It was the powerful baldheaded stranger, who had come up behind Durrekal and was now kneeling by the body of the stunned youth.

  “I live here by sufferance as much as the next man,” Durrekal said, turning to face the older stranger as he knelt by the younger. “A cock’s brawl is one thing, a trifle of blood is little more—save when the blood gets into the eye, the mind’s eye. I cannot afford to permit the captain of the Bephan garrison, protecting the Oulan Road, to commit the folly of slaughter upon a far-traveling youth on such slight grounds.”

  “Well spoken,” said the stranger. “I am called Shagon. I come from Shassa, which lies, as you may know, not far past Periareth, six fiftydays hence. This lad here and I—unknown to me before—met in Ninashon ten days ago, and it chanced that he did me several small favors.”

  Konarr, suddenly weary, righted a toppled bench and sat down. No one was paying any attention to him anyway. Durrekal and Shagon seemed engrossed with each other, and— were they sensing their captain’s odd lassitude?—the dozen men from his command, so loud in their comments during the fight, were quiet now. Like the even quieter Bephan villagers, they were drinking down the remnants of their wine and ale, settling with the nervous serving girl Lysai, and making their separate ways outside to the crisp clean air of the peaceful evening.

  Tassoran started to raise himself off the floor, then slumped back with a groan.

  “I should like to repay this lad for his generous service to me,” said Shagon, and Konarr realized he had missed part of what had happened. “Have the wench bring ale and meat for him and for myself, in my room upstairs.”

  Durrekal nodded, then motioned to catch Konarr’s attention.

  “Come into the back,” said the old man. “Let me look at that shoulder.”

  Konarr was dimly astonished to notice a thin trickle of blood running down the right side of his chest. He stood up almost automatically and followed the innkeeper. His thoughts—why couldn’t he clear his thoughts? But it was too much trouble even to worry…

  “It was a matter of pressure applied to the proper spot on your neck,” Shagon repeated.

  Tassoran was angry. He had felt a lancing jolt of agony just as he was preparing to meet Konarr’s attack, and had fallen to the floor unconscious. Dimly he remembered being helped upstairs by the bald man, who had sweated heavily with the effort. Then, apart of a swallow of ale, and he was gagging and spewing.

  “What did that ancient beast do to me? Must have poisoned the meat, that’s it. Or the ale.”

  Shagon began an explanation, but Tassoran became even more angered.

  Again Shagon attempted to explain, then shrugged. “It was for your good,” he observed rather coldly. “The captain was fully enraged, eager for your blood. You fought him too well, fellow.”

  “Too well?” Tassoran frowned and stared at Shagon. “Who are you and why do you say these things to me?”

  “Ahhh. He is prepared for introductions. Excellent.” Sha-gon’s smile was chill. “It is well for you I admire the mettle of your spiritedness. We will leave it for the time at that. As for the other, you know me as Shagon of Shassa—”

  “I do not know you at all,” said Tassoran. “Yet I remember I heard you tell them down stairs that we met in Nina-shon.”

  “I met you. Perhaps I should not have implied that you had met me.”

  Tassoran stood up. “I play few games, Shagon of Shassa, if that is the extent and right of your name. And when I do, I seek out laughing girls. Sir, I will not bandy words with you, but I will take my leave of you this moment.” He turned toward the door.

  “Stay, stay, lad, you are hasty. If you will bb hasty, I must be hasty too. In brief, I have employment for you.”

  The lad turned. “You do not know my business and affairs. How can you know your task is in my trade?”

  “Ah. When I came upon you at last in Ninashon, you proceeded to confirm my high estimation of your abilities as a master thief. It makes no difference from whom I learned this, nor how I learned you made your way to Zetri. What matters, is the manner in which you took but one brief evening to filch not one, but two of the finest diamonds in all the Ninashon Marches—and with a brace of waregons guarding them!”

  Shagon’s voice was soft, his smile placid, almost sleepy.

  Tassoran blinked.

  And Tassoran sat down.

