for some shopping…

• • • • • •

Despite their increased notoriety in the City, the immensity of a million people still meant they had little trouble keeping their anonymity in public. They did, however, notice an increase in invitations to both noble and wealthy soirees, dinners, fetes, and garden parties. They accepted a judicious number of these invitations, in various combinations of attendees.

One such event which the entire Hand attended together, however, was a formal reception given on 5 Turniki by the newly arrived ambassador from the distant land of Ty Kyen, the fabled Great Kingdom of far Eastern Ishkala. Despite their recent bump into minor fame, Vulk was a little surprised at the invitation – most of the guests where ambassadors or other dignitaries from the many embassies in the City, and Imperial officials or nobles. Despite being the official representative of the new Kingdom of Ukalus, Vulk suspected the Ty Kyen diplomat was unlikely to have even heard of it.

“Eh, maybe it was Lord Kavyn’s doing,” Devrik suggested as they were preparing to leave for the event. “I understand he’ll be making an appearance tonight, in the Emperor’s name. Or maybe the man is one of our recent fans, and just wants to meet the heroes of the hour.”

“If that, more likely someone on his staff is the fan,” Toran laughed. “I understand the new delegation arrived less than a tenday ago, after all. And you have to admit, it’s a great way to get a fancy party on your birthday without your friends having to spend a copper! My 26th certainly wasn’t this fancy…”

In the event, the reception proved a fascinating evening for everyone. The cosmopolitain, international ambience, with guests of almost every color, race and species, from dozens of cultures and every corner of the world, was both exciting and intellectually stimulating, Mariala thought. Their host, Ambassador Mai Shin, was particularly fascinating, and rather handsome, in a very exotic way.

Tall, slender and dark, with the golden-amber skin of eastern Ishkala, it was hard to tell his precise build, beneath the colorful and elaborately embroidered silken ceremonial robes of his office, though he was obviously not fat. She did note that his eyes had less of the epicanthal fold than others of his race in the entourage which trailed behind him as he stepped up to greet his new guests.

“Good evening, my most honored guests,” the man said in a strong tenor voice, his Yashpari only lightly accented by the musical cadences of his native tongue. “I am Mai Shin, and have the great honor to be the representative of the Golden Emperor of Ty Kyen to the Coral Throne of Emperor Gil-Garon of Oceania. You do my Emperor honor to grace us with your presence this evening, and in His name I welcome each of you.

“Lady Mariala Teryne, Margarve of Greentower in the kingdom of Ukalus, be welcome here,” he said, taking her right hand in his own, then covering both with his left hand and bowing his head. His grip was surprisingly strong, and rather cool, and she felt a frisson of excitement at his brief touch. She flushed as he released her hand and moved on.

“Ser Vulk Elida, Queen’s Herald of the Kingdom of Ukalus and Cantor of Kasira, be welcome here,” and repeated the gesture with her friend. With a start she realized he was as tall as Vulk. She also noted that she wan’t the only one to blush at the man’s touch.

“S’hem Toran Quickhand of the Stone Peoples, Shadow Guard to the Prince of Dürkon, be welcome here,” he said, moving on to the Khundari. Who didn’t seem particularly moved my the ambassador’s magnetism, Mariala saw, although he did bow his head in polite return.

And so it went down the line, as the elegant and urbane eastern envoy welcomed each member of the Hand in turn, by name and titles, finishing with Erol. Mariala thought he hesitated for just a second, as if something about the former gladiator surprised him… but if so, the hesitation was so brief it might have been her imagination.

“Ser Erol Doritar, son of the Republic of Kildora,“ he started, then paused… “But are you not one of the Star Children? We are not aware in the East that the Telnori were a significant presence Republican lands… but forgive my impertinent question, and be welcome here,” he concluded, firmly clasping hands and giving his short head-bow.

“It’s a long story, Ambassador,” Erol offered, returning the gesture. “Perhaps I can entertain you with it on another, less busy, occasion.”

“Indeed, I think I would enjoy that, my friend,” Mai Shin said graciously, and then excused himself to the group as he moved on to greet the Mymytron of the Ocean Empire, who had just arrived with his own entourage.

“What an interesting man,” Mariala muttered to herself. Overhearing, Draik grinned and elbowed her in the side.

“So, does Dr. Ar’Harnol have something to be worried about, m’lady?” he smirked, ducking quickly away as she whirled to glare at him. Damn, she thought they’d been so discreet, so careful… how many other people knew of the burgeoning… whatever exactly it was she had with Lurin?

