“The Khundari are a wonderful folk, to be sure,” Vulk sighed, as he sipped from his goblet of chewy Andaran red. “I can’t help but feel, however, that their fondness for endless bureaucratic procedures can be taken a bit too far.”

He and several of the other members of the Hand were enjoying a leisurely late luncheon on the Great Terrace overlooking the Outer City of Zhan-Tor on this unseasonably warm afternoon. It had been three days since the events at the Hardeshan Museum and the Hand’s discovery of the infestation of mimics that had been terrorizing the area for months. They had been preparing to return to Avantir that day, in fact had been on their way to the docks, when they’d been diverted by the crisis — and while they understood the need for an official debriefing (and Mariala at least had been more than happy at the chance to study the lair and documents of the strange mimic-human hybrid, Darvish Kölln ), the on-going investigation by the Khundari authorities seemed to be dragging out interminably.

“It’s in our nature, I’m told,” Toran replied diffidently, spearing the last of the pickled mushrooms with his knife. “Not my nature, of course – as a Shadow Knight I’m all about speed, stealth and minimal paperwork.”

“Well, I wish you’d convince your cousin’s here to adopt a similar attitude,” Erol laughed. Grover was draped across his shoulders, nodding off after gorging on the tidbits his master had bee feeding himfor the past hour. “Although Mariala, at least, doesn’t seem as anxious to get back to the City as she was a week ago. Speaking of which, where is her ladyship? I haven’t seen much of her the couple of days.”

“She’s in the Book House,” Devrik rumbled, pouring himself another mug of the excellent ale the Khundari restaurant had provided. “She says she needs quiet to decrypt those journals of that loon Köln, and while she appreciates Lord Grimbold’s hospitality, his household is apparently a bit too chaotic for her nerves just now.”

“And the Book itself is safely tucked into Draik’s satchel today, while he studies with that Apothecary Hradlok,” Vulk added. “Although why he wants to spend such a beautiful autumn day in those caverns with all that mutant fungi is beyond me!”

“Always looking to expand his knowledge,” Devrik laughed. “Especially in regards to improving the Baylorium, which is something I certainly applaud.”

Vulk acknowledged the point, and went on “Anyway, I expect we’ll see both of them at dinner this evening. Surely she must be almost finished with those journals and notes by now…”

• • • • •

In fact, Mariala had finished deciphering Darvish Köln’s papers the first night after they had investigated the man’s… well, really, “lair” was the only word for those dank subterranean living quarters… and if “man” he could fairly be called. The cypher had been almost childishly simple, but what it had revealed was more a horror story than a childhood fable – a human who had merged, both physically and psychologically, with an Elder Mimic, their fusion granting the shapeshifting abilities of the semi-sentient creature to the human host, but at a terrible cost.

In the notes and journal entries Mariala could see that the fusion had happened slowly, as Köln’s “tame” mimic cloak, which he’d apparently worn for years as an adventurer, gradually fused it’s genetic essence with his own. The creature’s own rudimentary mind also psychically fused, equally slowly and unnoticed, with Darvish’s mind. In time this fusion created a hybrid intelligence that was neither wholly mimic nor wholly human, a fact made horrifically clear as the style and content of their writing shifted inexorably toward something “other.”

The motivations of the melded Darvish-creature seemed to Mariala as unique as his physical form. Whereas he had once sought after adventure and riches for personal power, in recent months he seemed to have sought riches only to spread his mimic “children” as widely as possible. Falling in with an ambitious group of would-be thieves shortly after arriving in Talkir several months ago, he had developed the idea of slowly stealing valuable artifacts from the Hardeshan Museum of Nature and History, and replacing them with mimics. Apparently selling off the stolen originals had eventually become secondary, to Darvish, if not to his criminal allies.

The thieves, blinded by delusions of forming a great Thieves Guild dancing in their heads, fell in with his ideas quickly enough, as short-sighted and insane as they seemed to Mariala. But Köln had possessed tremendous charisma, apparently, and the would-be criminals believed they could control their new partner, unaware of how inhuman he truly was… and of just how dangerous. As the bodies began to mount, however, and the unfenced loot began to pile up, they came to realize their mistake. They had begun looking for a way to disassociate themselves from Darvish without become his, and his “children’s” next meal.

By the time he openly murdered one of the thieves and began controlling the rest through fear and intimidation, Kölln seemed to have become so far removed from his own humanity to not realize, or to simply not care, how his mad scheme was drawing attention – he simply seemed to want to place his mimics as quickly as he could. Fortunately his own hubris helped the Hand to bring him down, and they, alongside the Khundari City Watch, had destroyed all of the mimics.

Well, except for the two she’d found in Köln’s workshop cum sleeping chamber, Mariala thought with a smile as she pulled them out of a drawer in her desk. Really, her private study here in the Book House, was the perfect place to keep the tiny creatures while she studied them – utterly secure, with no way they could escape back into the real world on their own. She’d tell the others about them eventually, of course, once she’d tamed them and could prove how useful they were… and once they were back in Avantir, away from the small-minded prejudices of the Khundari about mimics.

Yes, for now it was just easier to avoid the whole ridiculous range of difficulties her friends would throw at her if they knew about the little beasties. There’d be time to sort it all out later. It wasn’t like they were even very big yet, having apparently budded off from the Darvish-Mimic just hours before that last Museum job and his/its death. 

Even so young, their ability to mimic objects was already advancing under her guidance… after two days of intense study and mental effort, she’d managed to get them both to take the shape of gold coins! Even she couldn’t tell them apart from an actual Imperial gold crown without a mental probe. And so far they were retaining the form she’d commanded them take… really, the possibilities were just limitless…

• • • • •

That evening the entire Hand, along with Lord Grimbold’s other Ysgarethi visitors, Lord Aldor Halem of Tolus and his son, Imrah, gathered in their host’s main dining hall for what turned out to be a farewell meal. Once everyone was seated Grimbold rose to offer the Welcoming Cup, draining his own chalice in three great gulps. 

“And with that,” he cried, slamming the goblet down with a bang, “I bring news, of various kinds, for my honored guests. For the Hand of Fortune, I can to tell you that the city authorities have concluded their investigation into the matter at the Hardeshan Museum, or at least that part of it which has delayed you here in our city. As of tomorrow, you are all free to depart and return to Avantir at your pleasure…”

“Not that we haven’t enjoyed both your very fair city, and your own even fairer hospitality, Lord Grimbold,” Vulk said, speaking up quickly for the friends. “But it is perhaps time we returned to our own families and friends, and our various duties in the City.” He knew perfectly well that Devrik, in particular, was champing at the bit to get back to Raven and Aldari.

“Well, I understand, of course,” Grimbold replied, his smile fading as he glanced over at his old friend, Aldor. “However, I’m going to ask if you might be willing to delay that return for just a bit longer. I’m afraid a matter has, once again, arisen for which I must ask your aid. Yours, and that of my old friend Aldor, for this crisis involves an old companion of ours…”

“I see,” the silver-haired paladin replied, looking thoughtful. His voice was deep, rich and resonate, matching his good looks, Vulk thought… not bad at all for a man in his sixties! “With Gil and Kavyn rather publicly accounted for, and my old friend Dwain having met his sad fate years ago in Kunya-Kesh, that only leaves Flaricia or Elgin.”  

“Indeed,” Grimbold said. He turned to again address the Hand. “This morning I received a… communication, let us say… from the Lady Flaricia Silverstar, a dear companion of those youthful adventuring days which Aldor and I shared long ago. She is Aunari, and came to me in an astral projection — a form of communication that I know some of you, at least, understand is draining and chancy, and not something done lightly or for trivial reasons. It seems she is on Asdach, a minor island in the Southern Reach, where people seem to be vanishing quite mysteriously. She seemed to feel in some peril herself, and to believe another of our old friends is somehow involved, a friend whose name I had not heard  in many years – the Purple Druid!”

Aldor, who had looked pleased at the mention of Flaricia, looked somewhat less pleased at having his second guess confirmed. The Hand mostly just looked blank… only Vulk had some dim memory of having heard of a Purple Druid in his recent studies into his Torazin convocation, although he could remember little else beyond the name.

“Does she think Elgin is responsible for these disappearances,” Aldor asked, frowning. “Or is he one of those vanished?”

“It was… unclear,” Grimbold sighed, turning back to his old friend. “You know how astral communications can be, often more feeling than clear statements. But I fear she fears the former. You remember how changed Elgin seemed, Aldor, after returning from his near-death? I mean beyond his altered cosmetic appearance? Well, in the years after you left us to return to Tolus, he grew increasingly… strange. His devotion to Drina and Her goals of environmental protection increased to what seemed to the rest of us as excessive levels.

“With Gil returned to his rightful place on the Coral Throne, and Kavyn at his side as Myrmytron, Elgin became increasingly frustrated when they wouldn’t… couldn’t, really… enact all of the draconian laws he demanded. Things like forbidding clearing of land for farming, restoration of existing cleared land to woodland, forced birth control to limit Umantari growth… he couldn’t seem to understand why Gil couldn’t just wave his Imperial hand and make it happen.

“Two years after the Restoration the Purple Druid vanished. Kavyn tried to find him, as his duties allowed, but over the next decade the best he could find were rumors of a purple-skinned, violet-haired man moving amongst the Talim Nar in northern Ysgareth, preaching a radical interpretation of Drina’s doctrine. Then, even the rumors stopped. Flaricia’s plea for help this morning is the first I think any of us have heard of our one-time companion in decades.”

“Whatever the situation on this island, should we not contact the Emperor and Lord Kavyn?” Aldor asked, ever practical. “Surely they have the resources to—“

“Yes, certainly – and these days those resources include the Hand of Fortune,” Grimbold interrupted. “I suspect, given the potential delicacy and personal nature of this situation, the Emperor would likely ask our friends here to investigate on his behalf… this just saves time. But more importantly, I got the sense that Flaricia wished to avoid involving them, if possible – after all, it would have been much easier for her to contact her “half-brother,” rather than me, if she’d wanted Kavyn’s, and by extension the Imperium’s, help.”

“I… see. Well, certainly I am at your disposal then, my friend, if you think I can be a help in the matter,” Aldor said, conceding the point graciously. “And I will admit, it will be pleasant to see Flaricia again… so, will we Gate to this island, or must we take ship? If the matter is urgent…”

“It is, but I’m afraid there is no Gate on the island itself,” Grimbold admitted. “The nearest one is located on Kezden, a much larger island to the north of our destination. But I’ve spent the morning making arrangements to get us quickly from the Gate at the monastery of Alatonu-Kahar to the port of Daronn, and from there it’s only a short sail to Asdach. If we get an early start tomorrow, we should accomplish the journey in less than a day. 

“And what of you, my young friends?” Grimbold asked, again turning to the Hand. “Will you come with us to save an old friend… or maybe two?” 

8 – 13 Vento 3020

After a fifnight of being feted by the Khundari of Zhan-Tor in gratitude for their ending of the threat of Horgüd Winderwalker and his air cult, the Hand figured it was time to return to Avantir. When Captain K’Jorul informed them, via Mariala’s Remote Writing, that he would be taking the Wind of Kasira on a trial run soon, the solution seemed obvious. With all repairs and refitting complete, he said he could be in the port of Talkir on the 12th of the month, ready to return them to the Imperial capital in style and at their leisure.

Making their goodbyes to Lord Grimbold and his family early in the morning of the 13th, the friends found a large group of Khundari and Umantari citizens waiting to see them off from the docks. Once on the opposite shore of Lake Cirn they found two coaches waiting for them in Torum-Tüm, a thoughtful touch arranged by the city fathers of Zhan-Tor. The luxury vehicles made the journey down to the port of Talkir both comfortable and quick. Arriving in the late afternoon, the Hand were surprised to find Captain K’Jorul and an squad of four well-armed crewmen awaiting them at the posting house just inside the city’s main gate.

“Apologies for the melodrama, m’lords, m’lady,” the captain said, making a casual bow to his employers, “but the situation in town is such that I felt it were better you not travel unescorted to the ship. Not that you aren’t well able to take care of yourselves, of course, but I figured you wouldn’t appreciate being blindsided by any trouble.”

“What situation, and what sort of trouble, Belith?” Mariala asked, a note of eagerness in her voice. While the last few days in Zhan-Tor had been pleasant enough, she had found herself growing bored, and the long day of travel had left her filled with pent-up energy rather than tired. She found the possibility of burning it off with some action strangely appealing.

“Well, it seems that a suspiciously large number of people have been going missing the past two months – a number that has been growing at an accelerating rate recently. Some of the missing have been turning up in the sewers under the city, dead and most horribly mutilated, and in increasing numbers over the last month. In recent days they’ve even been found floating in the harbor.

“It seems that the focus of the disappearances is a local museum – the Hardeshan Museum of Nature and History.”

“Oh, that’s a pretty well-known private museum,” Vulk said. “Kasira knows Bizwik has been going on about it ever since we arrived in Avantir.”

“Yes,” K’Jorul laughed. “He sailed with us specifically so he could visit the place, and was terribly disappointed to find it was recently closed.” His smile faded. “In fact, it is in some danger of being closed down for good, apparently, if the mystery of these disappearances and deaths are not soon solved. Which brings me to the other reason I’m here – Ser Tomas met yesterday with the museum’s director, a Lord Kordon Hardeshan, and apparently convinced the man that the Hand of Fortune was just what he needed to save his beloved family institution.

“Lord Hardeshan has sent a formal request to the Wind, requesting your aid as soon as may be. Of course I committed you to nothing, but as the Museum lies between this gate and the docks, I thought you might wish to at least talk to the man…”

18 Turniki — 4 Vento 3020, Aventir and Zhan-Tor, Oceania

As it turned out, finding a way home from the ruined temple to which Thuron Yan’s vengeful machinations had brought them was relatively simple for the Hand of Fortune. The old sorcerer’s  Nitrarin Gate linking spell remained intact and functional, and after an hour of careful study Vulk and Devrik were confident that, together, they could safely trigger it to return them home again.

While the two friends studied the intricacies of the linked-portal spell, the other’s carefully packed up the many books, scrolls and tablets recovered from Thuron Yan’s well-hidden stash, loading them up onto Vulk’s earth elemental to carry. Any surviving B’okiri had either fled the ruined temple or remained in hiding in its remoter recesses – as long as they offered no further opposition to the Hand, the companions were content to let them be.

“They seem very dependent on a strong leader,” Mariala mused, as they packed the books and scrolls back into the chests the snake lord had obviously used to transport them thither. “I wonder how they’ll fare on their own, now that both their old dragon mistress and their new snake master are dead?”

