But the heat also meant that the other firewasp might be getting nearer—this was, after all, the purpose in carrying them: to rendezvous.

  Konarr was taking no chances, just because he had been told the wasp would not fly till noon.

  There came a commanding knock at the door, and Zantain entered, looking taller and more vigorous than the last time they had met.

  Immediately upon entering, he saw the pouch on the table, went to it, and placed it next to a similar pouch on his own belt.

  There was silence for a moment.

  “There, they should have gotten over it by now,” said Zantain, and, plucking Konarr’s firewasp out of its pouch, he placed it inside the other pouch.

  For one more timeless moment Konarr felt a wave of thankful, joyous relief flow over him, the emotional backwash sweeping out from the rejoining of the firewasps.

  When it was done he sat down immediately, blinking his eyes and trying to catch his breath.

  Zantain sat with even more evident relief, which did not surprise Konarr, since the firewasps were his and hence more in tune with him.

  Presently they had regained sufficient composure after the backwash to talk, and Zantain wanted simply to know what had occurred.

  It went with no comment till Konarr broke off to ask about the Spellmaster who had waylaid him.

  Zantain waved the Spellmaster aside. “If he is our Tassoran's elder brother, what is between them is irrelevant to our course unless the brother returns to interfere before we’re done. His last words sound as if he were disgusted at having been detected, and was prepared to go off for some while to prepare some new attack. It is also possible he came nosing after the treasure in Shagon’s footsteps, and hoped his brother might unwittingly provide some key.

  “What interests me is this Iala. They crept off, those two, did they, while you were trying to find your way back to the inn after going the wrong way through the black mist. They could be anywhere. Have you checked this morning in Shagon’s room with the device I left you?”

  Konarr admitted he had just risen, being exceedingly tired by the previous day’s exertions.

  Zantain closed his eyes for a moment, opening them immediately. “They’re both near here, and together.”

  “How did you find that out?” asked Konarr, wondering with jaw gaping.

  “Teshel’direw mind-sweep,” Zantain said. Then he blinked. “Forget! said that.” And Konarr blinked.

  “How did you find that out?” asked Konarr, wondering with jaw gaping.

  Zantain smiled. “Just testing you,” he said. “I suspected you were too tired to have gotten up long before I arrived, from what you said, and—”

  “No, no,” Konarr said, and Zantain creased his brow in a small frown. “What made you think they are both here? I suspected he wouldn’t be back until mid-afternoon, and—”

  Zantain broke in with a smile. “I saw the lad before I reached the inn. The other one I knew was here—he gives off a smell of misused power.”

  Konarr dropped the matter, to Zantain’s relief, and they worked out the final details of their plan.

  “Secrets,” thought Zantain. “I must be tired indeed if I’m giving them away .,

  There was no reason for things to be quiet, Tassoran knew that; and thieves ofttimes work best in the midst of high festivity.

  Nonetheless it seemed to him some special fever of gaiety infected the Lesser Palace, as he stole unseen through its halls. A wild profusion of musical instruments from all the New Lands played-separate concerts in the intricately interacting architectural whimseys of the Lesser Palace. A screeching of harsh northland bagwinds cut across the ceremonious, solemn honking of priesthorns.

  As this came just when Tassoran was tiptoeing uneasily past a Hawk Guard posted at the intersection of five corridors, he jumped involuntarily. Luckily he made no noise, so the guard paid no notice.

  The Spellmaster, Tassoran considered, had done his job well no matter what his faults. With his deep magic spell, constantly muttered, Tassoran was a match for whomever he might meet—for they could not see him.

  It was only a matter of sense of direction, to make his way through the labyrinthean corridors of the Lesser Palace to the inner walls, bordering on the garden at whose center rose the baleful Ebon Tower. And once through the Lesser Palace, there was but a simple walkway to the Ebon Tower, entering which would be simplicity since it had no doors, but only great soaring archways to its spacious interior.

