“Listen, Cunningham, what I’m about to say is important to us both,” Pryce said urgently. He waited until the jackalwere stopped hugging himself and averting his gaze. The half-man, half-beast blinked rapidly, then looked soulfully at Covington. “You may be a monster,” Pryce continued evenly, “but what you are doing for those other two is not monstrous.”
The jackalwere reacted with surprise and backed away. But he did not run. Instead, he stood in the shadows, halfway between the bowels of the earth and the clear Lallor sky, for quite some time before Covington heard his next quiet words.
“It is my curse to be given human consciousness, sir, a curse my children are blessed with not having. My animal nature needs to feed, and through it I only know the hunger of my body. But my human nature can feel pity and even empathy. Through it, I know the hunger of my mind… and perhaps my soul.”
“I have been told that jackalweres have no soul,” Pryce said softly.
“Who told you that?”
‘Wizards,” Pryce said diffidently.
Cunningham’s sarcasm had the lightness of morning dew.
“Well, then,” he said, “if the wizards say so, it must be true.” He was quiet for several moments more. Then: “In the misshapen ones, I see myself. But unlike me, one was not born this way. He was created by human monsters who could pervade this planet… and that makes me feel rage.”
Suddenly his face was back into the moonlight, no more than an inch from Covington’s own. But it was not Cunningham’s face. It was the face of the orange and black jackal, its eyes burning like the sun. It took everything Pryce was not to hurl himself back from those blazing, but purposefully nonhypnotic, eyes.
“I can do nothing for these creatures,” growled the beast, “who are so wretched that even a monster such as I can care for them. But perhaps you can. And for that, and that alone, I will not kill you. I will not feast on your blood. I will not tear you limb from limb and feed you to my cherished children.” He suddenly turned away. “Now I, too, must go. My nostrils begin to fill with the stench of Lallor wizards. And if I can smell them…”
The words were already diminishing in the distance, but there were three more to come, which Pryce heard distinctly on the wind: “Remember your promise!”
Pryce slowly closed the rock opening of the tunnel wall. He stood between the wall and the back door of the restaurant, his profile toward both. The throbbing in his head reminded him that, by rights, his attacker should have killed him. Why else would he take the trouble to so crudely strike Pryce on the head? Covington touched the healing lump on his head lightly, and the only real explanation occurred to him.
“By thunder,” he whispered in the Lallor night. “I’ve got it!”
Pryce Covington was awestruck. Later he couldn’t recall how long he had stood there thinking. He may have even mumbled. “But it can’t be. Not that. No.” But every piece he mentally placed into the puzzle fit. The only problem was that there were still several pieces he didn’t have yet.
Pryce moved quickly toward the narrow alley opening that led to the street beyond. He now knew he had to move very quickly, or all might be lost. With a rustle of Darlington Blade’s cloak, he was gone into the night.
Gheevy Wotfirr leaned contentedly back in his soft, comfortable chair, his hands warm around a steaming cup of aromatic Toussaintie brew. It had been sweetened by a few drops of Mar-riss insect secretions and was delightfully soothing after a long day of testing and storing liquor in the grotto.
Earlier Matthaunin Witterstaet had stopped by the halfling’s burrow in the hill between Azzo’s restaurant and the Ambersong residence for what had become their custom: a cup of Toussaintie and a friendly game of Eckhearts. The stooped, sagging old man followed the same routine each night before he retired to his cottage in the northeast shadow of the Lallor Wall.
Yes, Gheevy thought, all in all, a delightful evening of charming companionship and homespun stories.
Gheevy let his eyes roam contentedly about his burrow as he sipped the brew. The burrow’s furniture was designed not for fashion but for comfort. Although Wotfirr’s hairy bare feet now rested easily on a plush ottoman, his toes tingled with the expectation of eventually placing them on the plush multicolored carpets that covered the floor.