“Thinking of offering yourself up as their new boss?” Toran asked absently, perusing a bound set of thin engraved bronze plates that seemed to contain several interesting Yalva spells.

“Certainly not!” she huffed indignantly. “Do I seem like the sort of person who’d want minions?” At his non-committal shrug she continued, “Anyway, I hate this humid climate… it makes my hair all frizzy. Besides, even if I could get them home, somehow, where could I keep them?“

Toran suddenly became very engrossed in the study of his bronze plates, wisely letting the matter drop. Mariala also shook off the ridiculous idea, and returned to loading the chests as efficiently as possible. Erol and Draik exchanged amused looks, but didn’t offer any opinions out loud.

By the time Vulk and Devrik were ready to open the portal chain home, four large chests were filled and strapped down across the broad back of the pliant earth elemental. The creature seemed almost child-like now that it wasn’t in combat, and while it didn’t speak, it often tried to smile (at least that’s what Erol thought it was trying to do with its “face”) when one of the humans caught its obsidian chip eyes. Toran wondered if it was a very young chaos-entity, or a very old one… he rather suspected the latter.

The trip back through the linked portals was as dizzying and nausea-inducing as the first one had been, but at least this time Vulk managed to keep the contents of his stomach where they belonged on arrival. It was dark, obviously well passed sunset, and everyone took a few minutes to recover. After a moment Toran cast another Sphere of Sholakas to illuminate the front room of the abandoned house in Avantir’s Fourth Circle to which they had been returned. Once everyone was sure they weren’t going to puke, the group began to debate their next course of action.

“I’m not looking forward to explaining to the Emperor, or his Myrmytron, that we’ve offed one of their Imperial ambassadors,” Vulk sighed, swallowing an ominous belch. “And not a minor one, either.”

“Oh, I think we’ve earned enough goodwill to at least be listened to,” Mariala said. “Although the lack of a body does complicate things, I suppose. Still, I’m sure Lord Kavyn will be able to judge the veracity of our story. My more immediate concern is how we’re going to get all these chests back to Bekatia House… they’re too damn heavy and awkward for us to carry that far ourselves, but I’m not sure parading a golem-like giant through the city is a good idea…”

“I suppose we could hire porters,” Erol offered diffidently. “But given what we’ve seen in the months we’ve been in the City, I really don’t think most Avantirians would give the big guy a second look.” He reached up to pat the elemental on its rocky, moss-covered shoulder. It rumbled, and nodded its massive head.

In the event, Erol was proved right – the most attention the Hand and their elemental pack mule garnered on the way home that autumn night was from neighborhood members of the City Watch. Most of those seemed content to just keep a wary eye on the group until they’d passed out of their jurisdictions, however, and the Hand arrived at Bekatia House just before midnight. 

At that point Vulk thanked the golem and used the Staff of Summer to release it back to its elemental plane… but unlike others of its kind, once the elemental spirit had departed, its physical form remained. The Hand now had an almost three meter tall statue of stone, dirt and plants on the street outside their front door. They were all too tired to deal with it just then, however, and with a shrug they hauled the chests into the house and then stumbled to their beds.

The next day an urgent message to the Myrmytron gained the entire Hand a private audience with Emperor Gil-Garon and his First Minister, although not until mid-afternoon. Somewhat to their surprise, his Imperial Majesty didn’t seem particularly phased by the outré tale they told. He merely glanced to Lord Kavyn who, with the silent communication of people who have been together for many years, confirmed the veracity of the story.

“But why would this Thuron Yan go to such lengths to attack you?” the Emperor asked. “This seems such a labyrinthine plot…”

“Well, as I alluded to earlier,” Vulk sighed, “we’d met him previously, about a year ago. And, um… well, we ended up killing him, his servants, and burning down his home.” Which, of course, led to the story of their first meeting with the snake-man, Thuron Yan’s own tale of his youthful indiscretion and subsequent cursing by the shape-shifting red dragon woman, and his centuries-long search for a cure… or for a new body. This in turn led to the tale of Erol’s own death and resurrection in his current form, and how it came at the expense of Thuron Yan’s ambitions to that same end.

The sun was setting in the west by the time they brought the saga to an end, and the fascinated Emperor had servants bring in a light supper for them all. Over the meal he and Lord Kavyn began a discussion of the possible repercussions of the death of an ambassador in the Imperial capital, and the possible reaction from the Ty Kyen Imperial Court.

“It’s not likely to start war, of course… our spheres of interest out too divergent,” the Emperor said finally. “But trade with the East has been increasing each year over the past two decades, and I would hate to see that progress stalled or worse, reversed. We need to learn more, especially if, as you suspect, this Thuron Yan replaced the real ambassador. Proving that, and where the switch occurred could be vital in managing my brother emperor’s reactions.”

“And I know just who to put on the investigation,” Lord Kavyn said, smiling. The Emperor shot him a glance and then began smiling too.

“Yes, an excellent idea, withal,” he said. “I can’t wait to hear his complaints about the impossibility of the task!”

• • • • • •

Five days later, the Hand were summoned to the Imperial Palace and another meeting, this time with just the Lord Myrmytron and one other of the Emperor’s principal advisors. Toran was the first to recognize the stocky, grizzle-haired Khundari, and his face broke into a rare smile.

“Ambassador Grimbold, it’s very good to see you again, sir,” he said, tugging on his beard and bowing low. The others also exchanged pleasant if surprised greetings with the Imperial diplomat whom they had saved from assassination at the hands of an agent of the Vortex in Dürkon almost two years ago.

“Yes, well, good to see you all too, I suppose,” the older Khundari grumbled. “Even though it’s you lot I apparently have to thank for the last half-a-tenday of tedious work I’ve had to endure.”

“Oh, you loved it and you know it, you old goat,” Lord Kavyn laughed. “It’s been too long since you had a chance to really exercise your old spy network… and I notice you got your results in half the time we’d estimated it would take.”

“I’m not that rusty, you poncey magic-boy,” Grimbold growled. But his smile and the gleam in his dark eyes belied his words and tone. He turned back to Toran. “And it’s just Lord Grimbold at the moment, being at home and not currently on one of Gil’s diplomatic junkets.”

After a few minutes of catching up, Lord Kavyn called on Grimbold to present his findings. “The Emperor has already seen the report, of course, but we thought the Hand of Fortune deserved to know what was learned, since it was your reputations on the line if this turned politically hot.”

It took Grimbold half the turning of the glass to lay out how he and his agents tracked down the information, but the gist of it was that it was a certainty now that Thuron Yan had replaced the real Mai Shin in Ty Kyen itself, before the diplomatic mission even set out. This had the benefit of removing any onus from the Ocean Empire, and even gave them a slight edge with the Ty Kyen Imperial Court – after all, they allowed their own embassy to be infiltrated and an imposter to be presented to the Oceanian Emperor as their representative.

“We thought it very likely that the true ambassador, and several of his key personal staff, were dead and their bodies unlikely to ever be found,” Lord Grimbold concluded. “But this morning one of my agents in the Hidden City informed that the Mai Shin and his entourage have been found alive, but in Stasis. They have been revived and confirmed the few elements of the story they knew. It seems your reptilian nemesis had yet retain some part of his humanity, at least up to that point.”

“But how in the Great Void did he know where to find us?” Devrik growled. “Our route here was one we certainly hadn’t planned ourselves!”

“I can’t say with absolute certainty,” Grimbold shrugged. “But given the his age and the tremendous extent of his arcane skills, I would think he used some form of scrying on you. Once he had located you, and knew you were planning to be here awhile, he set his plan in motion – the first step of which was arranging the death of the old ambassador.”

“So his humanity wasn’t all that strong after all,” Mariala said dryly. The Khundaru shrugged.

“A necessary death, to open the vacancy he needed. But when he had a choice, he chose not to kill. Still, I don’t insist on the interpretation, and I’m certainly not defending the… man.”

“In any case, the upshot is, no formal protest over the death will be made by the Lotus Throne,” Kavyn concluded. “Indeed, the event is well on its way to being disappeared from the official records, as far as we can tell.”

The meeting went on for a little longer, as the Hand had several questions for Grimbold, who had more than a few of his own for them. As things were finally wrapping up, however, the Khundari diplomat (and apparently spy master) rapped on the table for everyone’s attention.

“I still consider myself in your debt for the events in Dürkon, and I would consider it an honor if you all would join me next month at my home in the golden city of Zhan-Tor to help me celebrate my 100th birthday.”

•••••

A tenday later, the Hand travelled by Imperial Gate to the Khundari castle town of Torum-Tüm, in the Imperial Princedom of Lakzhan on the island of Greater Oceania. Their ultimate destination, the Princedom’s capital city, golden-roofed Zhan-Tor on the rugged shores of Lake Cirin beneath the snow-clad peaks of Mt. Rastyn, had no Nitrian Gates closer than Torum-Tüm. They were therefore met by Grimbold’s youngest son, Garafal, and took ship to make the 16 kilometer trip up the lake.

It was a cloudy, windy day, with fitful spurts of cold rain, and the lake’s waters were gray and choppy, dotted with whitecaps. As they approached the Khundari city Toran couldn’t help but be impressed. Zhan-Tor lay on the shore of the lake, where the knees of the towering Mt. Rastyn dropped in a series of sheer cliffs and rugged shelves down to the water. Like all Khundari settlements, the bulk of the city lay underground, of course – but unlike most others, Zhan-Tor possessed an extensive Outer City.

Beautiful buildings of carved white stone, roofed in golden tiles, ran down to the water from the base of the lowest cliff, forming the Low Town, while smaller clusters of buildings grouped on two separate terraces higher up the cliff face made the Upper Town, north and south. To the south Toran could see a massive structure rising up the lower cliff face – the famed Great Lift they had heard about even in the Ukali Basin. Elegant gates of stone and steel and bronze were set in the upper cliff faces, granting access to the Inner City

Even in the gray autumn light the Outer City, both Lower and Upper, were beautiful. But as they neared the Long Wharf and the clustered warehouses of the Alienage, a brief break in the clouds allowed the sun to burst through — and the golden roofs of the city burned like molten gold then, while the white stone of the walls gleamed with the sheen of pearls. The many waterfalls cascading down the cliffs and feeding the cities canals shone like white fire. It was breathtaking.

Garafal let his father’s guests gape for a moment, pleased at the reaction his home had evoked in the foreigners. When he judged the moment right he spoke quietly, but proudly. “The Outer City is indeed a wonder, honored guests. But it is as nothing compared to the marvels of the Inner City… as my father looks forward to showing you.”

“I didn’t realize your people built so extensively on the surface, at least not for themselves,” Mariala said, her gaze still fixed on the glowing, almost ethereal beauty of the city.

“Oh, very few of the Folk live in the Outer City,” the young Khundari said, apparently amused at the idea. “And those few live mainly in the Upper Town. No, most of the population of Outer City is Umantari… in fact, over a third of the population of the Princedom is Umantari. Most of them live on the coasts, of course, and the flatter lands more suitable to surface farming.”

Grimbold himself was waiting for the Hand on the dock, along with a number of porters, both Khundari and Umantari. The latter took charge of the baggage, which Grimbold promised would be delivered to his own home and their suite of rooms. He and his son then spent the next two hours showing their guests the sights of their beloved city…

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…

“Well, I feel a bit terrible, bringing up business in the middle of this lovely celebration,” Marliza Farim said, with an apologetic glance around the common room of the Bookman’s Inn. “But young Ser Korwin assured me that it would, in fact, be the best time for it. “

“Well, he does know us,” Draik chuckled, pouring more of the excellent Kadaran red into the lady’s still more than half-full glass. “And really, the party is winding down at this point. So please, how can we help you?”

“Yes, Korwin mentioned just a little bit about your dilemma, milady,” Vulk said, slipping into the empty chair on the other side of the gorgeous woman. “Before he passed out in the punch bowl. I’d be fascinated to know more…” He offered her a skewer of garlic shrimp from the platter he carried, before setting it on the table. Draik narrowed his eyes at his friend.

The day had been a very long one for most of the Hand of Fortune, who had been put through the wringer during their grueling examinations to attain the rank of Vendari, or Master, in their respective convocations. But for Draik and Vulk, with no such ambitions, the day had been spent in the quiet reading alcoves of the Great Library, perusing volumes on herb lore and Imperial heraldry.

As expected, but hardly assured, Mariala, Devrik, Toran, and Erol had all passed their respective examinations – some with more ease than others. Lord Kavyn himself had sat in on each of the sessions, having personally arranged for them to follow one another sequentially, rather than overlapping. Mariala, at least, had wondered if his intimidating presence had exerted any influence on the outcomes; but if the difficulty of her own examiners, and all the sweat they’d pulled from her, were any indication, probably not.

In the late afternoon, after congratulating each of them, the second most powerful man in the Empire had then accompanied the weary-but-happy new Vendari across the Causeway to the Bookman’s Inn. There they found that Korwin had rented out the entire common room of the up-scale and very popular establishment to host a party for his former teammates. A great crowd of friends and acquaintances, both old and new, cheered them as they entered, Vulk, Draik and Korwin in the vanguard.

The Imperial Myrmytron didn’t linger long, not wanting his presence to stifle the evenings merriment. Before he left, however, he found a private moment with each of the four new-made Vendari to give them two gifts – one from himself and one from the Emperor. The gifts which Lord Kavyn presented were clearly well thought out, and showed a surprising depth of understanding of each recipient’s needs and desires. The Emperor’s gifts, while perhaps not as uniquely chosen, were nonetheless generous – beautiful jorums containing the essence of the new convocation each of the four intended to pursue next, which would increase their chances of success immeasurably.

Once the intimidating Imperial presence had made his goodbyes and slipped into the night, the party had quickly become more animated and boisterous. But as midnight neared, the festivities began to quiet. Many of the guests departed, and the few that remained gathered in small groups, at that mellow stage of inebriation and full stomaches where confidences are shared and deep philosophies expounded.

As the evening wound down, most of the Hand, along with Dr. Ar’Hanol and Captain K’Jurol, found themselves at one table, talking quietly about future plans and possible itineraries. Vulk had just gone in search of more food when Korwin had arrived with a tall, very striking woman at his side.

“This is Madame Marliza Farim,” he’d said, enunciating slowly and clearly. He was obviously much the worse for drink, and his companion seemed cooly amused by him. “Shesh.. she’s… recently come into some money, and a bit of property, but has a dimelma… a dlim… a problem I think you guys could help with… right up your alley, you know? Now where’d Vulk get off to, he should hear this…”

He pulled out a chair for the woman before toddling off to find the cantor. Marliza Farim was a slender, elegant woman of maybe forty years, with piercing blue eyes and, despite her well-concealed embarrassment at Korwin’s introduction, a no-nonsense demeanor. She was dressed a long, flowing dress in deep jewel tones and her silver-blond hair was tied in a tight, elaborate bun.