She considered pursuing her annoying friend to pry out precisely what he knew, or thought he knew, but he vanished with alacrity into the throng. She gave a shrug and decided finding a drink would be more enjoyable anyway. She was on her second glass of a very nice Murian white when her thoughts were interrupted by the deep voice of the Myrmytron at her elbow.

“Lady Mariala, how goes it with you this evening? You seem a bit distracted. Are you not enjoying this rather eclectic gathering our latest ambassador has assembled to entertain and amuse us?” he asked, sipping his own flagon of something dark and spicy smelling.

“Mmmm? Oh, no, it’s quite fascinating, really, though I haven’t circulated much yet. I was just thinking about trying to find our host again, actually. He seemed quite a… dynamic man, in our brief meeting.”

“He does seem to possess a very mesmerizing personality,” Lord Kavyn agreed, smiling slightly. “Very different from his predecessor, poor Li Ren Kar. It will be interesting to see how he does in his new position. Oceania and Ty Kyen having little enough in the way of mutual interests, or conflicts, a posting here isn’t very prestigious. He seems, as you said, rather too dynamic to have wanted it… I wonder if it’s some kind of punishment? I’ll have to ask one of my… colleagues if she knows much about the man.”

By his very slight emphasis on the world “colleague” Mariala knew he meant one of his associates on the Star Council. Probably that exotically beautiful older Ishkali woman she’d seen when the Hand had rescued the kidnapped council from the clutches of the Vortex, on that hidden island no one was supposed to talk about.

“You said ‘poor Li Ren Kar,’ Lord Kavyn,” she said, deciding it was best not ask anything about the Council in this venue. “Did something happen to the man?”

“You could say so,” the Myrmytron replied, rather dryly. “A construction accident at the embassy awhile back – a rope broke and a very heavy stone block crushed the poor man as he was stepping out for his morning stroll about the gardens. Actually, it happened about a tenday after you arrived in the City, I’m surprised you didn’t hear of it.”

“Well, we were still pretty overwhelmed by this place,” Mariala admitted. “I don’t think we’d even learned about the broadsheets at that point, and Shala knows we hadn’t made many contacts outside of Korwin. And you, of course.”

“Of course,” Lord Kavyn replied, smiling broadly. “And speaking of contacts, let me introduce you to the Tur Kovani envoy – I suspect you’ll find her an interesting study, but keep your wits about you. Like most of her folk, she’s a devious, slippery one!”

The conversation with the envoy had indeed been a stimulating and energizing one, and had been followed my several others almost as interesting. It was after midnight when Mariala regrouped with the others, who had apparently all had equally fascinating conversations with the wildest assortment of people any of them had ever experienced. She was glad to realize that she wasn’t the only one who was feeling a little provincial just then.

For the next tenday the Hand were busy pursuing their various interests, from learning new spells in new convocations, to figuring out the printing business, to forging new tools and weapons. These occupations were often solitary ones, or with only one or two other companions, but they did try to maintain regular meals as a group. The only other time they tended to be all together was for the regular sparring sessions, led by Erol and Toran, to keep their battle edge well-honed.

It was on one such day, the 15th of Turniki, that the first of the tragedies struck. The Hand, with Captain Renault along, arrived at the nearby gladiator school where they were wont to have their workouts, to find the place in a turmoil. One of their newer recruits had died that very morning, in a gruesome and mysterious fashion.

At his news Vulk had a sudden, chilling premonition. Grabbing the porter, who had been telling them of the tragedy, by the shoulders, he’d demanded to know who had died. On hearing the name, he released the man and turned away, unable to look at his shocked friends as tears welled up.

The dead man was Therok, the barbarian fighter who had developed an abiding respect (a crush, really, when you got down to it) for Vulk in the arid waste of the Blasted March last year, and had thrown over his life to follow the cantor, and Kasira. But even crushes wear off, and while the two men were still fond of each other, they both realized things had run their course. When, at the beginning of the month, Therok had requested permission to leave his service and train as a gladiator, Vulk had released him with good will, if a bit of sadness.

Now, fifteen days later, he was dead. “When did this happen, exactly,” he demanded of the school’s porter. “And where is his body?”