His eyes traveled over the rainbow of colors and shapes that made up his precious collection of liquids from all over Toril. They covered most of the wall space in the burrow and gave it the look of a shimmering glass museum. He had carefully designed the illumination so the soft light refracted comforting colors from the bottles across the entire space.
Yes, the halfling thought, looking down at his soft lounging pants, brocaded vest, mock turtleneck sweater, and plush slippers, it was a wonderful life he had made for himself here in Lai- lor. One in which comfort was everything and nothing could possibly go wrong…
There was an ominous knock on the door. Gheevy looked up in surprise, wondering who it could be at this time of night. Well, there were only two ways to find out. “Who is it?” he called, eliminating one of the ways.
There was no answer.
Just when he thought he might have imagined the knock, it was repeated, catching the halfling in the middle of turning away. Gheevy whirled around to face the door once more, nearly spilling his brew. “Yes?” he said shakily. There was still no reply.
Wotfirr considered not answering the summons, but his curiosity got the better of him. Besides, Matthaunin might have fallen and hurt himself and was too breathless to reply. The halfling screwed up his courage and crept forward. He gripped the door latch tightly and put his ear against the wood. “Hello?” he inquired.
The third knock made him jerk his head back, causing his hand to spasm and make the latch click up. Holding his breath, he opened the door an inch and carefully moved his head to the opening to peer out cautiously.
A blade shot between the door and the wall, narrowly missing his eye.
Before he could cry out, the door was forced open, a muscular hand was clamped across his lips, and Gheevy was catapulted back into his easy chair.
He landed with a thud, clawing and screeching. But a heavy weight on his legs kept him from escaping, and the hand remained firmly on his jaw, muffling his cries. To his horror, Gheevy heard the front door of his burrow click shut, cutting off any chance of escape.
The halfling’s bulging eyes peered over the silencing hand at the face of his attacker… only to see Pryce Covington sitting on his legs, with the forefinger of his other hand against his lips “Shhhhh,” he whispered.
“You” he started to exclaim, only to have Covington grimace, press his hand more tightly on Gheevy’s lips, and jerk his head toward the door.
The halfling’s eyes rolled in that direction in time to see Dearlyn Ambersongdressed in a tight dark sweater, leggings, and boots beneath her Ambersong cloakturn toward them, clutching her dangerous garden tool in her hands.
“Door secured,” she whispered. “All clear.”
The halfling finally realized that it had been her stick that shot at his face, keeping him from slamming the door. But as for the rest, he still couldn’t make hide nor horsehair of it. He wrenched his eyes back toward Pryce, who leaned down until his face was no more than an inch from the halfling’s.
“Take it easy, my friend,” Covington whispered. “I couldn’t afford to alert Matthaunin Witterstaet as to our presence. He might ask questions I don’t want to even try answering at this juncture. Besides,” he said with a shrug, “at this point we really can’t trust anyone, so… ” He leaned back, cocked his head, and waited until the halfling nodded. Only then did Pryce remove his hand from Gheevy’s mouth.
“So you thought you’d give me a heart attack?” Wotfirr sputtered.
Pryce stood up quickly and stepped over the halfling’s previously pinioned legs. “I apologize profusely, my dear Gheevy, I truly do,” Pryce said, “but time is of the essence.”
Wotfirr watched in wonder as Pryce moved to the side of the mage’s daughter. The sight of the two working together and the urgency of Covington’s words effectively eliminated any anger the halfling still felt. It did not, however, eradicate the remainder of his fear. In fact, a new concern was beginning to grow in him, a concern that made him wonder if there would be more murder to be found in the night. ‘What are you doing here?” he asked urgentiy.
Dearlyn moved forward anxiously. “He’s bringing me to my father!” she declared.
Gheevy looked up at Pryce in wonder. The man was standing beside a small half-moon-shaped window near the front door of the burrow, surveying the street outside to make sure Matthauninor anyone elsewas not in the