“I’m happy to hear that our mutual friend was correct, then,“ she went on after Vulk had returned, politely waving away his proffered shrimp skewer. “I’ve heard some of the tales going around in the city, concerning your exploits, and I think you just may be what is needed to solve my dilemma.”

“I take it this dilemma involves this “bit of property” Korwin mentioned?” Mariala asked, sipping at her own glass of wine. She hadn’t drunken nearly as much as most of the others, and though she was bone-weary, it was easier to sit and listen than try to get up and go to the rooms Korwin had arranged for them all.

“Indeed it does,” Marliza nodded, clasping her hands together and tapping her fingers in a rapid staccato rhythm. “The Harlath Theatre is the very heart of the problem facing me. For you see, I wish to reopen it as a working theater, as my grandfather had always wished, but… the place is haunted!”

Several eyebrows went at this, but Devrik motioned for her to carry on, even as he and Mariala exchanged a glance. Marliza sighed and smiled wryly, not missing the by-play.

“I know it sounds rather silly, and I rather thought so myself, at first… but recent events have added to the weight of history, and I’ve become convinced that something terrible lurks within that old building. But perhaps it will make more sense if I give you the background…

“When it was constructed, some three hundred years ago, the Harlath Theater was a landmark on the Island of of Avantir, being the first permanent such structure built outside the City walls and designed specifically to entertain the non-noble people of the working suburbs.

“It was constructed in the suburb of Khuronton, halfway between the City and the University, but anyone who was anyone in the outlying villages of the island (or aspired to be) had attended on the Harlath at least once each season. Many of the merchant class were regulars at Harlath events, there to be “seen” as much as to be entertained. It is one of the enduring legends of the Harlath that an Emperor once attended a performance there… although which Emperor, exactly, is hotly debated. But thereafter it was not unheard of for an occasional member of the City’s nobility to be seen “slumming it” at the old Harlath.

“Working at the Harlath was almost as prestigious as regularly attending its performances, especially for up-and-coming playwrights, who saw the suburban theatre as a stepping-stone to the more prestigious theaters of the City proper. Several of the most celebrated playwrights of the last two centuries got their start writing for the Harlath, in fact.

“Some fifty years ago, with other theaters opening in other suburban areas of the island, the old girl was perhaps past her zenith, but was still considered the grande dame of suburban theaters, and even rivaled some of those in the City itself. Certainly my grandfather never wavered in his attendance… not until disaster struck, at least.

“At the time of the tragedy, the Harlath was maintained by a caretaker named Argus Rapling. They say he originally took the job hoping to use it as a stepping stone, as many others had before him — in his case, to gain a greater creative position within the company. Most of all, Argus wanted to become a playwright.

“As a patron, and one of the many investors in the theater, my grandfather knew the man, if only slightly. Well enough, though to know that before, during, and after his shifts, Argus would spend any time he could find working on a script. It was his hope to present to Zamarin Imgarhol, the theatre’s director, and thereby be elevated to the writer’s room. But apparently Zamarin didn’t take the man, or his aspirations, seriously. She brushed off Argus when he approached her about his script, more than once as my grandfather himself saw on at least two occasions. This increasingly frustrated Argus, but the man remained persistent.

“When he finally managed to badger Zamarin into reading his magnum opus, however, she was so annoyed by the caretaker’s relentless pestering that she did little more than skim it in the most cursory fashion, according to her assistant. Unimpressed by what little she saw, she openly laughed at and ridiculed Argus, saying his work was shoddy and a waste not only of her time, but his own.

“It’s said Argus returned to his office that day humiliated and angry, and there he festered and ruminated for a night and another day, until he could contain himself no longer. Red with fury and overcome by shame, Argus murdered Zamarin in broad daylight, on the main stage, during an open dress rehearsal. As the rest of the theatre staff and the small audience fled in horror, he then took his own life.

“When the authorities arrived to remove the bodies, however, they found only Zamarin’s corpse. A search of the building never turned up Argus’ body, and it was eventually decided that some friend or relative had removed it, to avoid further public scandal for his family. My grandfather always snorted at this, as the theory blithely skipped over the fact that the man had few friends and no family in the city.

“After a hiatus of several tendays, efforts to reopen the theater proved… difficult. They were hampered by reports of strange occurrences and a lack of staff willing to return. The size of the staff continued to diminish as more and more people became convinced that the building was now haunted. With other suburban theaters already flourishing, the Harlath was soon deemed to be more trouble than it was worth by most of its frustrated owners, who decided to cut their losses.

“Except for my grandfather. For over a decade, the building remained abandoned, and he eventually managed to buy out the last of his co-investors, gaining sole ownership of the property for a relative pittance. He had enjoyed the theatre since his youth… he confided in me in his latter years that he even wanted to tread the boards himself, before family pressure convinced him his dreams were otherwise.

“Old Jokul never attempted to reopen the theatre, however, nor did my father – he never shared Grandfather’s fascination with the stage. But I did, and with my own father’s passing last year I now possess the means to realize my grandfather’s dream. I plan to oversee a renaissance in suburban theatre, and intend to do so from the grand old Harlath Theater. I’m the only surviving child of my rather wealthy merchant family, but the sum I will have to spend to return the old girl to full operation is not insubstantial. I dare not risk any more money in the matter until any ghosts or other such… supernatural impediments… have been dealt with.

“Last month I hired a young group of self-proclaimed adventurers to enter the old building and resolve the issue. Their leader, a young man named Hakim Althar was a confident and competent-seeming fellow, despite his age. I had high hopes. But only three of the five who went in emerged alive, babbling hysterically about flying objects, whispering voices, murderous, ax-wielding ghosts and demonic, skeletal animals.

“I think my mistake was hiring inexperienced people for such an obviously dangerous job. But with your reputation… well, if you are willing to explore the theater thoroughly and confront — and most importantly put to rest — whatever may lurk within it… well, I’m prepared to offer you a 10% share in the company once I have it up and running again.

The Harlath was once a shining beacon of entertainment and erudition to the people, those not born to power and privilege, and I believe it can be again, with your help… and my money. What say you?”

With the missing pages from the Book of Inner Balance carefully stowed in the leather bag Torghen Quicksilver had brought expressly for that purpose, the Hand made their way out of the Monastery of the Immortal Heart. They soon discovered that the destruction of the so-called skreelox must have freed the remaining Khundari monks of the Order from their centuries-long living deaths. Each one of the five, laying in their mouldering beds, was now truly, peacefully deceased… and by the expression on their grey, sunken faces, glad to be so at long last.

“I think, my friend, whatever knowledge you take from your study of these pages,” Torghen muttered quietly to Draik as the group made their way back to the longboat awaiting them on the dark waters of the canal, “you should take with great caution. Keep in mind the fate of these poor fools… and do not call down the same destiny on yourself.”

“Have no fear,” Draik assured the Khundari Shadow Monk, exchanging a thoughtful look with Vulk, walking on the other side of their companion. “We have no desire to summon another of those entities, whatever they really are… and in any case, we’re not searching for immortality.”

“Indeed not,” Vulk agreed. “All Baylorium is meant to do is heal, and to make the lives given to each of us as healthy and productive as possible… within the span of years we are allotted, no more.”

“I hope you remain true to that goal,” Torghen sighed, “and do not become tempted by the lure of eternal life. After what we saw… well, I misdoubt the wisdom of letting anyone read these pages. No, no – do not become agitated… a deal is a deal, and you shall have the next few days to study the pages, as was promised. But notes only may you make, and not a true, full copy… as YOU have promised!”

••••••

Two hours later the Wind of Kasira was poled out of the Southern Gate of the Ahlürok Canal, and soon bid farewell to their Khundari Polemen as the wind once again filled their sails. Once out of the southern Kilnost Hills, and the last of locks lowering them back to neat sea-level, the final 20 kilometers of the canal passed through gently rolling farmland of Great Oceania’s Inner Shore, and on to the town of Southport.

“A minor port, really, for all that a great deal of traffic passes through it,” Captain Renault told the Hand, as they all gathered on deck to see the sights. The friends looked at one another and eyebrows were raised. The city coming into sight ahead of them was at least as large as Shalara in Ukalus… perhaps lager. If this was considered minor, what must await them in Avantir itself?

“It has a few sights worth seeing of course,” their clockwork companion continued. “The magnificent towers and walls of the ancient Fortress of Khar are impressive, to be sure… you can see it there, that great complex atop that hill ahead on the port side. And the High Bridge, which carries the Imperial Highway over the Canal, is an engineering marvel, but we’re about to see it in action now, so that will take care of that.”

Ahead of them, 200 meters from the left side of the canal, a great stone bridge began a gradual rise on a series of graceful arches, until it reached the waterway, where it spanned the flow in two long, leaping arcs before beginning a matching descent on the other side. At its highest point the roadway must have been 30 meters above the water.

“Which is impressively high,” Draik said when their native guide confirmed it, at the same time eyeing their own masts and making some calculations. “But not high enough for us to sail under, I think… at least not in one piece. And I don’t see any kind of drawbridge…”

The clockwork Captain laughed… he’s been working on it, Draik thought, hiding his wince. But it still just doesn’t sound… human. “No, it’s all Avantir blue granite under that carved and filigreed white marble. So nothing so crude as a drawbridge. Instead – ah, there, watch the center pier!”

As he spoke there was a faint grinding sound and the center portion of the bridge began to rotate around the pivot of the central pier that supported it. Slowly, it swung about until the central roadway and walls of the span lay at a 90° angle to the rest of the structure. As it ground to a rest, the Wind of Kasira sailed majestically through the newly opened gap, the men in her crows nests waving to the stopped traffic… which they were actually several meters above. Many people waved back good-naturedly.

“So, as I was saying,” Renault went on as the High Bridge swung back into place behind them, “Captain K’Jurol agrees with me, it’s worth the effort to make Avantir before sunset. It’s a 90 kilometer run across the Gulf of Telapinir, but if the winds cooperate – and they should, this time of year – we can easily make it in time.”

“In time for what, exactly?” Mariala asked. Physician Ar’Hanol, standing beside her, seconded the question.

“Ah, I don’t want to spoil the surprise,” the clockwork man said, and both women had the sense that if his metal face was capable of it he’d be grinning. “But trust me, I think you’ll agree it was worth it once you see it.”

No more could be got form the usually loquacious man, and eventually everyone returned to other pastimes. Mariala, Lurin and Raven returned to their interrupted brunch, while Draik and Vulk returned to their study of the recovered pages from the Book of Inner Balance. Toran and Torghen went below decks to resume their reminisces on their lost youth away from all that nerve-wracking open sea, and Erol and Devrik resumed their sparring with the half-dozen crewmen who had become a de facto martial arts class, Aldari eagerly in tow.

The winds were indeed favorable, and as the sun began to sink toward the west, the dark silhouette of Avantir island appeared on the horizon, growing swiftly larger. As the rugged slopes and jagged crestline of the volcanic island resolved themselves, the terraced farmland, thickly wooded slopes, and blue granite and white marble of the many building perched on the cliffs and ridges became visible. The ship turned toward the south at that point, skirting the looming hills on their port side as they made for the Sea Palisade and the famous Sea Gates of Tyvos, and Captain Renault called everyone who was interested back to the foredeck.

“I know that some of you, especially young master Aldari and Lady Raven, may not be fully versed in the history of Avantir,” he said once everyone was present, “so I thought I’d take these few minutes before I lose your attention to give a brief history lesson.

“The island of Avantir, at the heart of which lays the City of Avantir is quite circular in shape and some 10 kilometers across. It is in fact a volcanic caldera… as legend has it, the shattered remains of the ancient Mount Falnakir. Said to be the most beautiful peak in the ancient world, it was around the feet and on the lower slopes of Falnakir that the capital and greatest city of the Co-Dominion once stood — proud Alvönika of ancient memory. First home of the Immortals, where they lived side-by-side with their Telnori, Umantari and Khundari children, Alvönika was a place of great beauty and even greater bliss for many centuries.

“But then came the Demon’s Fist. When it struck, at the Final Battle of the Demon Wars on the Plains of Summer, the destruction was staggering; and not least amongst the terrible results was the explosive eruption of Mount Falnakir and the collapse and sinking of the lands all about it for hundreds of kilometers.

“Alvönika was utterly destroyed, of course, and in the end only the shattered top of Falnakir itself remained above the waves as the land sank and the seas poured in… just a ring of steep, barren peaks reaching for the ash-gray sky. On the inside of this caldera the slopes of the peaks were sheer and cliff-like, while on its outer side the slopes fell away somewhat more gently to the sea… although still very broken and rugged.

“For several years the caldera smoked and fumed, though there were few living mortals to see it beyond a few starving savages on what would one day be called Great Oceania. As the Immortals strove to hold the shattered world together and repair its hurts, through the five years of the Endless Winter the remains of Falnakir smoldered and quaked. And then, just as life was beginning to return, one last cataclysm wracked the island.

“In that last eruption the southwest section of the caldera rim wall was blown outward by a convulsive lateral blast, and the sea poured to fill the caldera and at last cool the burning stone. Only a small, domed island at the very center of the new lagoon remained above the waves. For many years after that final convulsion the remains of Falnakir lay desolate and empty, devoid of all life.

“The Immortals worked for many years to return the world to stability and health, and gradually life did return to the rocky shores of the nameless volcanic ring. First of all were the seabirds who to this day make the cliffs and slopes of the island their home. Plant-life soon followed, especially the tall, straight blue firs and pines that came to cover the Outer Slopes, and three hundred years after the Devastation of Navarthül the first civilized Umantari made their way back to the lands of the Shattered Sea.

“These men and women were of the House of Ingram, survivors of that noble people who were one of the Five Great Houses of the Umantari in the years of the Co-Dominion. They first settled on the Inner Shore of Great Oceania, attempting to bring what civilization they had retained back to the savage, primitive tribes of the island. They succeeded in teaching them much, at least in matters of craft and building. But in matters of civilization and humanity… they were less successful. All too soon the Lost Men had taken the arts of the newcomers and turned them against them, especially in the matter of ship building. They became the fierce Sea Peoples, and they terrorized no only the high folk of lost Ingram but others of their own kind, raiding, pillaging and killing at will.

