Darrow stood in the antechamber, the one-armed man close behind him.
The hall before them was dark but for the tongues of continual flames licking from brass sconces set in the walls. Between them hung sea-colored tapestries. Darrow saw an oak door to his left, another one at the end of the hall, ten feet away. The wood of the far portal gleamed in the magical firelight. The whole room was surprisingly clean for an abandoned edifice.
'Go in,' said the stranger.
Darrow complied. As he reached the middle of the hall, a painful spasm gripped his back. His breath caught in his chest, and for a terrifying moment he thought he was strangling. He tried to move, only to discover that he was completely paralyzed, and not by his own fear this time.
'Go,' said the stranger. A moment later, he muttered, 'Ah…'
Barrow heard the stranger chant a low, rhythmic song. He recognized only one word, the name of a dark god. Malar the Beastlord was no friend to city dwellers, nor to farmers like Barrow's father. The old man had sacrificed to Chauntea not only for bountiful crops but also for protection against the ravages of Malar and his wild hunts. The Beastlord's followers believed they were placed above all living creatures, and their favorite prey was the most cunning: humans and their ilk.
The magic that held him vanished, and Barrow slumped to one knee before recovering. He thought of the copper coin he wore on a chain around his neck, a symbol of the goddess Tymora, Lady Luck. He dared not touch it in sight of this cleric of Malar, but he framed a silent prayer in his mind: Lady Luck, please spare me from this monster.
Barrow's thoughts were interrupted. The cleric of the Beastlord was casting another spell. His fingers first pressed the medallion on his headband, then wiped his eyes, which flared briefly with unholy purple light.
The cleric looked up and down the hall. He chuckled as his eyes rested on the handle of the far door. 'Open it,' he said, stepping back.
Seeing the look in the stranger's eyes, Barrow realized the man saw something dangerous about the door. 'It's trapped, isn't it?'
'That's why you are the one opening it,' said the stranger. 'Quickly, before you become more vexing than useful.'
Another painful spasm of paralysis was preferable to Pons's fate. Barrow closed his eyes as he gripped the latch. When he touched the brass handle, a cold thrill coursed through his body, followed by a warm flush. He opened his eyes, expecting a column of fire or lances of ice, but there was nothing-no pain, no paralysis, no harm that he could discern. Slowly, he pushed the door open and entered.
Beyond the door was a vast hall of marble veined in blue and black. Rippling light rose from a long, winding stream that bisected the room, and the smell of salt water filled the air. The stream ran from a cascading fall in the north wall before winding its way through the grand hall to fill a large round pool in the south. Where the grand stream curved, smaller fountains nestled in its embrace, adding their lesser voices to the rushing flow. Each was ringed with coral seats carved in the likeness of creatures from an alien sea. Green pillars rose from the fountains, and from the stream itself, glistening with clear water that ran perversely up toward the ceiling over the half-visible fragments of crustacean eyes and invertebrate tendrils until it vanished in the darkness beyond the second-floor balconies.
Beyond the grand pool stood a wide pair of shelves and a cabinet of many tiny drawers, clearly out of place in the fabulous hall. They formed the borders of an island in the marble hall, a strange haven of books and papers. Between the shelves, on a richly woven carpet, stood a clerk's desk. The oil lamp on its corner still flickered as if disturbed by a fleeing ghost. Beside the lamp lay a stack of white vellum, an inkpot, and a stylus, still rolling across a page of figures. Even from forty feet away, Barrow spotted the fresh lines glistening wet and black. He crept closer for a better view but halted beside a pillar, afraid of attracting the attention of the room's hidden occupants.
The stranger shoved past Barrow and stamped toward the table.
'Show yourself, Malveen!' he roared. His voice echoed briefly before the sound of moving water devoured it. 'I've come for the scrolls.'
When no one answered his challenge, the stranger flipped the table over, scattering its contents across the marble floor. The inkpot shattered and sent a black spray across the marble floor beyond the carpet.
The cleric threw back his head and unleashed a terrific howl. The sound filled the vast hall and echoed in distant chambers. Barrow covered his ears and crouched beside the pillar, more afraid to be noticed than to remain still.
The room's guardians hissed in warning to the challenge. Against the far wall, three figures slunk out of the shadows. They were man-shaped, hairless, with glistening black skin. Their long, clawed fingers were webbed with translucent purple membranes. Long, needle-sharp teeth flashed in their impossibly wide mouths. They crept forward, crouching like ghouls.
Suddenly, one of the creatures turned its head and sucked in the air as if tasting it. Its fellows imitated its gesture. As one, they froze in place, then darted away from the illuminated water to find shelter in the darkness.
The light from the northern wall faded. Darrow saw the waterfall turn black, a great inky stain spreading in the tumult below. As the shadow moved along the stream, the light returned in its wake. The dark cloud flowed with the water, at last to reach the grand pool. The stranger looked down at it, then stepped back as the darkness surged up toward him.
The darkness rose to the surface, taking shape as it emerged from the water. What appeared looked like a muscular, hairless man except for a prominent dorsal ridge running from the top of its skull down its spine. Its skin was smooth and dark as an aubergine, slick and glistening. Golden rings pierced the creature's brow and the flaps where ears should be. From them hung a veil of fine chain links, obscuring the creature's face except for its golden eyes. The veil fell netlike over the creature's thick chest, ending in a thousand tiny hooks. Among them hung dozens of tiny arcane charms.
The creature gazed at the one-armed stranger briefly before turning to Darrow cowering by the pillar. Above its veil, the creature's eyes churned like boiling gold. It had no pupils, only black flecks that rose to the surface and sank away again. As those inhuman eyes turned on him, Darrow felt a surge of awe fill and warm his body. His fear vanished as he realized he was in the presence of a majestic, flawless power. Darrow sank to one knee and lowered his gaze.
The stranger was unimpressed both by the creature and Darrow's worship. He sneered at the kneeling driver and bellowed at the creature, 'If you wish to live long enough to squirm back to the sewers, monster, summon your master.'
From beneath the shadow creature's veil came a wet, choking sound. 'I am master here.'
'I want Stannis Malveen,' said the stranger. 'I want the scrolls he promised me.'
Again the creature uttered that halting, coughing sound, and Darrow realized it was laughing. 'It looks as though you want an arm, my old friend. Did you leave it with the boy you promised to bring me?'
'Stannis…?'
'It has been a long time, Rusk. The years have been kinder to you than to me, as you can plainly see-except, of course, for the issue of your missing arm. Did you have an accident? No matter: You received my sending and agreed to my terms. Talbot Uskevren in return for the Black Wolf Scrolls.'
'He's dead,' said Rusk. 'I gutted him before he cut me.'
'I required him alive,' hissed Stannis. 'How bothersome of you to bungle it. Very well. Where is the body?'
'In the playhouse,' said Rusk. He indicated Darrow with a toss of his head. 'Your lackey can fetch it, if the clerics haven't dragged it away.'
'Clerics, hmm?' Stannis pressed his rubbery fingers together. 'Pray tell, who were these clerics in the playhouse? Do you mean real ones, with spells and halos and the rest? I hope you mean players in tall pointy hats, my dear Huntmaster. That is what you mean, isn't it?'
Rusk scowled.
'You simpleton! You're missing an arm, yet you healed yourself enough to come crawling before me with your petulant demands. What makes you think the boy was not healed as well?'
'I'll bring him to you alive or in pieces,' shouted Rusk. 'Just give me the damned, bloody scrolls so I can heal