  It was not so much that Shagon knew he had stolen the diamonds, though the inner chambers of Nezzei’s small castle were supposedly inaccessible. But it had taken months to learn of the presence of the half-legendary waregons—had Shagon been observing him all the time?

  “Yes, you found out about the waregons,” Shagon said, “and you obtained with some difficulty the proper kind of pitchy club, and you did this and that to the club, and you made your way inside the inner chambers, and almost didn’t—”

  “I almost didn’t get my flint and steel out in time to light the torch before the waregons were at me,” Tassoran said aloud, completing the sentence, and remembering. Remembering the waregons, all fang and daw and dry stench in the perfect darkness.

  But the torch was lit and blazing in time, and the waregons, man-sized, horrible as legend, screamed hideously in the rich red firelight, and vanished, giving Tassoran just enough time to secure the two gems he sought from their difficult hiding place and get away free, before Nezzei could come stumbling in, half a dozen sleep-eyed guards fearful in his wake for their lives…

  “And,” continued Shagon relentlessly, “now that you have the diamonds safely, you can proceed to Zetri and hope you find someone in the Magicians’ Quarter who, for such a price, will take the ulth-crazed, full-grown devlet from your trail, eh? And then you can see to the one who did it, eh?”

  “You know too much, not to be a warlock,” Tassoran stated. “I’ll have naught to do with warlocks, and thank you.” Again he rose to leave.

  He sat down again slowly.

  A ring of flame had come into being and was hissing round his head, causing sweat to pop out involuntarily.

  As he touched the chair, the ring of flame winked out

  “Very well,” said Shagon. His tone was colder yet and this time rang with a strange finality that chilled Tassoran. “I have certain…powers, as you have now seen. I am, after all, a Spellmaster of Sezain.”

  Tassoran sighed and closed his eyes, then opened them resolutely after a moment.

  “I do not like wizards, nor warlocks, nor even Spellmasters, Shagon of Shassa. Yet I will hear you out, for I see you wish to come to an agreement…”

  “I will not hide that I speak of a small matter that is of some…weight in the affairs of the world,” said Shagon, and his innate reluctance to disclose information to an ordinary man, even a master thief, was obvious. “No thief nor mage could make his way alone to it with safety, nor, once there, could he hope to return with the prize, though it is but a trifle in size.”

  “A tempting picture!” said Tassoran, wry smile on his lips. “I tell you, sir, you are no tradesman.”

  A scowl darkening his face, Shagon said, “Do not make games with me. I have more fire at my command…

  “You mistake me; I mean only that you do not gild your story with any vain enticing circumstances. Instead you show me the bones, expert to expert. Very illuminating. Yet what you tell me does not seem to lie in my line…

  “Ah; but a thief could not but be detected, if he used only skill, and I, for instance, should I venture there, would be detected directly by her, for I could not mask my power from her. But master thief and thaumaturge can do it, though it lie in the innermost chamber of the Ebon Tower in the center of her gardens between the Greater and the Lesser Palaces of the Lady Tza in Zetri.”

  “I am humbled by your high opinion of me,” said Tassoran, inclining his head slightly toward the Spellmaster, “but can a mere Spellmaster match flames with her?”

  Shagon smiled a grim smile. “You will see, my friend. I tell you this. I can match anything with the one who set the grown devlet on your trail. Will you ride with me to Zetri’s gates, and inside them to my lodgings, while I unfold the pattern and the cloth to back our deeds—if I destroy the devlet?”

  It was strong in Tassoran to refuse. He had ridden hard since Ninashon, to gain on the devlet, and from time to time the memory of the dry stench of the waregons returned, making him very restless at the thought of another inaccessible inner chamber. All in all, he wanted rest, safety, anonymity in some den in the thieves’ quarter. Three fiftydays at least should pass before he’d venture out onto the streets of the other quarters.

  Except for the devlet. He would have to seek aid immediately, once he reached Zetri—and here was Shagon, offering to free him immediately! No matter the task then, he would be free now! And perhaps he would even have the diamonds after it was all over—that might make it worthwhile indeed!