“Eventually, seeking a haven from the predations of these barbaric, savage Sea Peoples, legend has it that the Ingrami were guided by the Immortal Tyvos, Lord of the Seas and Islands, to the sheltering, encircling arms of Avantir. There they founded a fishing village on the central island of the Inner Lagoon, which they called Gevar’dahal. There they were safe, for the shoals and reefs which guarded the narrow strait from the outer sea they alone knew how to safely navigate, thanks to the wisdom and grace of Lord Tyvos.

“For many years they lived off the bounty of the sea, and they grew in number until Gevar’dahal became a small city. Then the people began to build homes in the faces of the Inner Wall of the Encircling Hills, delving into the rock itself to make spacious dwellings; and terraced farms were created where possible, wherein they began to grow new crops to feed the ever-growing population… and this was in the Fifth Century following the Demon’s Fist.

“For years the people refrained from building on the Outer Slopes, for fear of the still-powerful Sea Peoples; but eventually population pressure forced them to make the move. Combined with an increasingly large and powerful fleet, better able to protect the Outer Slopes, more settlements and farms were built Beyond. Eventually the ships of Gevar’dahal were able to sweep the Gulf of Telapinir clear of the Sea Peoples, freeing the Inner Shore of Great Oceania from their predations. Then they came to the warring tribes of the larger island, their cousins, as saviors and peacemakers.

“As the population and power of the Avantiri grew, the need for land grew as well. Although they established ports in many places on Great Oceania, Avantir was always home and the center of their power. As the Outports grew in influence, however, the rulers of Avantir saw a danger of the center of power shifting away from them… legend says that Tyvos himself came up out of the sea and told King Valosin the Great that he must make land from the sea, and in doing so his people would gain mastery of all the seas.

“Not one to spurn the advice (or prophecy, if you will) of an Immortal, in the year 993 SR, Valosin began the Great Work – the building of the Sea Palisade and the draining of the Inner Lagoon. At the same time the plans were laid for the construction of the Grand Canal and the Serene Canal, which would, respectively, lead to and surround Gevar’dahal, keeping it an island. For another part of the Prophecy of Tyvos was that only so long as the little island at its heart remained connected to the sea by water, would Avantir rule the seas.

“And so it has remained for the last two thousand years. Even today the Sea Palisade stands just as Valosin the Great saw it, when he was the first to sail a ship through the Sea Gates of Tyvos… and just as you see it now.”

With that, Renault gestured behind his audience (he’d been speaking from the starboard railing, to keep their backs to the island), and as they turned a gasp rose up. The golden light of the setting sun kindled the shimmering, blue-black stone of the immense wall of the Sea Palisade into cerulean fire and burnished the towering bronze statue of Tyvos to molten gold. Devrik realized his mouth was hanging open, and he shut it with a snap.

“Well, you were right my friend,” he said to Renault, never taking his eyes off the blue fire of the Palisade. “This was worth missing out on a lot of things!”

The Sea Palisade spanned the blown-out gap in the Encircling Hills, holding back the sea from the lowlands within. Made of the blue granite of the island, its face had been treated with a process which had fused and crystalized the stone into a shimmering sheet of blue-black glass – but a glass stronger than diamond or steel, second only to the torlixam of the Ancients.

The wall was over a kilometer wide, 250 meters high 100 meters thick, and pierced by twin gates. Each was wide enough to allow two large galleys to pass abreast through, and tall enough to accommodate the masts of the tallest ship. Between the gates towered the immense, imposing statue of Tyvos himself, trident in one hand, the other hand raised in an ambiguous gesture of either greeting or warning. Beard flowing, his crowned head towered 70 additional meters above the top of the Sea Palisade, his trident even higher. On the opposite side of each gate were smaller bronze statues of the children of Tyvos – on the left was Ashira, his daughter, Lady of Storms; on the right, his son Valentus, Lord of Islands. Both were portrayed in the form of Tritani.

“Beyond the Gates of Tyvos lies the High Pool,” Captain Renault went on as the Wind prepared to pass through them, “although most sailors call it the Tide Pool. It’s a semicircular harbor nearly a kilometer across and half a kilometer deep. It is lined with docks and quays, and is the commercial heart of the Empire. From its apex extends the Karshen Locks of the Grand Canal, which steps vessels from sea level 15 meters down to the water level of the City’s canal system.

“There’s a wide strip of land around the perimeter of the Tide Pool which is lined with warehouses, merchant’s headquarters, seaman’s hostelries and guild houses, taverns, inns and flop houses, and beyond it the ground slopes down in a series of roads, ramps and stairs to the plain of the Inner Land. We’ll be docking in the Tide Pool, I understand, and then taking a barge through the looks and into the Circles of the City…”

With young Aldari’s portal closed, and the leader and motivating force behind the Vortex gone, lost in the void of interplanetary space, the Hand of Fortune took a moment to breathe. The boy himself was resisting his parent’s attempts to smother him with parental concern, squirming from their grasp and doing his best to look cool and grown-up.

“We’re going to have to have a serious discussion about that boy,” Mariala murmured to Vulk as they watched the little family drama unfold.

“Oh yes,” he agreed. “But now probably isn’t the time… but soon, because I suspect the Council will have some thoughts on the subject, and we should probably present a united front.”

Once they had assured themselves that the magma pit and its strange energies were again under control and in no danger of tearing open an inter-dimensional breach, the Hand wearily headed back up the levels to return to the Star Council. But they found only Lord Kavyn and Master Vetaris when they reentered the circular transfer chamber.

“The others have withdrawn to another, more comfortable chamber, to fully recover” Vetaris explained. He added, very quietly, to Vulk, Mariala, and Devrik alone, “They are somewhat… concerned, let us say… that you have seen the entire Council together. Few of our agents, and even fewer outsiders, have ever done so, and it has rather upset them, I afraid.”

“Yes, they were talking about memory wipes and such before they were even able to properly stand,” Lord Kavyn added drily and equally quietly.

“You mean while we were off saving not just their asses, but the entire world?” Devrik growled. The look on his face would’ve made anyone back up a step or two, but the Imperial Myrmytron just shrugged.

“They were understandably shaken, given our recent ordeal, and their brains are perhaps not… fully up to speed. Kiril and I managed to talk them down—“

“We don’t even know their names,” Mariala interrupted indignantly. “It’s not like we could identify them unless we ran into them at the local butcher shop one day!”

“Yes, as Kiril pointed out to them,” Lord Kavyn continued, unperturbed. “I emphasized the very slippery moral slope they proposed to start down, and cooler heads soon prevailed. You need not worry about any such action by the Council.

“But we do need to start examining this facility very thoroughly… after you’ve filled us in on what has transpired with Alvira. We’ll settle your wife and son in comfortable quarters, Ser Devrik, then join the others for a full report on—“

“Ha! Got it!” Toran cried from across the room, drawing everyone’s attention. Between the squatting Khundari and the kneeling Erol, the clockwork Captain Renaült was sitting up, if somewhat unsteadily. His metal form was dented, scraped, and in one spot sparking, but he appeared more-or-less functional.

“I knew there had to be some sort of revivification switch,” Toran went on, in obvious self-satisfaction. “It was just a matter of finding it. And I’m pretty sure I can patch up all this damage, Essa, given the tools in this place…”

“That, too will have to wait,” Master Vetaris said as the two friends helped the clockwork man to his feet. “In fact, if you feel yourself up to it, Captain, I would feel much better leaving Raven and Aldari in their rooms if your were with them, to stand guard. No telling what mischief, or worse, may still be loose in this place!”

Half an hour later, with Raven and Aldari settled in surprisingly spacious living quarters and Captain Renaült posted outside, the Hand met with the Star Council. They had found a large space, already equipped with an impressively long table, and managed to scrape together an odd mish-mash of chairs, stools and benches to seat everyone. With the ten members of the Council, minus only the Telnori king of Servia, on one side of the board, the Hand arrayed themselves along the other and began their tale.

It was more than three turns of the glass before the meeting ended, as the various councilors had many questions, not just about the day’s events, but about the many events that had led up to them. Mariala noted that more than one councilor seemed to share her concern over young Aldari Askalan’s amazing powers, but all retained enough sense not to bring it up for the moment — Devrik was not looking particularly receptive, however much he was managing to be civil.

Once the meeting was finally over, all sixteen men and women divided up the task of exploring and cataloguing the strange island base between them, in teams of two. Mariala was matched with Master Vetaris, while Korwin found himself teamed with Lord Kavyn. Vulk and Devrik set off to explore the outer reaches of the island, while Toran and Erol explored the deeper areas of the base. The Hand had no idea who teamed with who amongst the rest of the Council, since they knew no names.

It was Mariala and Kiril Vetaris who found the dead body of Alvira Vetaris in a luxuriously appointed suite of rooms on what was obviously meant to be a level fo living quarters. The old mage looked sad, despite the danger his mother had meant to not only the world but to his own life and safety. But he said no word about his personal feelings, and was quickly back to all business.

“It appears her body has been dead for the better part of a tenday, I’d say.” He examined the corpse closely, but didn’t touch it. “It’s only the cool, very dry air in this place that’s kept it this well preserved.”

They scoured the chambers and recovered several volumes of what appeared to be personal journals, as well as reams of other papers, books, and scrolls. Much of it, especially the journals and research materials, was in cypher, but much of the day-to-day running of the Vortex organization was not. They piled it into several large chests they found, and carted it all back to the meeting room… although Mariala noticed that Kiril kept the journals separate.

Two floors above Alvira’s quarters, Korwin and Lord Kavyn likewise discovered the brain-dead, and apparently soulless, body of Prince Quorün. His body was slouched in an ornate, fur-draped chair that was just this side of being a throne, a strange metal helm on his head. It covered his eyes and was connected by thick cables to a large machine, clearly more of the same old-Earth technology they’d already encountered elsewhere in the facility.

Drawing off the helmet, Kavyn looked into the wide, staring eyes for several minutes, two fingers touching each of the man’s temples. Quorün’s breathing continued slow and shallow, and he gave no sign of being aware of his visitors. With a deep sigh, Kavyn let his hands fall as he stepped back.

“There’s nothing in there, I’m afraid. No trace of a mind – or soul, if you will – is left in this body. I think all that he was got transferred into that mechanical body, and died when you blasted his synthetic brain out his back, Korwin.”

“Err… sorry?” Korwin ventured, although he didn’t feel any particularl regret. It had been him or that bastard in the moment, after all and he was certainly glad he wasn’t dead.

“Oh, no need to be,” Lord Kavyn assured him with a knowing half-smile that left the water mage wondering exactly how much of his thought the man could read. “No question of self defense, and the man was a traitor and murderer many times over… and, after all, this may have been for the best.”

At Korwin’s inquiring look he added, “This could never have gone to a public trial, you see – far too many deep secrets, both arcane and mundane. But to have executed an Imperial Prince, for no apparent reason as far as the public could see… no, it is certainly much less messy this way. I think, Korwin, the Emperor himself will thank you for your actions.”

The Prince’s rooms were even larger, and far more lavishly appointed, than Alvira’s, and it took the pair a full turn of the glass to examine it thoroughly. In the end there proved far less documentary evidence to collect, beyond the man’s personal journal; which, thankfully, was not in any kind of cypher.

“Ah, this also simplifies things,” Kavyn said, scanning quickly through the more recent entries. “I had feared his father, King Lindeth of Kashula, was a part of this plot, but Quorün writes here of the need to dispatch his father early on, once the plan was in motion, so that he could ascend the throne… apparently a “riding accident” was to be the method… hmm, not a bad idea, actually…”

“What, killing King Lindeth?” Korwin said in surprise. “I know the Three Kingdoms have historically been troublesome, but—“

“No, no,” chuckled the Mymytron. “I meant the method. I think when my agents sneak the Prince’s not-quite-corpse back to Kashula in the next few days, we’ll arrange just exactly this little riding accident for him. It seems an appropriately symmetrical justice, for him to suffer the same fate he intended for his father, I think.”

Korwin just grinned in response, nodding his head in approval as he returned to checking the last few alcoves and chests left unexamined. Lord Kavyn continued to flip through the journal for a few minutes before again drawing Korwin’s attention with a chuckle.

“Well, my young friend, I think this will be of some interest to you,” Kavyn said, pointing to a section of text. “This quite definitively proves that your old friend Kharmet Genokir, the Lord Governor of the Syklian Islands, was involved up to his fat neck in this plot of Alvira and Prince Quorün.

“We, that is Gil-Garon and I, had always felt he’d been involved, forty years ago, in the usurpation plot that killed the old Emperor and led to Gil-Garon’s long exile. But he was much younger then, of course, and a fairly minor noble, not yet an Imperial Governor. He proved to be far enough on the periphery of the treason that he escaped official charges… if not some lingering suspicion.”

“But won’t he escape punishment again,” Korwin asked, scanning the entry. “If this whole plot can’t be made public, how can you make any charges stick?”

“I would never take action against a man merely on suspicion, and nor would the Emperor. Which is why Genokir was allowed to inherit his title and position as Governor, on the death of his own father, despite our lingering doubts. But now, knowing that he has been involved in not one, but two, treasons, I will have no compunction at all in fabricating an utterly airtight case against the bastard… and seeing him hanged.”

“Ah, well, you’ll get no objection from me,” Korwin said, handing back the journal. “Do you suppose I could get a seat at the execution?”

• • • • • •

By the third day, most of the Star Council was ready to return to their various homes and their own interrupted lives. They confiscated all of Alvira Ketaris’ arcane materials, including her seven grimoires and dozens of research notes, but at Master Vetaris’ request left her personal journals in the care of Mariala, for decrypting. The young mage promised to deliver a translated version to the Council as soon as she could, through her old mentor.

The last day the Council spent on the hidden island was mostly taken up in debate over what to do with the clockwork army of the defunct Vortex. A few were for destroying them, along with all knowledge involved in their construction and most especially of the mind transference technology. But the majority were adamantly opposed to this, as it was clear from Captain Renaült’s testimony, which proved that the human victims lived on inside the mechanical forms.

“The clockwork technology itself is more an extension of several existing crafts and skills,” the beautiful, exotic-looking woman with the almond eyes and burnished ivory skin pointed out. “Without the mind transference machinery, however, which is of old Co-Dominion make and located only here is this hidden place, the ability to build these automatons is minor. But more importantly, we will not commit mass murder by destroying those souls already entrapped in these terrible forms!”

In the end, it was agreed to leave the matter in the hands of the Mymytron, who swore that he would find a way to restore the victims, if not into their old, now long gone bodies, then into new one’s grown in the “cloning tanks” they’d discovered on the island. It would be a project of years, no doubt, but in the meantime, they would remain asleep and unaware.