  Regretful that he could not put his newfound talent to some more entertaining use, such as slipping into one of the kitchens and toying with the scullery maids there—or with the Lady’s own maids of waiting in the ballrooms—Tassoran made his way through the byway corridors.

  He rounded a corner, and stopped, puzzled.

  A short corridor led to a large room. There were no other corridors intercepting…a dead end. Now he’d have to retrace his steps past two Hawk Guards before getting back on to the other route. He cursed his carelessness, then turned to retrace his footsteps back to a more fortunate turning.

  Iala stood there, dressed only in a thin transparent gown of rarest silk.

  A thief’s nerves must be strong, to bear up under the thousand strains that assail a man who is going about unsanctioned business in another man’s dwelling. The mark of a master thief is that nothing can disarm him of his calm while he is going about his work.

  Tassoran instinctively began whispering the chant of invisibility louder, not even pausing to wonder why Iala was there at all. There was no time for questions and answers, not even for one. The timing had been carefully worked out, and did not allow for more than three wrong turnings as he made his way through the Lesser Palace.

  Hence he was down to the thin edge of minutes before he must be outside again and making for the Ebon Tower itself, in the center of the inner courtyard bounded on this side by the Lesser Palace.

  “Be quiet,” said Iala, and clapped her hands.

  Tassoran found his mouth frozen in a half-open position, in the middle of uttering the spell.

  “Guards, ho,” she called then, in a clear strong voice that penetrated the echoing corridors and the distant shouts of music and wild laughter.

  From either end of the short corridor in which Iala and Tassoran stood, came squads of soldiers, all wearing the hawk head helmets.

  The helmets of most of the soldiers were of bronze, glinting dully in the torchlight from the braziers in the age-blackened stone walls. Two helmets were silver, one for each squad, and one was inlaid with gold and bore an ivory disk With a mystic symbol inscribed upon it.

  “High Captain Drammath,” said the man with the gold-inlaid helmet. “My Lady Tza, this man made his way undetected past two dozens of my best men. How, I cannot understand, but—”

  “Nor can I understand how this man came across the ancient spell of selective blindness,” said Iala/Tza, while Tassoran, finding his jaw starting to work again, looked at her still thunderstruck. Even his iron nerves were shaken, to find the tavern wench of last night was really the eighth Lady Tza, absolute ruler of a land which extended over more territory than any other kingdom in the New Lands save for the vast central steppes of Senthar.

  The Lady Tza, eighth of that name; who ruled all the land of Tarmisorn from the Queen City of Zetri; mistress of magic; enchantress of the winds and rains; so powerful a conjurer by reputation and in fact that only the mysterious Azeltarem, the utterly feared Black Magician himself, hidden in his castle-palace in the gloom and shadow of Shaiphar Mountain, was said to be her equal…

  Not for two thousand years, save once, had any challenged the power of the line of ensorcelling queens, and so the many lands to the east of Tarmisorn had known a kind of peace, as did Tarmisorn itself. Nonetheless, the Lady Tza was ever known to be a cruel monarch of her people, who did not hesitate to visit the most hideous magical vengeances upon those who crossed her…

  Tassoran pondered for a moment, now that he could almost move his jaws again and speak, whether he should attempt to use either of Shagon’s other two magic devices.

  But when he tried to flex his leg muscles, he found that he could not move them at all.

  “No,” said Iala/Tza, the serving wench who ruled an age old land, “you cannot move until I release you—which presently I shall. I keep you thus for now, that you may more fully realize how hopeless is the position in which you have put yourself. This enhances certain events that will come upon you, but that is a bit later…Captain Drammath,” she said, abruptly turning away from Tassoran, “have your men take this one into my audience chamber and place him at the central binding-post in front of my throne. I shall move about the palace for a time to ascertain whether there may be others like this one about, though I think there is not Then I shall return to pass my preliminary judgment upon this man.”

  Tassoran felt himself seized on either side by guardsmen, turned around, and carried toward the large chamber he had earlier recognized as not where he wished to go. So much for my wishes, he thought ruefully.