  No matter that this little bull-like magician asked him instead to pluck a rarity from the innermost treasure-house of the most feared woman in the New Lands!

  “One stipulation,” said Tassoran, making his decision and surprising himself. “I cannot go forward if after you have told me your plans I do not think them sufficient. Agree to that, and I ride with you, and hear your words.”

  There was no smile from Shagon.

  “Come,” he said, “then there is no time to spare, for there is a presence of power nearby that I have just now become aware of. Therefore double reason we should stay no longer. And if we are followed…

  “There is the devlet to follow us,” Tassoran pointed out, diffidently but without any indication he intended to let the point lie.

  “The devlet has been dead since the fight. The baby devlet on the rafters sensed it, which was what was upsetting him.”

  And Shagon half-smiled, then.

  Konarr heard Durrekal close and latch the cookroom door.

  “Old man, what happened?” Konarr said, looking blankly around the cookroom, trying to reconstruct the last few minutes. A side of tchambar was roasting over a slow fire, sizzling and giving off rich aromas. “For one, I cannot even recall when he gave me this wound on my arm.”

  Durrekal took Konarr’s shoulder and gently urged him into a low-backed chair. “There was no wound,” he said. “A little bit, a shred of magic, when the Other was thinking on his own matters.”

  “Other? Magic? Ho, innkeeper,” Konarr said, rising up, anger stirring him again, “you know me well these twenty years. I have no traffick with magical matters, and I look to have none practiced on me.”

  “Sit down,” said Durrekal.

  Astonished, Konarr sat.

  Durrekal paused a moment, assessing the sturdy captain’s mood. “The time has come,” he muttered half to himself at last, in a tongue strange to the other.

  “Wizards’ talk, by Tholk!” said Konarr, with sour-bitter realization. “I have been entrapped.” He sighed deeply, wishing for a last draught of ale, then said, resignedly, “finish your spell, then, magician. I had always thought you an honest man.”

  Unexpectedly the whitehaired figure before him threw back his head—and laughed heartily.

  “A kind of wizardry, perhaps,” he said, smiles in his voice, and warmth. “Observe—but do not fear! There is no time to explain, but I mean no harm to you!”

  And Durrekal made a casual gesture with his hand, as if he were casting dust.

  It took a moment for Konarr to realize what was happening.

  First there was a slight mistiness in the air of the closed room; it swirled, and gathered itself together in a smooth flowing. Green glitters spangled the air, and Konarr felt his hair tingling.

  Then there were two figures in misty green, seated on nothingness, in the middle of the room, halfway between floor and ceiling.

  Echoing voices filled the room till Durrekal frowned and made another gesture.

  “—Must have poisoned the meat, that’s it Or the ale,” came Tassoran’s voice into the cookroom.

  Konarr blinked.

  “It was for your good. The captain was fully enraged, eager for your blood. You fought him too well, fellow…

  And that was Shagon’s voice in answer; Konarr had heard it during the day. The harsh whisper was unmistakable.

  Then Shagon’s words changed in his mind from words to meanings, and he started to protest to the old man, to argue, to shout if necessary.

  “Quiet,” said Durrekal shortly. “Listen. I will explain.”

  “What did they mean by a full-grown devlet,” Konarr asked, as Shagon finished talking and the two figures prepared to leave. “I did not know devlets were more than kitten-like playthings.”

  “They come from islands between the Old and New Lands,” said Durrekal, “and in time they grow very large indeed.”

  Konarr scowled at Durrekal.

  Imperturbably the old man observed the two figures as they made their way out of the evanescent room, then waved his hand.

  The thin green mist filled the room suddenly, as if sprayed 100 out in all directions from the smoky simulacra who spoke from high in the air of the real room.

  Once more Konarr blinked, then growled, “You should not do that, Spellmaster.”

  Durrekal cast a sharp glance at Konarr, “Do not call me a Spellmaster, captain, if you will. You have just seen and heard a true and current Spellmaster, speaking as if he were with us here in flesh instead of in smoke of the seldomgrass. As to its being wrong to use magic when one needs aid, captain, there are arguments of great subtlety on both sides of that question, as you no doubt know. Will you judge by results?”