The last item the Council covered before gating out was the fate of the island itself. Lord Kavyn and Master Vetaris were tasked with renewing the ancient shields that hid the place form outside notice, thereby ensuring no one else would stumble across it. They also tabled, for the moment, the idea of the Star Council taking the island as their own base in the future, once it was made safe.

Once the last of the eight departing Councilors hand vanished through the Gate, Lord Kavyn turned to Captain Renaült and laid a hand on his cold, metallic shoulder.

“I know I have promised to grow new bodies for the victims of this terrible crime, my friend… but I think in your case I might be able to do better. Is it true that your ship still remains, essentially intact, in the belly of the great whale-island-ship?”

“It is, milord,” the mechanical man replied. “The dismantling stopped once the controlling machinery was shut down. I went aboard yesterday, just to… well, I’m not sure… just to remember my old life, I suppose. I retrieved a few mementos…”

“I don’t suppose one of those was a hairbrush?” The Mymytron asked, suddenly rather excited. “Or any bits of clothing?”

“Well, no,” the captain sounded puzzled, though of course his face could show no expression. “Both such items would be of no use to me now… I left them where they were, and took only my sea logs and some rings…”

“Ah, but they do exist? A hair bush would be best, but even some clothing might work!“ Lord Kavyn was grinning now. “If you can get me those items, I think it is quite likely that I can recover enough genetic material to grow an exact copy of your old body!”

The members of the Hand, listening closely to this exchange, all looked as blank as Renaült.

“Gen-et-tic?” Vulk repeated the unfamiliar word. “I’m not sure—“

“It’s not important,” Kavyn said, waving an excited hand. “I’ll explain it in detail when we have more time. For now, just get me those items and, in about a year, I’ll have a new body to download your soul into… and a body just like you had at age 25, to boot!”

Both facial expression and body language were beyond the mechanical body Essa Renaült now wore, but somehow everyone in the room sensed his disappointment. “A.. a year, milord? Oh, well that would be wonderful, truly, if it can be done… it’s just that, for a moment, I thought you meant, well, something sooner…”

Lord Kavyn’s excitement faded, and he looked slightly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Essa, I got so caught up in the possibilities… the ancient machines that allow for the growing of new bodies from, um, from small bits of older ones, is miraculously swift, compared to the usual method of making bodies. But it’s not instantaneous, I’m afraid. I’m sorry if I got your hopes up.”

“No need for apologies, milord, truly! That it can be done at all is beyond my wildest hope – I had resigned myself, these past few days, to this cold, strange existence; to never seeing my wife or children again, to never feeling again.” Despite the mechanical monotone of his artificial voice, his feeling came through clearly. “So I would be an ungrateful wretch indeed to complain if this miracle takes a little longer than I might wish!”

He returned in short order with his old hairbrush and all of his old clothes. Lord Kavyn took them and disappeared into one of the strange chambers on the “science level,” as he called it. No one saw him again for almost a day…

The seven days after the majority of the Star Council had departed were filled with further exploration and cataloging of both the underground base and the island of Teshunir itself. Mostly this was done under the direction of Master Vetaris, as Lord Kavyn was closeted for long stretches in the “cloning lab,” working to understand the machinery there and get it properly functioning.

On the tenth day after the death of Alvira and the final defeat of her Vortex organization, the Hand prepared to depart themselves. But two last surprises awaited them.

“I won’t be going with you,” Korwin announced at their last dinner. “Lord Kavyn has offered to take me on as an apprentice, to study this new convocation of electricity under his guidance. With my status in the Empire again on solid ground, or soon to be, this isn’t an opportunity I can pass up.

“I want to thank you all for your comradeship, which has taught me so much, and for your friendship, which I hope I will continue to enjoy even if I am no longer in your lives day-to-day. I’m a better man for having known you all, and please believe that I will miss every one of you very much.”

Everyone expressed their sadness at his departure, even as they understood the reasons for it. But Lord Kavyn looked at their expressions and raised a mug — the Prince had certainly had good taste in both beer and wine – and laughed.

“Come, come, it’s not so dire as all that,” he said. “This isn’t the last meal you’ll share with your friend, since you’ll be sailing on to Avantir, where we shall meet you in one month.

“I know he’s looking forward to showing his friends around the greatest city on Novendo, and I certainly hope you’ll all be spending some time there, beyond our official meetings with the Emperor. And if you do, I’ll certainly allow my new student the time to act as your local guide.”

“On that note, milord, I have a request,” Captain Renaült spoke up. As usual, he had joined them for dinner, for although he could not actually eat, he enjoyed the company and conversation. “I know you have offered to let me stay on, as my new body grows, but I must confess, I do not think I have the stomach for it. If you will allow, and the Hand of Fortune is not averse to it, I would ask to accompany them on their voyage to Avantir. I know the Archipelago as well as any man, and would gladly take the place of Master Korwin as native guide.”

Lord Kavyn gave his agreement willingly enough, and the Hand seemed quite enthused at the prospect… although it was young Aldari who was unabashedly excited at the news. He’d been fascinated by the clockwork man ever since he’d freed him and his mother from their cells in the belly of monster ship, and in the last tenday the two had developed something of a rapport. Raven rather suspected Aldari reminded the poor man of his own son, who she knew was about the same age.

So it was that the next morning Vulk, Mariala, Devrik, Erol, Toran, Raven, Aldari and their new clockwork companion waved farewell to Korwin, Master Vetaris, and Lord Kavyn and stepped through the Gate on Teshunir…

…and exited the Gate in the courtyard of the Fellowship House outside the port of Cumor, on the Telnori island of Sydon. The Wind of Kasira could be seen from the hilltop, still at anchor in the middle of the small harbor. Thanks to Mariala’s entangled paper Captain K’Jurol had been kept abreast of the Hand’s continued existence, and of their promised return. Repairs to the ship were completed, and they knew she was ready to sail on the next tide.

The crew seemed genuinely pleased to see their ship’s owners back, with mother and child safe and sound, and Physician Ar’Hanol seemed especially pleased to see Lady Mariala returned unscathed. They were all taken aback, however, by the presence in their midst of one of the clockwork monsters that had attacked the ship little more than a tenday earlier.

Vulk’s speech to the ship’s company, reinforced as it was by just a touch of Abon’s Authority, settled the crew down enough for the story (insofar as they could tell it) to sink in. Once they understood that it really was the former master of the Aldetha Star, a man many of them had known or at least met, trapped by treachery in this terrible form, they quickly came around.

Surprisingly, Captain K’Jorul was less easy to reassure than his crew. But his main concern was having another captain aboard, even one so strange as Renaült, not his form. However, in the first several days of sailing the clockwork man made it clear that he suffered no confusion about his role aboard the Wind – he was scrupulous about staying out of the Captain’s way on deck, never presumed to give anyone an order, and offered his help wherever and in whatever way it might be useful, without regard to if the job was “beneath” an officer. His tremendous strength and willingness to pitch in soon fully endeared him to the crew, and eventually soothed K’Jorul’s worries.

For the next two tendays the Wind of Kasira sailed the northern islands of the Empire. The crew had long adopted the rather absent-minded but amiable Ser Bizwyk as a sort of mascot, and no one objected to letting the lanky naturalist set the itinerary for the leisurely voyage. He had enjoyed his extended stay on the island of Sydon, roaming the hills and forests, collecting specimens of birds, insects and small animals, sketching the flora and fauna, and writing extensive notes in the many blank books he’d brought with him.

Now he made the most of the ship’s visits to Avera, Elopia and Charia (the westernmost of the Three Kingdoms), Quensyn (the easternmost of the Three Kingdoms), and Dyama. His only disappointment came when the Hand firmly squashed his desire to visit Kashula and/or Dekathi, the principal islands of the central of the Three Kingdoms.

“But the variations in the ring-tailed sparrow between Eolopia and Quensyn,” he tried once more to wheedle the owners-aboard as they sailed the passage between Quensyn and Kashula, his last-chance shot. “If only I had the opportunity to study the birds on Kashula, it could prove absolutely critical in confirming my theory—“

“I’m sorry, Ser Bizwyk,” Vulk reiterated for what felt like the hundredth time in a tenday, “ there are… political considerations at the moment that make it… untenable for us to visit the Kingdom of Kashula just now.”

“But, as we heard when we were on Eolopia,” the naturalist pressed on, “Kashula has recently lost their Crown Prince in that unfortunate riding accident. Surely, with the country in mourning, whatever these political matters might be would be, um, abrogated? At least long enough for us to make a small expedition—“

“NO!” Vulk, Mariala and Toran all said at once, causing the young nobleman to blink rather owlishly.

“Oh, well, if you’re absolutely sure, of course…”

Fortunately the naturalist was mollified after their visit to Dyama, where he found yet another variation of the ring-tailed sparrow that quite excited him…

••••••

The day after the Wind left Dyama, crossing the Arlin Bay, she docked in the port city of Kalyon, and the Hand of Fortune set foot for the first time on Great Oceania, the largest and namesake island of the Archipelago.

“Well, you all may as well enjoy the pleasures of the city,” Captain K’Jorul told his patrons after meeting with the Port Master. “We’ll be here for at least a day, maybe two.”

“I thought we’d agreed to head up the River Kilnost as soon as possible,” Toran said, frowning. He was more excited than any of his friends at the prospect of their next landmark – the legendary Ahlürok Canal, running beneath the Kilnost Hills and through the great subterranean Khundari city of Ahlürok, both of them marvels of his people’s skills.

“As soon as possible turns out to be the problem, ser,” the Captain sighed. “The Canal is one of the busiest waterways in the Empire, but the locks can only handle so much traffic at a time. Despite that Imperial pass you have, we’ll still have to wait our turn, I’m afraid.”

With nothing to be done about it, the Hand decided to take their Captain’s advice and enjoy the pleasures the bustling port city offered, while Ser Bizwyk took the opportunity to make a trip into the countryside, with Captain Renaült along to cary his gear. The two had formed an unexpected friendship over the course of the past tendays, much to the surprise of most of the others.

Devrik and his family, at the excited insistence of Aldari once he’d learned of it, headed for the central square of the city, where an annual festival celebrating children and their toys was in its third and final day.

Vulk, Mariala, and Toran, joined by Physician Ar’Hanol, decided to seek out a decent inn or tavern, preferably one that served something besides seafood.

“And a decent beer would be nice,” Vulk laughed as they made their way along the docks. “I appreciate Captain K’Jorul’s wine collection, and his willingness to share, but—“

“Sometimes you just want a good brew,” a familiar voice finished his sentence. “Well, it really is small world, isn’t it! Fancy running into you lot here!”

Vulk’s eyes widened in surprise as he whirled around to confront the last person he’d expected to see…

8-14 Metisto 3020

After a memorable and informative breakfast with Captain Tafas in the wardroom of the Queen Ariela, the bulk of the day after the final battle with the Mi-Go and their human thralls was spent in meetings with the Prince Palatine and his advisors. In fact, it took several days to entirely wrap up all the loose ends involved, to the satisfaction of the Prince. One of the last bones of contention to be resolved was the fate of the six surviving alien weapons.

“I really must insist that the Imperium retain possession of these infernal devices,” Prince Rapareth finally ended the debate. “We appreciate all that you have done Cantor Ser Vulk, you and all of your companions. But these devices are simply too powerful to be allowed to drift about the world, much less the Empire, unguarded.”

“They would hardly be unguarded, your Highness,” Vulk objected. “As I think we’ve amply demonstrated, we are capable of protecting them. And we haven’t yet even figured out how to make them work, so it is not as if they could be casually used, even if one were to fall into the wrong hands.

“But, we understand your Highness’ point,” he continued at the Prince’s frown. “You’ve indicated that it is the wish of Lord Kavyn, the Imperial Myrmytron, and of his Imperial Majesty himself, that these should be taken for study in Avantir. We, of course, would not dream of gainsaying such authority. Therefore, we relinquish our claim on the devices, and turn them over herewith.”

Devrik stepped forward and set a largish iron-bound box of oak on the table before the Prince. He handed the major domo, Karl Esfantor, an iron key and stepped back. It had in fact been the major domo, a fellow agent of the Star Council, who had convinced the Hand to relinquish their claim on the weapons. The servant opened the box, revealing the six silvery disintegration pistols, set in form-fitting indentations of blue velvet. The Prince nodded, then cocked an eye at Vulk.

“Reports of my agents indicate there were seven of these things,” he said mildly. “Yet here I see only six.”

“There may have been seven, your Highness,” Vulk agreed diffidently. “In the myriad confusions of that day, it’s hard to be sure. There were the three we recovered from the triple ambush, two were recovered from the Bonding House battle, and finally there was the leader’s weapon, recovered from the Azure Rose. If there was another, we have not found it, though we searched for it. As did your own agents, I believe, your Highness?”

“Indeed. I had men going over every inch of the Bonding House yard, the docks, and every street and alley between the two places. They practically dismantled that flophouse where the last of the enthralled dock workers had been housed. If a seventh weapon existed, I suppose it may have gone into the harbor, during the final confrontation around and aboard the Azure Rose… I have divers searching, of course, but so far nothing. Ah well, we may never know, I suppose.”

Vulk bowed in agreement, and after a few last pleasantries, he, Devrik, and Mariala departed the palace. “Now perhaps we can focus on selling our cargo,” he sighed in relief. Mariala agreed, but Devrik seemed sunk in his own thoughts and didn’t indicate he’d heard…

∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆

Korwin had absented himself from all of the meetings at the palace, after that first mid-morning debriefing on the day of the last battle with the aliens and their thralls. After finally explaining his reasons for fleeing the Empire to his companions, they now understood his reluctance to draw more official attention to himself than was absolutely necessary. They were more than willing to help him in the endeavor, making excuses as needed to explain his absence. In any case, someone had to take care of the repairs on the Wind of Kasira, and re-crewing her, and he was the natural choice.

Two days after the battle of the docks, on the 7th of Metisto, Korwin and Mate Grünby spent the morning at the Seaman’s Guildhall, recruiting new crew members. They had accepted three candidates, from the dozen or so who had applied, and were just leaving to find a decent tavern for lunch, when Korwin heard his name called out. He turned in sudden fear, ready to bolt if it was some Imperial soldier wanting to arrest him – and then let out a surprised bark of laughter.

“Rathir! Belith! What in the name of Tyvos the Mighty are you two doing here?” he cried, embracing his older cousin enthusiastically, and then his son. The two men returned the greeting just as enthusiastically, grinning and back-slapping as Yonas looked on in bemusement.