“Why, it was during this morning’s training rounds, Ser,” the old man replied, clearly a bit shaken at the cantor’s violent reaction to his news. “He was sparring, got a bit of a nick on a bicep, they say, nothing to remark about, really. But a minute later he was on the ground in a fit, and foaming from the mouth! They called for the physician, who wasn’t far away, of course, not during a sparring session, but the poor fellow was dead before he got there.”

Vulk was in no mood for opposition, and with his friends following behind, he bulled his way through the various layers of the school’s functionaries to get to the infirmary, where Therok’s body still lay. It had been hours since his death, of course, and there was no hope of saving him… if he’d been put in Stasis, maybe… but there’d been no one present able to cast such a spell or perform such a ritual, and there was nothing to be done.

But Vulk used his own psionic healing senses, amplified by the Staff of Summer, to peer into his friend’s cold form, to find out what had killed him. Poison, obviously, but of what sort? He saw the fading pathways of the body, and the killer was obvious – a dark malignancy that clearly didn’t belong, and continued to seep into tissues even after it had done its demon’s work. But what it was, he couldn’t say, he’d never seen anything like it.

The Hand used every influence they had, real or invented on the spot, to learn what was being done. The authorities were even then questioning the sparring partner, who had inflicted the oh-so-minor wound, and Vulk once again forced himself into the interrogation, with an assist from Devrik. But the man, clearly upset and afraid, proved innocent of any knowledge of the poison on his blade – both Vulk and Mariala’s ability to know truth from lies confirmed it.

Draik, very carefully, took a sample of the substance from the blade, and promised to do all he could to determine what it was and where it might have come from. Eventually there was nothing else to be done, and the Hand returned home to Bekatia House, leaving Vulk to to make arrangements for Therok’s cremation and funeral.

Still bleakly considering why someone would want to kill the Firilani tribesman, and in such a way — could it be some old tribal feud that had followed him here, into the heart of the Empire? It seemed unlikely, but given that Draik had concluded it was some sort of powerful alkaloid, plant-based poison (something very much in the northern barbarian’s tradition), it couldn’t be ruled out.

Everyone went to bed in various degrees of upset and concern, but their restless sleep was broken an hour before dawn, by frantic pounding on the front door. A runner from the Wind of Kasira’s crew had arrived breathless from the Tide Pool to inform them that the ship was burning. Most of the Hand, hastily dressed, had rushed out to follow the lad back to the docks, only Devrik staying behind.

“I don’t like it,” he growled to Vulk, as the cantor belted on his sword. “First Therok, and now the ship? It might be coincidence, but then again it might not. If someone is targeting us, what better time to strike here, once we’ve all run off to the docks? No, I’m staying to protect Raven and Aldari.”

Vulk tried to convince his friend to come— his control, such as it was, over fire might be the key to saving their ship. But even with Erol promising to take his place as guardian, he was adamant. With no time to argue, the others left, although Jeb was up and armed to stand watch as well by then.

The origin of the fire was as mysterious as Therok’s poisoning, in its own way, but not as complete. Maybe it was the alien-treated materials, or perhaps the Immortal Lady of Luck was looking out for her own, but either way, while the fire did extensive damage to rigging, spars and sails, Captain K’Jurol and the crew contained the flames before the superstructure suffered anything more than cosmetic damage. It would take some time, a deal of money, and a lot of sweat, but the Wind of Kasira would sail again, as good as new, he assured the breathless Hand when they arrived.

Unfortunately, two crewmen had died in fighting the fire, and several others, including the Captain, had suffered various degrees of burns. Vulk and Lurin Ar’Hanol quickly set about treating the injured. By the time the sun rose over the Encircling Hills an exhausted Vulk was drawing the last of the heat from Captain K’Jurol’s burned hand as Dr. Ar’Hamol rubbed raw Baylorium into the still pink flesh.

The Höl Kopia holiday, the celebration of the autumnal equinox and the beginning of harvest time, went largely unobserved by the Hand and their associates. Everyone remained at Bekatia House, and the Hand obsessively went over the events of last two days, looking for a connection. Once again everyone retired for the evening exhausted and uncertain.

The next day Raven insisted that there would be no more moping about – they’d wasted Höl Kopia, but this was the day of the Hunter’s Feast, an important day in her own people’s calendar, and she planned to have a proper feast. With Devrik and Erol as body guards, Raven and the cook scoured the local markets for a variety of foods that morning, and by late afternoon a fabulous feast was indeed presented to the household.