  Konarr frowned, “I do not know. What is your explanation for all this?”

  “I cannot tell you all, for as yet I do not know it. But as I trust you, by the twenty years I’ve seen you, so you must trust me, for you know I have wronged no man in that time. I will tell you what I know, insofar as I know you will believe it. The rest, which strains to reach inconceivable limits of the possible, and which I myself only surmise, must ripen in its own hour or year. Begin with this: I need your help.”

  “What evil would you hire me to perform?” Konarr pitched his words and tone deliberately to be offensive—if he were lying, the old villain might show it if provoked, for he might well be up to no more good than that wizard above-stairs they’d watched in seldomsmoke.

  “I am no wizard, though I have some…powers,” said Durrekal. “Years ago I sought the peaceful retirement of old age; my chosen exile was to live here, where I was content to live as an aging innkeeper and to spend my days listening to the idle gossip and the travelers’ tales.

  “But power seeks power, and I have had of late some certain intimations that a new threat looms, to me and to all of you. Already I have heard and felt the darkness of these forces and their deeper intent, though as I said much is yet unclear.

  “This is clear: the time has come to fight!”

  Konarr observed the old man’s merry face in total puzzlement It was clear that the old fellow was hiding some surprise from him that presently he meant to reveal, but when would he get to it?

  The aged innkeeper assumed a slightly more serious mien. “I do you ill,” he said, “to play with you like this. Observe again—and once more do not fear!”

  And as Konarr drew one deep breath, the wizened face before him smoothed, filled, fleshed itself out, deepened its color…until the face was that of a man in his early thirties!

  The bent figure straightened, filled out, seemed to charge itself with some supernal energy, once more making Konarr’s hair tingle…

  .…and a sturdy fighting man, taller by a head than Konarr, of unfamiliar land and lineage, stood before Konarr. His black hair accented the strong planes of his face, whose natural strength was not handsome, but commanding.

  The tense, powerful figure of the stranger swayed for a moment. The man looked for a bench and sat down, exhaling a tortured breath and gasping for more air.

  “Transformation takes a lot of strength out of me,” he said after a time in a low, but vibrantly strong voice. Then he grinned in a manner oddly reminiscent of old Durrekal.

  “What…what…” Konarr realized he had been babbling, and made himself keep quiet.

  “I am called Zantain,” said the black-haired man, more to give Konarr something to hang on to than to be informative. “I told you I have certain…powers. One of them is that of disguise, such as that of the old innkeeper—for now you see me as I naturally am, though I am older than I look.”

  “Ha!” said Konarr. “If you are older than you look, then I do not see you as you are!” His face showed his sudden glow of quick easy triumph.

  “Save by devices such as disguise,” said Zantain, shaking his head, “I have never appeared older than I do now.”

  Konarr narrowed his eyes at that. “Then you can be no other than one of the Longlived, ser Zantain.” He did not go on to point out that the Longlived generally were not the well thought of. There had been eight Tzas since the founding of the Queen’s Quarter in Zetri—which was almost two thousand years ago. And far to the east were rumored to be many Longlived men who passed their evil inheritances also through the millennia…no, it was not necessary to say more about the Longlived.

  Again, Zantain shook his head. “I have lived long, but I am not of those hell lines.”

  A deep sigh emerged from Konarr; he was surprised and a trifle alarmed to find himself immersed in self-pity. “What can I make of it? I am only a poor captain of a Free Company; as you say, we have known each other for twenty years. I am deep in none of this lore, whoever—or whatever —you are.”

  “Then,” said Zantain, allowing coldness to enter his tone for the first time, “you will not hear me out?”

  “You would only spin me a long tale that will mean nothing to me, save that my losing my life will probably occur in it somewhere.”

  “My tale would be short.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Fights. Adventure. Certainly excitement. Perhaps a little glory, after a while, if you live…”