“Well, we’re here on business, of course,” Rathir K’Jorul replied. He was a tall man, with dark hair, graying at the temples, and gray eyes. He was the nephew of Korwin’s adopted mother, and currently the head of a successful trading family out of the Kunya-Kehsdan city of Tem-Nathar. “But the real question, cousin, is what are you doing here? Last we’d heard…” his smile faltered for a moment, and he looked doubtful. “That is, the news that reached us…”

“Was not good, I’m sure,” Korwin finished for him, with a heavy sigh. “But I assure you, whatever you heard, it’s likely not true. It’s a long story, but I’m glad for the chance to explain it all to you… we were just headed to find some lunch – oh, I’m sorry, this is Yonas Grünby, Mate to my role of acting Captain aboard the Wind of Kasira. Yonas, my cousin Master Trader Rathir K’Jorul and his son, Captain Belith K’Jorul.” The three men exchanged handshakes and the usual courtesies.

“But Korwin, you say you are Captain of that amazing ship that’s been the talk of the city the last several days?” Belith asked. He was two years older than his cousin, as dark-haired as his father but lacking the gray, and possessed of hazel eyes. Taller than his father by a head, he had a heavy, very fit build, and voice that commanded men and made women swoon. Korwin loved him like a bother, but had always been just a little envious of his good looks. “The most outrageous stories have been circulating, which I’ve been discounting for the most part… but if you’re involved, cousin, then perhaps I was wrong! We’ve even been down to look at her ourselves, haven’t we Father?”

“Yes, and I have so say, I’ve never seen a ship like her before,” the older K’Jorul agreed. “Nothing drastically different, and yet… not quite like anything else. That figurehead, though… might scare off the pirates, I suppose! But seriously, how do you come to captain such a vessel, Korwin, and what of these wild tales..?”

“As I said, it’s all a long story… if I’m going back to when I left the Empire, quite a long story. Do you have time to join us for a meal and a pint, cousins?”

As it happened, they did have the time, having recently concluded their business in the city, and being at loose ends until their ship sailed on the evening tide. Rathir directed them to an unassuming building that proved to house a surprisingly upscale public house, clearly the haunt of merchants, traders and ship owners. The food at the Silver Chalice was exceptional, and there were several more than just a single pint before Korwin had finished giving his relatives the broad outlines of the last year or two of his life.

He’d been forced to leave out any mention of the Star Council, of course, and tried to downplay the more uncanny aspects of some of his adventures with the Hand of Fortune, but there was enough left to make a good yarn. He refused to downplay the recent events on Arapet, however, feeling his cousins deserved to know truth about what might still be lurking out there… they thought they’d rooted out the infestation, but then they’d believed that before, on Arapet…

Both Rathir and Belith had serious looks on their faces as he finally wrapped up his tale with a recounting of the battle on the docks two days earlier. “And now we’re trying to hire a crew and proper captain for the Wind, so we can return to Ukalus and our various responsibilities there.” Korwin took a deep swallow from his ale… tale-spinning was thirsty work.

“But Korwin, now that you’re back in the Empire, shouldn’t you be clearing your name?” Rathir said. “I mean, it’s all well and good to have the confidence of a king and queen, even of some distant, feudal realm, I suppose. But you can’t let that scheming nobleman drive you from your proper place in the Empire!”

“Or, if you’re truly willing to give up on Oceania, you can come to Tem-Nathar,” Belith added. “We can certainly find you a place in the family business, right Father? And a water mage is always in demand at sea.” He turned to Yonas, who had sat mostly silent through the meal and long tale, only occasionally adding a laconic confirmation to some part of the recent events he’d been a part of. “Did he ever tell you of the time – what, five years ago now, I suppose – when he and his master saved my first command from the Keldan pirates?”

The mate allowed as how he hadn’t heard the tale, and Belith proceeded to regale him with the lurid story. Korwin pretended to object, saying it had been nothing, but he was secretly pleased that his cousin remembered it so vividly. Truth be told, it had mainly been his master’s magics that had turned the tide, as it were – he’d been an apprentice then – but his own little flourish with the whirlpool had certainly played a part there at the end.

The afternoon was wearing on as the meal finally came to an end, and the K’Jorul’s had to think about getting back to their ship, but the elder trader raised a hand as Korwin reached for his purse. “No, no, lad, the meal is on me… the tale you spun was more than worth the cost. But before we part, I have an offer to make you.

“What do you say to selling the Wind of Kasira? It would make a spectacular addition to the family’s fleet, and I’m in a position right now to offer you and your friends a generous price for her. Plus passage on our fastest ship back to the eastern lands, if that’s what you all want – or for them alone, if you decide to stay, cousin.”

“Ah, an interesting offer, cousin,” Korwin replied thoughtfully. “But I doubt my friends would agree to such an arrangement. There are… complications I can’t explain, but… no, I think I know their answer. But I can certainly ask, of course.”

“Hmmm, well I thought that might be your answer, and really I can hardly blame you. It is a simply magnificent ship!” Rathir paused, looking down at the table for a moment. When he looked back up his eyes were calculating. “But you say you’re looking for a captain, as well as a crew? What about this – take Belith on as your captain, and give the family the right of first refusal if and when you and your companions decide to sell the vessel. I’d even be prepared to lease her, if it came down to it, although on somewhat less generous terms, of course.”

“Of course,” Korwin said, smiling. “That might actually be attractive to the Hand, the right of first refusal thing, not necessarily the leasing. Although maybe that too, once they were all back home. And Tyvos knows, I’d love to have Belith aboard as our captain! I can fill the role, but I just don’t have the experience… or the temperament, truth be told… to fill it well.”

The next half hour was spent hammering out the terms of Belith’s contract as captain of the Wind of Kasira, to the satisfaction of all parties. Yonas said little, but he was satisfied too… he liked the little blue water wizard well enough, but he had worried about his ability to command a seasoned crew at sea, as opposed to the little jaunt they’d just taken with a crew of lubbers. He knew the K’Jorul family by reputation – it was generally a good one – and he’d been impressed over the last several hours by the men themselves. He was sure the young master would be up to the task, and that was a relief, to be sure.

“Well, I must retrieve my duffle from the Sea Wolf,” Belith said as they prepared to go their separate ways outside the Silver Chalice. “I’ll meet you and Mate Grünby at the Wind of Kasira at, let’s say the first turn of the Dragon watch?”

Too late in the day to do any more hiring, Korwin and Yonas headed back to their ship, Korwin smiling to himself. He was truly fond of his cousin, and excited to have him aboard, but he was also looking forward to Vulk’s reaction. Belith was nearly as tall as the Kasiran cantor, and perhaps even prettier… and Korwin knew his friend would love that hairy chest! But he also knew his cousin was the rare but not unheard of man who had eyes strictly for the women. One way or the other, this should be fun…

∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆

Over the next six days Korwin ceded the task of finding a crew to his cousin, with good will. Belith and Yonas would leave each morning for the Seaman’s Guildhall, and return in the afternoon with a new lot of men. Korwin and a few of the others made an occasional spot check the first day or two, but when it was clear their new captain knew what he was doing, they left him to it.

Devrik was not one of the Hand who concerned himself with how the new captain was doing. He’d met the man that first night, over dinner, and had liked him well enough, as had everyone else. But the fire mage was very much focused on only one thing at the moment, and he spent many hours a day secluded either in his cabin or down in the always-burning forge on the lowest deck of the ship. As the crew roster filled out, his friends made sure that everyone knew not to disturb him and never, under any circumstances, to interfere with the fire in that forge.

Ever since the events on Arapet Devrik had been developing a spell he had long contemplated, but until now not been motivated to pursue. The time and effort involved were considerable, and he had not previously seen much utility for it. But now, with their distant exile and Mariala’s supply of entangled paper running very low, both on this end and the supply they’d left with their friends and family at home, it took on new urgency.

The Far-flung Fire Flame One™ spell, as he’d mentally dubbed it, was a variation and hybridization of several other spells. It would allow two-way communication between widely separated sources of flame, both visual and auditory. He had initially been able to unite two flames about 8 kilometers apart, but that was not remotely what he sought. Everyday, spending at least an hour in deep meditation and intense concentration, he had managed to double the range. Each new remote fire source, be it a peasant’s hearth fire, a burning shrubbery on a wilderness mountain, or a cooking fire on a ship at sea, became the anchor for the next doubling. But he must maintain the fire he had started with – if it ever went out, he would have to start again.

Similarly, if the remote fire was extinguished before he could use it to leap to the next flame, twice as far away, that too would force him back to the beginning. Fortunately, most human-made fires tended to be kept burning, and it wasn’t a problem to rest between castings. The burning shrub on the mountain, however, had been a natural event, no doubt ignited by a lightning strike. He couldn’t risk that it would still be there in twelve hours, and he’d been forced to do a double shift so as not lose all his progress. It had exhausted him, and he was pretty sure he had freaked out the old man he’d briefly spoken to through the flames… but it had worked.

On the 10th of Metisto he finally achieved his ultimate goal with the spell, making contact with the hearth fire in Raven’s quarters at Kar Gevdan. It had been worth all the exhaustion, lost sleep, and strain just to see his wife’s reaction when his bust, in living flame, appeared in her fireplace and spoke to her. Once she had calmed down and finished cursing him out for startling her so – “I most certainly was not frightened, husband! I am a Hunter of the Great Marsh, and I bear the Spearmark… I was merely startled.” – they quickly fell into a talk, sharing all that had happened with themselves in the month since they’d last been together.

Devrik admitted that the strange, precious year they had spent in that mysterious bubble of altered time, in the dead city of Xaranda*, had spoiled him more than a little. Especially the joys of watching their son grow older. “Perhaps it’s time I followed Draik’s lead, and give up this adventuring life, retire to spend his days raising their family with her.

“Oh, my dear husband,” Raven had laughed, her flame-construct head showing every crinkle around her eyes in a thousand shades of orange, yellow, and red. “You’d die of boredom within a year! The only reason you stayed sane in that strange, timeless place for so long was because you had the mystery of our imprisonment to solve, a quest to free us and return us to where we belonged. I fear your memory is playing tricks on you, if you imagine you were content in that bucolic trap.

“Yes, we both made the best of it, and I treasure that mostly-uninterrupted time we had together… I know Aldari certainly adored having so much of his Da’s time. You were there for his first steps, and his first words, as you might not have been in the true flow of time… who knows for sure?

“But there wasn’t a day when you weren’t gnawing at the puzzle, seeking the solution, fighting (and remember, not always just in thought) to break the spell that held us there. You’d not have that in the real world, my love, and you’d not be happy for long without a real challenge, one of life and death. Maybe someday, but not now, not in the prime of your life, with important work yet ahead of you. And I am content with that, even as I miss you.”

Devrik wanted to argue the point, but in his heart he knew she was right. He was torn between his love for her and Aldari, and his love for the life he led in the Hand of Fortune and as an agent of the Star Council. But until now, he’d never been away for more than a month or two; this time, the separation promised to be much longer.

“How do you feel about you and Aldari joining me here, in the Ocean Empire. I have no idea how long it will take us to get home, but if I had you with me, it wouldn’t really matter. And I hear travel is good for the young, broadens the mind and all.”

“And how would we accomplish this feat, love? I thought travel through the Gates was too dangerous still, else you’d be home yourself by now.”

“Too dangerous for us in the Hand,” he agreed. “We know that Vortex bitch can snatch us, even if we don’t yet know for sure how. But Vetaris agrees that it is unlikely she can seize just any random person, at any given time. He agrees that it should be safe for you to travel out, even if we can’t yet travel back. And it’s a very large ship, it should be safe as houses here for you both.”

“Around the Hand of Fortune?” Raven laughed again, her flame image flickering with her amusement. “Unlikely! But I’d still trust our friends, and you, and my own skill, to keep our son safe. So say on, my husband, how may we make this idea of yours come true?”

∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆

While Devrik had immersed himself in his attempts to reach his wife, Toran and Erol had also spent much of their time deep in their own arcane studies. The Guild of Arcane Lore had a modest but fairly comprehensive library in Tishton, and they both took advantage of it. Toran sought a way to increase the damage done by his weapons, especially the subtler thrown weapons such as his taburi and shuriken. He had seen similar effects demonstrated by the monks at the hidden monastery of his training, and was certain he could create something similar.

On the night of the 10th, the same night on which Devrik finally broke though to his wife, Toran succeeded in the first casting of his new Iron Sting spell. It imbued any iron weapon with an energy that was released on throwing, more than doubling the damage the weapon could inflict on a target. Still not going to take the place of his battle-axe, of course, but in the right time and place, it could make a difference.

Erol had less immediate luck with his own spell development, but then he sought to move considerably greater forces. Given their reliance, for the foreseeable future, on a sailing ship for transportation, it had struck him as wise to focus his energies on a spell, or spells, to command the winds. He knew, in theory, much about such powers, but his memories of the great Asakora were growing ever dimmer, and he was forced to rely more and more on actual study… and practical research. The Tishton Guild’s resources proved helpful, but the biggest stumbling block remained experimentation and practical tests of his theories.

No one aboard the Wind of Kasira was anxious to have him experiment while they were at sea, and on land there were few enough places to risk it either. Bringing a tornado down in a heavily populated area was unlikely to win him any friends. Still, he found a spot not far outside the city walls, on a headland overlooking the sea, that let him test out various ideas… and he quickly learned that he’d been wise to take that precaution. It was unlikely anyone would miss that particular section of cliff face, he was certain…

Still, even failures taught you something, and by the time they were ready to sail, he was quite certain he’d be ready for more controlled experiments at sea. Just maybe not when anyone else was around to witness them… plausible deniability, if not by that name, was something he understood instinctively. And he was making progress, it was just a matter of time.

Meanwhile the hiring of the crew went on apace. Each day the ranks grew, and Mate Yonas had more and more to do. The new sail had been put in place within a few days, using some of the store of the strange, very strong canvas already in the Wind’s hold. Similarly, cordage and spars had been available from the existing stores, although he did wonder what the effect would be when they eventually ran out of the alien materials. Still, they were exceptionally durable, so it might be awhile before they had to deal with that problem.

Piet “Stinky” Garhan, and his twin brother Yon “Badger” Garhan, the first of the new hires he and Korwin had made that first day in port, were proving themselves a good investment, especially when allowed to work together… separately each was a decent enough seaman, no complaints there. But put them together, and it was as if they became one mind with four hands. Yonas swore the two of them accomplished the work of three when yoked in unison.

On the 11th of Metisto the Mate was surprised to see a woman amongst the latest batch of recruits. Female sailors were hardly unheard of, but they were uncommon… but this was no sailor. More a lady, really, which was explained when Captain K’Jorul introduced them.