Only Mariala was not present, as Lurin Ar’Hanol had come by around noon, to pull her away for a private surprise celebration. Raven had waved off their apologies with a smile, and told them both to relax and enjoy themselves.

“Oh, I suspect we will,” the doctor had said with a mischievous grin. Which had made Mariala wondered what was up… until they arrived at the very upscale Sea Foam Inn, in the Third Circle, where a nervous-looking Captain K’Jurol was waiting for them. At Mariala’s uncertain look, Lurin laughed, pulling her toward their table, as the Captain hastily rose.

“You don’t know what it took to drag Belith away from his ship, Mariala, after yesterday’s disaster. But I’ve wanted the three of us to get together for awhile now, and I planned this a tenday ago; I wasn’t taking no for an answer! So here we all are, now let’s forget our troubles and have some fun!”

Which, after an little initial awkwardness, they did. Right up until the dessert course, when Lurin, in the middle of both her chocolate tort and a description of the luxurious room she’d taken upstairs, suddenly began to choke. Her eyes widening in panic, the physician staggered up, clawing at her throat, mouth gaping as she struggled to draw air through a constricted throat. Both Mariala and Belith rushed to help her, but nothing they did seem to effect the spasming woman. Lurin was turning blue, and her struggles grew steadily weaker, until she fell to the floor, no longer breathing.

“I can’t find a pulse,” Belith cried, looking across at Mariala from where he knelt, fingers to Lurin’s blue-tinged neck. “Dear gods, she’s dead! How could this—“

“No!” Mariala shook her head vehemently from the other side fo Lurin’s body, clenching a fist and glaring at the rainbow gemstone ring there. She poured all of her will into that Focus, and thanked Kasira that the first new Neutral spell she had chosen to learn as a Vendari had been Stasis. They would not have a repeat of the tragedy of Therok, not if she could help it.

“Let go of her, Belith,” she said, almost unconsciously using the Voice. He scrambled away instantly, a very surprised look on his face. And then she had cast the spell… yes, the Form was perfect… she felt the Principle flow into it… the spell took shape…

A flickering blue glow surrounded the fallen physician, quickly stabilizing into a sheen of solid, translucent blue energy… which only made her blue-tinted face look even more death-like, Mariala thought. But inside that glowing cocoon she knew time was no longer passing, which meant there was still a chance to revive her friend.

“Belith, I’ve stopped whatever is going on, whatever poison this is, but we need Vulk and the Staff of Summer NOW! Go as fast as you can, bring both back with you!”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense for us to carry her back, cut the travel time in half—“

“No! This stasis field is practically frictionless, making it almost impossible to carry without it slipping from our grip like an oiled icicle. It took us forever to rig up a way to carry that idiot Torbel… just go, bring Vulk!”

She didn’t have to use the Voice, he got up and was out the door at a run, shoving ruthlessly through the crowd of gawkers who had gathered around them. Mariala prayed to Shala and Kasira that her first field casting of the spell would hold until help could arrive…

• • • • • •

Unfortunately, at that moment, Vulk was gasping himself, trying to breath through an airway suddenly constricted to almost nothing. Around him, he was dimly aware that others at the table were also gasping and struggling, but he had no attention to spare… he had to turn his psionic awareness inward, to sense whatever was doing this to him… he’d done it once before, he understood… but this was so sudden, it was so hard to think, to focus… suddenly he felt something being shoved onto his right hand… the Staff of Summer!

Time seemed to slow, and his panic began to fade. He could feel the power of the Staff flowing through him, expanding his internal sense of his own body… yes, there was the foreign invader, the poison closing his throat… and doing more than that… in minutes it would also paralyze his heart, he realized. Or it would have. Now he could see it, though, and he knew how to change it, to twist its own structure around to make it inert, harmless… he did so.

Only a few seconds had past since Toran had shoved the Staff into Vulk’s spasming hand, and already he could tell it had been the right move. The cantor was standing up, the blue tint fading from his skin like a morning mist in the sun. But around the table, others were still gasping… and dying.

Devrik was frantically trying to help both his wife and his son at the same time, as they choked and writhed and turned blue; Draik was supporting the gasping Ser Bizwyk on the opposite side to the table, helpless to do more; and in the doorway to the kitchen the young house boy, Bari, had collapsed, spilling a tray of plates he’d been clearing.

“Vulk, do something!” The Khundari cried, furious at his own helplessness…