  Then his back was placed against a black marble post almost as tall as he, and a band of pure yellow fire sprang into existence around his waist.

  Simultaneously with the appearance of the flame, he found he could move again; his legs gave way with the sudden shock and the flame touched his chest.

  But the flame did not sear his flesh; instead, a lance of total agony shot through his body. His legs stiffened straight again instinctively, and the pain was gone the moment contact with the magic flame was broken. Tassoran sobbed for breath.

  One of the silver-helmeted men protested to High Captain Drammath. “We know he can work in the mysteries,” he said. “We should not allow the Lady to face any kind of danger, and those who work with spells can often cast them with hands and fingers, so that we would not even hear him speak.”

  Drammath thought a moment, then shook his head. “He is but a thief, the Lady told us. He has some small command of memorized incantations, but he is no master, nor even an apprentice, in the high arts. And ordinary spells will not work within the enchanted fire, at any rate. No, we shall not worry. It emphasizes his helplessness, which pleases the Lady…”

  There was the sound of many footsteps in the audience chamber, behind and beyond the pillar to which Tassoran was chained by the yellow flames.

  He writhed around the black marble pillar slowly and carefully, avoiding contact with the fire, until he was able to see part of what was occurring behind him.

  Silent masses of people in every gaudy color and style were crowding in the main door of the chamber.

  Uttering hardly a sound, but otherwise jostling and hurrying their way inside like any other group of curious folk, the court of the Lady Tza assembled.

  He stared at them in astonishment as they viewed him in silent disdain. Ordinarily a taken thief was summarily beaten to death by whomsoever happened to take an interest in such matters—thrown to the crowd. At the least, there were insults and catcalls and boos and lumps of dung thrown at one.

  The silence was unnerving.

  Presently there was a light footstep in front of Tassoran, and he turned back to face the throne.

  The Lady Tza stood there in her diaphanous gown.

  Tassoran’s mind whirled around the aspects of his situation, desperately seeking a way out when none appeared likely. But it was hard to concentrate; he had had several nasty surprises in the last few minutes.

  And there was the Lady Tza, her beauty, her commanding presence—and the nakedness of her fair body under the gown. He shut his eyes reflexively for a moment, wondering whether he had actually slept with this incredible woman …and found his memory would not tell him. He had had his arms about her, this he knew; and he had kissed those lips, warm and soft then, harsh and cruel now.

  The Lady Tza sat down slowly on her ivory throne, traced with gold and silver designs of fearful beasts and studded with delicately varied gems and stones.

  “I will keep you alive for ten fiftydays,” said the Lady Tza addressing Tassoran directly and without preamble. “You will be intricately tortured during that period, of course.”

  There was a murmur at last from the mass of courtiers. Approval? wondered Tassoran. Or were they as revolted as decent folk would be? The way to dispose of a thief was to tear him apart immediately, not torture him!

  “These,” said the Lady Tza, gesturing languidly at the assembled courtiers, “are my creatures, oh thief who would do great deeds. It matters not what I tell them or say about them, though I do not tell them everything.

  “They do not care that you will be tortured, although they will delight to observe those sessions at which I will permit them to be present.

  “They also do not care why you were caught, but I will tell you something of that, for it will tell you even more about the hopelessness of your position.”

  The Lady Tza arose from her ivory throne and walked slowly, delicatedly, toward the fire-chained thief, her perfect breasts quite visible through her thin robe and the rest of her body no mystery, though Tassoran did not dare to look. He was careful to look only at her eyes, pale blue eyes with a fiery eagerness behind them.

  She paused, standing almost against the circlet of flames.

  “I foresaw some interference with my desire to hold the Sigil of Tron, to master its depths and mysteries, and to use it to conquer all the New Lands.”

  Tassoran caught his breath at this casual revelation, as she continued.

  “Iala is but one of my disguises; my lore told me that if I spent some days at the Inn of the Hangman, I would leant more of who threatens the sigil.