“Mate Grünby, let me introduce you to our new ship’s surgeon, physician Lurin Ar’Hanol. She is a very skilled doctor from my own land, and I feel we’re quite lucky to have her. She travels to the east to study new healing techniques, and so her goals fit well with our needs. Please show her to the surgeon’s quarters, and assign a man to act as her batman and general assistant until she can select her own, once we’re fully crewed.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he said, taking the proffered hand, careful not to grip it to hard… but her own grip was surprising firm. Perhaps not a surprise for a surgeon, he realized. She was not a classical beauty, perhaps, but very compelling in her own way… not unlike the Lady Mariala, he thought. He’d have to keep a weather eye out until the crew became used to her, to make sure no one offered her offense. Although he suspected that she, like Lady Mariala, could take care of herself.

∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆

On the 13th of Metisto the Hand had their first debate over one of Captain K’Jorul’s crew selections. For the most part they had all remained aloof, even Korwin, respecting his expertise and his prerogatives as commander. But the choice of a pilot was critical, and they opted to sit in on the interviews with the four candidates up for consideration. The owners-aboard and the Captain were agreed on the first candidate, Kardeth M’Yud, another native of Kunya-Kesh. K’Jorul apparently knew him by reputation, and didn’t care for what he knew, and both Vulk and Mariala gave definitive “no’s” after a few minutes of questions. The rest of the owners accepted that without demurral, and the man departed, not graciously.

No one felt strongly about Astan Lyir, a middle-aged man from the city-state of Agara, on the Wild Coast, while Captain K’Jorul preferred Akel Quangar, of Ormen in the Three Kingdoms. He was an Imperial, and knew the Archipelago well, with what Belith felt was the proper balance between experience and age. Most of the owners, however, leaned strongly toward a younger man, Arus Salasin of Aldeath, on the island of Thorkin. Also an Imperial, he had an enthusiasm and energy that the adventuresome group appreciated.

Since K’Jorul’s main objection to the man was his relative youth, and therefore inexperience, and nothing more substantial, in the end he acquiesced to the owner’s desire and agreed on their choice. It was not a bad choice, and it was the only time the owners-aboard had shown an inclination to interfere… so far. Besides, his cousin had whispered in his ear that, at 28, he was a bit hypocritical to hold up another man’s youth as a disqualification for a post.

∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆

On the 14th of Metisto the owners-aboard, perhaps to smooth over any hard feelings they imagined might exist over the pilot question, had deferred completely to Captain K’Jorul on whether or not to take on a passenger. Domus Tomas Biswyk, a tall, skinny youth of noble family and substantial means, approached the ship about booking passage, having understood that they intended to travel across the Empire.

“I am what I like to call a “Naturalist,” he’d explained, “that is, one who studies the natural world, from its geology, climates and geography to its plant and animal life. I am particularly involved in developing a personal theory of mine, regarding the origin of species and their development over time, and to further my work I need to study various life forms in as many isolated locales as possible. A tour throughout the Archipelago would be eminently suitable for this purpose.

“Now, I would prefer to hire a ship devoted solely to my own endeavors, but my funds do not allow such a luxury. I am the youngest child of seven, and while my father is inclined to indulge my studies, my oldest sister, and his heir, thinks them merely the foolish fancies of a dilettante, of no practical worth. She is a very practical woman. And since, the second she inherits our father’s title and estates, she will cut off most of my allowance, I have decided it is time to pursue my studies while Father is still hale… and indulgent.”

Those of the owners who took an interest in the matter seemed amused by the near-sighted, clearly sheltered and naive young man, but they left the decision entirely to their captain. Belith was rather amused by the fellow himself, although he was inclined to agree with the sister about the value of his ideas. Still, they had the room, and Biswyk was willing to pay the going rate for a private cabin, so why not?

The next day, the 15th of Metisto, once Domus Tomas had brought aboard his surprisingly large collection of books, crates and cases, the Wind of Kasira set sail on the afternoon tide…

---

*An untold story that will be fully explored in the semi-near future.

29 Sarnia – 3 Metisto 3020

On their return to the surface the Hand of Fortune found a dazed and bewildered populace stumbling out of their homes into the dawn light. The previous day’s overcast had disappeared during the night, and the new day promised to be clear and hot, Korwin sensed. It seemed that, with the severing of the connection between Novendo and the alien dimension, the mind-altering effects of the aliens had entirely vanished – as had the mysterious obelisk in Fisherman’s Square.

Unfortunately, the townsfolk who had been taken “down underneath” to have their brains stored were not restored, nor were those whose bodies had been worn by the foul invaders. The initial joy in town at their sudden deliverance was quickly tempered by grief when it became clear that some 150 souls had been lost during the terrible episode. Everyone seemed to remember the last several tendays both clearly, and yet with a certain glassy detachment… as if it had all happened to someone else.

“I r’member t’all right clear,” Vidalo Karvek tried to explain to Mariala. She had seen him and his son stumbling, dazed and bewildered, out of a house as the Hand made their way – slowly, for the sake of the man Erol and Devrik carried in their make-shift litter – in search of the residence of the town physician’s. She had realized almost at once who they must be, for the boy bore a strong resemblance to both his sister and his father. “Clear… but more like t’were a story I once heard… not like a real t’ing what ‘appened to me, if’n you take my meaning, Lady.”

She’d been pleased to tell him that his wife and daughter were safe, and where they could be found – a relief to her soul in the face of the night’s horrors. He in turn was able to both identify the injured man as Danir Alvador, the local mercantyler who ran the town’s only chandlery, and to lead them to the sought-after physician. As soon as he’d seen them properly arrived, Vidalo and his son had departed to reunite with their family. From Enab’s Steading the news of the visitor’s work overnight would spread quickly, and by afternoon the entire island would come to know of the town’s rescue.

Once they had delivered their burden safely, Devrik insisted on returning to the caverns to make sure that none of the Mi-Go (as several of the formerly enthralled natives insisted the aliens were named) had survived his sterilization efforts. Erol, Korwin and Toran accompanied him, leaving Vulk and Mariala to address the growing crowd of bewildered and frightened townsfolk, who had begun to gather outside the physician’s house.

Vulk used every trick in the herald’s playbook, as well as all the teachings of the Eldaran Church, to calm, reassure and console the people. By the time the others returned with the welcome news that not a trace of the alien infestation remained, the crowd was ready to begin the process of reclaiming their lives. The grieving could begin, now that the survivors were assured of their safety; but Mariala suspected the nightmares would go on for the rest of their fractured lives.

By noon the Hand were able get away from town and return to the Legate’s manor to report on the nights events. They had discovered two of his men still amongst the living, but had found no trace of his guard captain. The confused memories of the two surviving men indicated that the captain had been heavily involved in planning the ship’s route, but what that route supposed to have been they had no idea… they themselves been mostly used as strong backs for building the vessel.

“A pity,” Legate Charkress sighed on learning of the probable fate of his man. “Frongar was a good man, conscientious and capable. No doubt why those… creatures… found him useful. He also knew a great deal about the geography of the Archipelago and the capabilities of the Imperial military, naval history being a particular hobby of his.

“I wonder if his brain ended up in one of those hideous jars you described…” He looked pale and shaken at the thought. He had listened in horrified fascination as the Hand related the terrifying underground events of the previous night, and he now passed around a crystal decanter of very potent rum. His hands were too unsteady to pour for his guests. “I cannot express my gratitude for what you have done sers , m’lady. I fear the debt which the Empire, indeed the world, owes you can never be wholly repaid in this matter, but what ever I can do, rest assured I shall!”

“Well, we just did what any group of highly trained and personally powerful professional adventurers would have done, my lord,” Korwin said modestly. “But it’s nice to be appreciate, ser. As for reward… what are your plans for that ship in your harbor?”

As it turned out, neither the Legate nor any of the townsmen wanted anything to do with the “accursed nightmare ship” and were more than happy to let the Hand of Fortune take it off their quay and their thoughts. Korwin immediately took on the job of getting the vessel fully seaworthy. Thankfully, most of the final outfitting work had already been completed — the ship would have been ready to sail in a day or two. Less good was the fact that none of the townsfolk seemed now to remember anything of the shipwright’s arts… nor wished to set foot on the vessel again, even if they did.

Fortunately, Korwin and the local fishing fleet had enough expertise, between them, to suffice for what remained to be done… even if would take them a bit longer without the efficiency alien mind control and implanted knowledge. The water mage had been worried that finding a crew might prove impossible, but once it was learned that the heroes of the hour would be sailing away in the ominous vessel, a trickle of islanders desperately wishing to get off of Arapet became, if not a flood, at least a solid stream.

One exception to the general feeling of loathing evoked by the ship was Yonas Grünbay. A retired merchant sailor of 60, he had returned to his native island after a full career at sea — almost 40 years before the mast. Childless, and a widower now in the wake of the recent tragedy, there was nothing holding him to Arapet, and too many memories driving him away.

“And whatever her origins, she’s a right beauty,” he’d told Korwin when he approached the mage the next day, as he was beginning to assess the task he faced. “Tightest ship I’ve seen in two score years at sea, Ser, and I’d be more’n happy to be yer mate for the chance to sail her… as long as ’tis far from this acursed island.”

The man was certainly right about the tightness of the vessel. Korwin had just come up from the bilges himself, and been shocked at the almost total absence of water there. All ships leaked to some extent, and new ships were notorious for the amount of water they took on until everything settled into place, with time and usage. But not this ship – and he rather expected that she’d remain tight under sail.

With a few minutes of questioning Korwin quickly realized what a gem he’d lucked across. Although he had studied under a master shipwright, and knew his way around the basics of building and maintaining a vessel, the water mage knew his own limitations. Growing up in a fishing village, in a fishing family, he was certainly a passable sailor; he was even a member of the Pilot’s Guild (although he suspected his dues were probably somewhat in arrears by now). Nonetheless, having a man who had spent his life aboard ship, serving as everything from deck boy to mate, would be a godsend. Or maybe a goddessend…

He accepted Yonas’ offer with alacrity, and immediately turned over the task of interviewing the growing line of people, mostly young men, who wished to sign on. “It’s a relief,” he assured his compatriots over supper that night with the Legate. “He’ll do a much better job than I would’ve, sorting out the utterly hopeless from the merely clueless. I just hope we can find enough likely candidates to properly man the — hey, what are we going to name her, anyway? She has to have a name!”

“Well, The Norn seems like an obvious choice,” Toran offered. “If it wasn’t for his direction we never would have come here in time. So if we’re really taking possession of the thing, maybe we should name it after her.”

“A ship is always a “she,” my non-sea-faring Khundari lout, never an “it”!”” Korwin corrected his friend, laughing. “But that’s actually not a bad name.”

“Yes,” agreed Devrik, reluctantly. “But I feel it’s really Kasira we should be thanking for this victory… and so many of our others, too. Besides, no one else in the world has ever heard of the Norn, nor are they ever likely to. Maybe a better name would be something like… Kasira’s Wind?”

“I think you’re on the right track,” Vulk said, smiling. “But frankly, that sounds like the Lady is passing gas. How about… Wind of Kasira, instead?”

There was a brisk discussion about which sounded more pleasing to the ear, but by the time the dessert wine was being poured a consensus had been reached – Wind of Karsira it would be.

The next day was the first of Metisto and the Shalaran holy day of the Fête of Wisdom. Her friends, with the enthusiastic help of the townsfolks, used the occasion to throw Mariala a belated birthday party. Control of the event quickly slipped out of Vulk’s hands, however, under the relentless enthusiasm of Erala Karvek and her cronies. It quickly grew to encompass a day of thanksgiving and remembrance for the town, a bon voyage for those leaving, and a christening ceremony for the ship, on top of the birthday.

After a bottle of wine was broken across her prow, formally naming the Wind of Kasira, Legate Charkress opened his manor to the town, and the party grew so large that it spilled out onto the Residence’s grounds, with tables set up on the lawns and under the trees. It was a beautiful summer night , and the combined birthday celebration and wake went on until well past midnight. Speeches were made, toasts were offered – to the birthday girl, to the town’s saviors, and in memory of the towns dead.

After accepting universal congratulations for having achieved 26 years, and once the tone of the event turned somber as the evening (and the wine) went on, Mariala slipped away to the small Eldaran temple at the edge of the town. As with all such rural places, it was made to do duty for all 16 of the Immortals venerated by the Church. She knelt before the small alcove dedicate to Shala and, for a turn of the glass, offered up her usual holy day offering of deep meditation.

In the end she didn’t feel it had been her best offering, however… she was still too shaken by the horrors she’s witnessed, and the disturbing implications that such things could exist anywhere in a rational cosmos. With one last fervent prayer to Shala that such things might never again find their way into her world, at least, she rose and stepped outside.

Reaching into the scrip at her waist she pulled forth a small ceramic vial, and broke the wax seal covering the stopper. A sharp, astringent scent wafted up and sent a thrill down her spine. She lifted the vial to her lips, then paused… this was the last dose of Lyrin oil she had, and she’d been putting off using it, despite the increasing cravings. But she very much feared that it was her semi-withdrawal that had caused the terrible misfiring of her Fire Nerves spell two nights ago in the caverns… and she couldn’t afford such a mistake again.

But they would be home in a few days, no more than half a tenday, surely… and then she would be able to renew her supply. She might even be able to acquire more in this larger town, Tishton, they were sailing for tomorrow… the Legate had said it was actually a city of some size, a minor provincial capital. Of course it was a minor provincial capital of the Ocean Empire, and Lyrin was most certainly illegal under Imperial law. Not as frowned upon as more dangerous substances, perhaps, but in a land unfamiliar to her it would be foolish to try and procure any illegal drug. Probably. Not unless the need became dire…

But surely it wouldn’t! The Legate assured them there was a Nirtaran Portal on Chakal, and once they located it Vulk or Devrik would have them home in a trice! With a firm nod, she tossed back the vial and let the cool liquid pour down her throat, its blue electricity lighting up her mind…

• • •

The Hand had expected to sail the next day on the morning tide, but circumstances quickly dashed that hope. Mate Grünbay had chosen the 22 most likely candidates from the fifty or so who had applied. But all save four were landsmen, and two days had not been enough to prepare them to crew a vessel the size of Wind of Kasira.

As this morning’s fiasco with the rigging, the sails, and the crows nest had proved, Korwin thought sourly. Nothing was damaged beyond repair, and there were no actual deaths, so perhaps the fiasco had had a salutary effect on his would-be crew. Yonas assured him he’d seen worse… although when pressed he couldn’t say where, exactly.

But the near disaster had made it impossible for them to make the morning tide, and there was not a chance in all of Korön’s eight hells that Korwin or the Mate were going to risk the evening tide and a night sailing. Not with this mob of eager but mostly inept “sailors.” Under Yonas’ withering gaze the four experienced seamen spent the remainder of the day leading the ‘lubbers in several more runs through the various most vital shipboard tasks. Which left Korwin more time than was probably good for him to go over his plotted course again… on the other hand, it also allowed him time for a project he’d had to set aside earlier, under the press of events…

That evening at dinner, once again at the Legate’s table, more bad news was waiting. Mariala, looking paler than usual and with a certain unusual tension in her face, announced that she had heard back from Master Vetaris via her entangled parchment. Given the limited writing area, and the need to conserve the limited sheets each possessed, he had been forced to brevity and bluntness.

“In short, his mother is still at large, and the Star Council has yet to determined how she was able to hijack us as she did when we gated last winter. They believe it has to do with our auras – each person’s is utterly unique – but with no way to counter it, they advise that we would be foolish to travel via Nitaran Gate just now. I gather he is avoiding such travel himself, and the rest of the Council is using it only in urgent cases. No one is certain whose auras she may have… captured.”

This news upset everyone, to some degree, but it hit Devrik particularly hard. He and Raven had been in communication via the entangled paper Mariala had given them, and both had been eagerly anticipating a heated reunion in the near future. He very much feared his wife would take this news even worse than he was… and by the Void, at this rate would his son even recognize him when he did make it home?

“How long will it take to sail us home?” he demanded of Korwin once the news had sunk in.

“That’s… hard to say,” his friend replied, calculating madly in his head. He was no more pleased than Devrik at the looming prospect of having to sail the entire length of the Empire, if for other reasons. “No less than two months, and that’s assuming we can hire a competent crew and pilot. I wouldn’t even try it with the lot we have now, frankly.

“We might shave some time if we make for the Gulf of Kildora, then travel overland through the Republic and the Savage Mountains. But that could also end up taking longer, perhaps much longer, depending on… well, a lot of things we can’t control.”

It was a peeved and disgruntled Hand of Fortune that retired that night, and only Erol slept completely soundly. Toran, while not feeling any urgent need to get home quickly, was nonetheless more than a little apprehensive about an extended sea voyage. A few hours from Arapet to Tishton had seemed relatively bearable; but two or more months on the ocean?! Umantari folk legends notwithstanding, the Khundari were not made of stone, and some few of them could actually swim. But you’d never prove it by him, Toran reflected glumly as he lay awake that night – he would sink like a stone, straight to the bottom!

He’d survived several short voyages on the Sea of Ukal without undue stress (however, not with no stress), but those had been, well, short. And on a sea he was assured was relatively calm and placid. And shallow. The Shattered Sea was quite another matter! Not, he supposed, that drowning in 10 meters of water, as opposed to 1000 meters, would really matter.

One bad storm, one rogue wave, and he could find himself sleeping with the fishes forever. If he could operate a Gate himself, he’d be inclined to take the risk, but he doubted the others would agree. And he now bitterly regretted the loss of the key to the Fane of Gheas! If that still worked, he’d take his chances with its random travel in a heartbeat, ship and ocean both be damned!

The next morning, in the pre-dawn light, the Hand stood on the quay, saying goodbye to Legate Chakress and many of the the locals who had risen to see them off. The Legate handed Vulk a satchel, sealed with the Imperial Seal.

“I was up quite late, polishing the draft we worked up yesterday recounting… recent events. I appreciate your taking on the duty to deliver my report to the Prince Palatine yourself. In the past I might have used the excuse of my gout to avoid traveling, but it hasn’t bothered me since your treatment, Brother Vulk. The truth is, I simply cannot leave my charge here at this time. I failed to protect these people once, but I am determined to do all that I can to get them through the aftermath.”

He leaned in close and spoke for Vulk’s ear only. “Thank you as well for your spiritual guidance these past few days, Brother. Your counsel has brought me back to my faith in my darkest hour, and I will not falter again.” The two men clasped forearms and Vulk made a simple benediction over the older man’s bowed head. Then the Legate stepped back and turned to address the group.

“I wish for you to have this, as remembrance of your work here and of me, as you voyage forth today.” He opened a second boiled leather case he carried, revealing the beautiful spyglass they’d all peered through that first day. “I have no heirs to leave it to in any case, and I can think of no fitter place to bestow it than upon the Hand of Fortune. I’m certain that old Degalith himself would be proud to know his handiwork was so well given.” Mariala accepted for the group, amid their grateful murmurs of surprise and gratification.

While this was going on, and the last of the supplies were being taken aboard, Vidalo Karvek and his family pushed through the crowd, seeking Korwin. The smith (with the death of his master, no longer an apprentice) handed him a small bundle wrapped in a blue cloth. They spoke quietly for a moment, and Korwin tried to give him some coins, but the man refused them, gesturing to his smiling family. Korwin shrugged, and bowed acknowledgment of the point.

When the family moved off to speak with Mariala the water mage looked around for Toran. He found him near the gangway, staring moodily down at the dark, shifting waters between the quay and the ship. The Khundari looked up at his friend’s approach and smiled wanly. “Looking forward to your first command, Korwin?” he asked diffidently.

“Oh, I suppose so, if I wasn’t so nervous,” Korwin replied in a burst of unusual frankness. “Oh, maybe I shouldn’t say that out loud – aren’t captains supposed to be inscrutable and never show any doubt or weakness?”

Toran gave a genuine laugh at that. “Yes, that’s what they tell you in any command training – never let your people see your doubts or fears. And for good reason, I now realize – you’re words do not inspire great confidence in me, I must confess.”

“Ah, well, maybe this will do a better job of easing your mind, then,” Korwin said. “I know you do not love the water, with some reason.” He had tried to teach the Shadow Warrior how to swim last summer, and it had not gone well. After the wet, angry Dwarf had finally stomped off a wet, frustrated Korwin had had to admit he had a point.

Now, with a flourish, he held out the small blue-wrapped bundle. With a quizzical glance at the taller man, Toran took it. Folding back the cloth he found two bronze armbands, simple but clearly well made. The traditional ancient Oceanian key design was chased in silver around the center of each band, and the hinges and clasps were made of black steel.

“They’re very nice, my friend, but the last thing I need to ease my… concerns… is more weight.”

“Ah, but these are not what they seem,” Korwin said with barely suppressed excitement. “I had our friend Vidalo make these, and in the forging I imbued them with Avikoran Principle, in the form of a spell of buoyancy. Wear these around your biceps while we’re at sea, and even if the ship and all the rest of us go under, you’ll still be bobbing around on the surface like a large, hairy cork.”

Toran looked at the armbands for a moment, too surprised to say anything. Despite Korwin’s penchant for being abrasive and irritating at times, he’d always rather liked the Oceanian. And he had certainly shown his courage and worth in battle in recent months. But such generosity and thoughtfulness was… unexpected, to say the least.

“Thank you, my friend,” he said at last, clasping forearms with the other man. “It’s the most thoughtful gift that, I pray to Gheas, I’ll never have to use!”

“Yes, I hope so too,” Korwin laughed, gratified his gift had gone over well. “I’m sorry there’s no time to test it out before we sail, but even so I hope that it will ease your mind. Vidalo tested it out on young Borin not an hour ago, in the quenching tank at the forge. Worked like a charm, no pun intended, kept the lad afloat and right-side-up – couldn’t even push him under by main strength, he reports.”

This allayed some of Toran’s unvoiced concerns, to be sure. But he was still determined to test it himself… as soon as he could find some suitably shallow water, of course… he certainly wasn’t going to just jump into the sea!

The last surprise of the morning, or so Korwin sincerely hoped, eyeing the frenetic motion of his crew as they prepared to depart, was the breathless arrival of Danir Alvador, the man Vulk and Devrik had saved from vivisection five nights ago. He had a duffel bag over his shoulder and seemed dressed for travel.

“Wait! Wait for me!” The man called out as two men were preparing to draw up the gangplank. At a nod from Korwin they allowed the man to board, and he paused to catch his breath, rubbing absently at his belly. Envisioning the terrible scar that must still be there, hidden by the man’s clothes, Korwin shuddered inwardly. Vulk, stepping down from the poop deck where he, Devrik and Mariala had been watching preparations, looked concerned.

“Master Alvador!” he called. “Are you alright? It’s good to see you up and about, but it’s probably too soon for much strenuous exercise. What brings you here so urgently?”

“To put it bluntly, Cantor Vulk, I wish to accompany you, and offer my services to you all as a guilded mercantyler.”

“What? But what about your business? Who will run the chandlery?” Vulk was taken aback by this sudden offer. He had been down each day to check on his patient, given that the local physician was completely out of his depth in such a case. Having mixed Alvador’s blood with one of the remaining undifferentiated Baylorium doses that first morning, he’d finally been able to administer the specific curative just yesterday. Still, he was surprised at how well the man was doing, the miraculous powers of Draik’s elixir not withstanding.

“Oh, my apprentice is well able to take over running the business… as he’s been telling me for several years now,” Alvador chuckled. “And in any case, I don’t think there will be much business on Arapet in the coming years. Even before this tragedy it was a dying place.

“But that aside, I owe you my life, you and your friends. And this is the way I can best begin to pay back that debt. I understand you have a load of strange goods aboard, left by… those things…” His face darkened momentarily at the memory of his torturers, but he quickly shook it off. “I don’t know how much you know of such things, but it will be difficult to sell them on your own… the Guild frowns on its members doing direct business with unguided persons, and the black market is chancey at best.”

Vulk considered the man’s words thoughtfully. His experience overseeing the Fortune’s Favor’s trading voyages meant he was well aware of the prickliness of the Merchant’s Guild – it’s why that ship’s captain was also a member of that organization. There was no denying it would be handy to have a mercantyler aboard to handle the trading, especially one familiar with the Empire… and truth to tell, he’d not been looking forward to handling the matter himself.

But he was concerned about this idea that Alvador had about owing any debt, to Vulk or the others. The man had told anyone who’d listen about his dramatic rescue from the horrific death he’d been in the middle of, and there were all too many eager ears ready to hear his (admittedly quite vivid and well-told) story. His enthusiasm for the Hand of Fortune, along with that of Erala Karvek’s, had gone a long way to fueling the accolades the town had heaped upon them at the big party, and since.

“Well, whatever you’re going to decide, Vulk, it needs to be now,” Korwin growled as he went up the steep stairs to the poop deck. “The tide is moving, and we need to be doing the same. Now!”

Vulk smiled at the mercantyler and gestured toward the rear cabins. “Let’s step into the captain’s cabin and discuss this further, Master Alvador,” he said. The merchant grinned back and hefted his duffel…

A moment later the last ropes were cast off and the ship began to pull away, warped out her berth by two rowed longboats. Despite a few tense moments, once they were far enough out the inexperienced crew of the Wind of Kasira managed to get her out of Arapet harbor without fouling her rigging or running her aground. With the morning sun on the starboard bow and a favorable wind at her back, the sails were hoisted and the ship glided into the future to the fading cheers of the townsfolk gathered on the quay…

The Hand returned to Zurhan in the mid-afternoon of 21 Sarnia, and immediately reported to the Chancellor and Master Vetaris on the bizarre events around Hart’s Lodge. The King was indisposed just then, but the Chancellor assured them he would pass on the full report. He also reported that their interrogation of the Darikazi slaver/spies that Erol and Mariala had captured, the few that had survived, had yielded very little.

“The most we’ve learned is that they were based in Gevdan Town,” the Chancellor reported with a sigh. “And that one, possibly two, of their number remained behind.

“As grateful as we are that you exposed them, I could wish you’d left rather more of them alive. Only two of the survivors were actual Darikazi; the rest were merely locally flunkies who knew almost nothing.”

“The Korönians were never going to give up easily,” an unrepentant Erol shrugged. “We really had no choice, they seemed determined not to be taken alive.”

Mariala looked at her friend with a raised eyebrow, but said nothing. At that moment a knock at the door interrupted the conversation. A courier from Kar Gevdan had arrived with an urgent message for the Baron’s nephew and his friends.

It seemed that some strange going-ons had been occurring in the town below the castle. Strange animals had appeared in the streets, there were reports of ghosts and even the dead rising up, and several people had gone missing. Lord Tynal’s own men had investigated, but aside from killing a few stray beasts, including a silver-back bear, had been able to learn nothing… aside from a strong desire to avoid the Low Town, apparently.

The Devrik’s cousins were with the army, preparing for the spring campaign, so the Baron wondered if his nephew and his boon companions might be free to come and investigate themselves… it seemed very much in their wheelhouse. He reported that Raven and his grand-nephew were fine, nothing uncanny had yet penetrated the castle, bur they missed Devrik.

“I had been preparing to send my own investigators to pursue this matter of the Darikazi,” the Chancellor said, looking thoughtful as Vulk finished reading the message (Devrik had handed it off to his friend to read aloud, once he’d perused it himself). “If it is your intention to accede to Baron Gevdan’s request, might I impose upon you once again? If you could look into this matter of the remaining spies at the same time, the Crown would be grateful…”

“We’d be happy to find the remaining slavers,” Erol said before anyone else could reply. “I assume we’re going, right Devrik?”

“Well, I’m going of course,” the warrior-mage growled. “I’d appreciate the rest of you coming, of course, but I know it’s been a tough several days…”

“Oh, of course we’re coming with you,” Vulk said, to the nods and murmured agreement of the others. “The Hand sticks together, after all!”

“But I assume we won’t be haring off this evening,” Mariala added with a hard look at Devrik. She knew his obsessiveness when it came to any danger to his family, however remote. “So I suggest we find ourselves a decent meal and then retire early. An early start will get us to Kar Gevdan with plenty of time to investigate.”

Devrik agreed with a grunt and a shrug… he had been planning on leaving at once, but his friend was right. It would be well after dark before he could arrive, and there seemed little enough danger to his family… and he knew his uncle was fully capable of protecting them, if it came to it.

As the Hand departed the royal castle to find a decent inn for a hot meal, Maser Vetaris accompanied them as far as Execution Square, filling them in on his own activities and the Council’s plans for the upcoming campaign to mop up the last of the late, but not lamented, Laravad’s mercenary forces.

“Vox has proved very capable on the last mission upon whichI sent him, spying out enemy positions in the west,” the older man concluded. “I’ve asked him to travel with the army for now, so he may not rejoin you for awhile.”

With that he waved them on to food, suggesting the Ample Eel as a good choice, and turned to make his way to the Ukalus embassy he was calling home these days. The Hand took his suggestion, and agreed that it was, indeed, a fine choice… Haplo tried not to think of it as a last meal, but who knew what the ‘morrow would bring?