  “You came. And now you are here.

  “And in ten fiftydays, you will meet Chousa—no, you drank his wine. You shall instead meet Chava, his brother. And you will die.”

  “Well,” said Tassoran, shifting his legs slightly to ease the cramp from standing rigidly away from the belt of magic flames, “if this chamber is to be my home for ten fiftydays, I suppose I should begin to acquire a taste for it…”

  The Lady Tza smiled. “It will be amusing to see just how long you retain that sense of humor you are so proud of! But do not think this audience chamber is for the likes of you to scream in, thief. You are not so handsome nor so important.”

  She leaned across the flame till her breasts touched his chest, for a moment. “It will be even more interesting to see how long it takes for your dreams to fade,” she said, and her tone was now more langorous than ever. “It is my special fancy to add myself, as it were, into the delightful equations of your physical and mental agonies. Your former dream of me was false.

  “And that is the last true thing that you will ever know for certain, save for pain.”

  She stepped back from him, and clapped her hands.

  A small pie-shaped split appeared in the circle of flooring at the foot of the pillar to which Tassoran was chained.

  With a jerk, the split widened rapidly until Tassoran had no footing left and began to fall. The flame disappeared then, as he dropped, and he made one desperate lunge with his arms to catch the solid edge of the chamber floor.

  One hand caught for a moment, but warm, strong, feminine fingers swiftly and easily dislodged it.

  He fell into blackness.

  CHAPTER SIX: The Vapor of Death

  Stunned momentarily by his fall, Tassoran blinked and waited, hoping some chink of light would reveal his situation beyond the fact that he was in a barred cell. The floor above had closed by the time he had thudded heavily into the stone floor of what, from the charnel stench and incredible foetor, might well be a wild animal pit.

  He ran through other possibilities, discarding dangerous animals on the loose here since it was unlikely the Lady Tza would place him where he would die unseen.

  Hunger? Much more likely—perhaps as part of the torture itself. But that would not be a problem immediately.

  Other prisoners?

  Guards?

  There was only one way to tell, and he hallooed as loudly as he could manage, not having gotten all his breath back from the fall, though he had landed catlike and uninjured. No answer came.

  But was he uninjured? As he lay on the chill stone, he wondered; then he tried to get up, and instantly felt pain in one ankle. Testing it, he decided it wasn’t broken, and shouted again.

  His voice echoed strangely in the unknown depths of the barred pit chamber, and died away.

  Tassoran shuddered in spite of himself. He didn’t mind loneliness, he told himself. It was just that he liked to pick his own time to be alone…

  .…He could not tell how much time had passed before he finally heard some distant noise reverberating through the pit. It took a moment for him to sort it out through the blurring echoes.

  It was the sound of a metal lock being opened. The creak of the door as it opened was hidden by distance, but a moment later came a much louder sound. Tassoran had no difficulty in identifying it as a heavy metal door clanging shut.

  Quietly rising to his feet, he had limped away from the place he had landed—how long before?—and came presently to a stone wall, wet and lichenous to his touch.

  There he waited.

  Presently there was the sound of footsteps. At least two men, he thought first; then he amended his count to two only.

  The footsteps became clearer, closer. Uncertain as to what he should—or could—do, especially in the endless blackness, he .stood silently waiting.

  Then there was a glimmer of torchlight, round a distant corner.

  It seared his eyes and he turned away after the first gleam, hoping he would have time to adjust his eyesight before… before what? He sighed aloud then, realizing there was nothing he could do beforehand.

  A voice came, blurred with echo. “I want the very spot, you understand. No tricks. You must do it, by the power of the Tarnflower. And you had best hope he was not hurt in the fall.”

  Was there a familiar note in that voice?

  Tassoran’s eyes were becoming accustomed once more to light as the approaching torches cast wavering manic shapes of light and shadow on the bare wet stones of the caverns underneath the Lesser Palace.