The Khan had a variety of mages willing to do his bidding. One in particular rumored to be a rogue wizard, was a secretive fellow about whom little was known.
“The very few who’ve seen him in the streets say he’s rather nondescript. He wears ragged, heavy brown robes and walks with a limp. His name is Faeterus,” Hytanthas said. “I believe he is an elf.”
This statement left the Speaker and his advisors speechless for several seconds. Lord Morillon recovered first.
“What is the basis for this wild speculation?” he demanded.
The haughty tone annoyed the captain. “It isn’t speculation. Well, not entirely.”
Hytanthas admitted there were a great many stories about Faeterus. Gossip was rife about his antecedents, and the “experiments” he was said to conduct in his secret abode, and it was never said aloud that he was anything other than a human. However, one city-dweller, ancient by Khurish standards as he was more than eighty years old, had confided to Hytanthas his theory that the sorcerer was
“According to this human, Faeterus has been in the city since before he himself was born.” Lord Morillon opened his mouth to protest, and Hytanthas rushed on. “The mind of this old human is still sharp and clear. The other Khurs are dismissive of him, but I found him extremely persuasive.”
The name Faeterus was unknown to any in the room. Hamaramis noted it could be an assumed name, perhaps a corruption of the mage’s true identity. The closest Silvanesti equivalent would be Faetheralas, and in Qualinesti, Fanterus.
“Could this sorcerer be the benefactor of the Torghanists?” asked the Speaker.
Hytanthas did not know, but all agreed that an elf who had so turned his back on his Own kind that he could hire his services out to a tyrant like Sahim-Khan certainly was capable of anything.
“Make inquiries,” the Speaker ordered. “Someone, somewhere, knows this Faeterus.”
Planchet brought up the Nerakan emissary who had been seen skulking about the Khuri yl Nor. He asked Lord Morillon, who had been to the palace more often than anyone else, to describe the human in detail. As a lifelong courtier, the Silvanesti didn’t miss much in his own milieu.
When Morillon finished, Planchet stood frowning, gnawing his lower lip in thought. Gilthas prompted him to speak.
“There was a man, a Nerakan, a vassal of that wretch Redlance,” Planchet finally said. “He was dark, as you say, and had a very rough voice. It’s been years since I thought of him, but I believe his name may have been Hengriff.”
During the fight for Qualinesti liberty, a special group of Nerakan Knights was formed to track down the Lioness. Their leader, Lord Liveskill, stood high in the councils of Morham Targonne, master of the order. Liveskill left the dirty work of hunting the Lioness to a hardened warrior named Vytrad Redlance, who led a band of ninety- nine Knights. Their paths crossed Kerianseray’s three times. The last time, Vytrad perished fighting her in single combat. Only a dozen or so Knights of this special band had survived, and they never returned to hunt the Lioness again. Given Targonne’s lack of patience with failure, the remnants of Liveskill’s band might easily have been dispatched on the least pleasant duties the Order could arrange-such as emissary to the desert wastes of Khur.
Vytrad’s second-in-command at the time of his death was a brawny, bull-voiced fellow who chose to preserve his men rather than let them die trying to save the fanatical Red. lance. Fighting his way out of the trap that cost Vytrad his life, Hengriff single-handedly killed four of the Lioness’s best warriors. When he rode away with the survivors of Vytrad’s command, Kerian was only too willing to let them go.
“So who is directing the Torghanists, Neraka or the renegade wizard?” Morillon wondered.
The Speaker shrugged. “In either case, we can’t allow treachery to undermine our place here. Peace and goodwill are vital for our survival.”
“Sahim-Khan is no friend of the sect of Torghan-worshipers, sire. If they challenge his authority, he will stamp them out most ruthlessly,” Morillon said.
“Unless their efforts are part of some deeper intrigue between the Khan and the Knights,” Planchet said. “He may be using them against the Knights-or perhaps the Knights are using the Torghanists against the Khan.”
Hytanthas shook his bead. “What murky times we live in.”
“Every time is murky when you’re in the midst of it,” said Gilthas, smiling faintly. “In any event, the ‘benefactor’ of the Torghanists must be identified. So must the Khan’s rogue mage.”
What they would do with this knowledge once they had it was something the Speaker preferred not to worry about just now. For the moment, they would concentrate on uncovering their enemies.
A reward was considered. The Khurs were fond of elven steel, and the right price might buy more information. But the Speaker said such an offer would also raise a host of dubious opportunists. Hytanthas proclaimed his readiness to return to the city, and this Gilthas readily approved. The captain’s persona as a human desperado might yet yield additional important leads.
“Find this benefactor, Captain Ambrodel, and bring him before me. Whether he wants to come or not.”
Hytanthas saluted. When he departed, Planchet followed. Taking him aside, Planchet said, “Don’t risk yourself with this blackguard, Captain. If possible, bring him in alive, but if circumstances require it, don’t hesitate to kill him. Better this agitator should die than escape, or kill you.”
Hytanthas nodded. For all his youth, he was a veteran, having fought the Knights in the woods of Qualinesti. In his very first skirmish, the Knights had surrounded a nearby village and threatened to destroy it unless the Lioness and her companions surrendered. She would not, so the Knights slaughtered everyone in the village, from elders down to babes in arms. Two hundred thirty souls. Hytanthas never forgot his brutal initiation to war as fought by the Knights of Neraka.
Standing in the open square outside the Speaker’s great tent, valet and warrior were about to part when a commotion came to their ears. The byways of Khurinost were busy at this hour, and both elves strained fruitlessly to see beyond those thronging the paths, but it was obvious that the roar of voices was coming from the direction of Khuri-Khan.
“Sounds like a battle!” Hytanthas exclaimed.
“It’s trouble all right, but not warfare.”
Planchet borrowed a halberd from a guard standing watch outside the Speaker’s tent, then bade Hytanthas accompany him. “Come, Captain. Let’s see who makes such a noise on a hot morning. Maybe your mysterious sorcerer or the fell emissary of the Dark Order.”
To the ignorant, Hytanthas’s companion might have seemed a weak comrade to take into danger, but Planchet was no ordinary servant. He had commanded Qualinesti forces in the final battle to escape the collapsing kingdom, and his inspired leadership enabled thousands of elves to escape the net closing around Qualinost. Given a choice when confronting danger, Hytanthas would take Planchet over anyone else in the Speaker’s entourage-save the Lioness herself of course.
The paths through camp quickly clogged up with frightened elves, clutching bundles of goods and struggling to put distance between themselves and the city. Planchet and Hytanthas made repeated attempts to ask what was happening, but no one stopped long enough to answer. At last Planchet turned his halberd sideways, blocking the footpath from tent to tent. Like water caught behind a dam, elves filled the passage, seeking other ways out.
“What’s going on?” Planchet shouted as he struggled against the growing mob pushing against the shaft of his weapon.
“We were attacked in the Grand Souks!” an elf woman replied.
“They attacked everyone, or only elves?” asked Hytanthas.
“Only elves!”
Planchet moved out of the way, lifting the halberd. Refugees surged past. When the mob had thinned, Planchet and Hytanthas hurried on to the city.
The gate into Khuri-Khan was unguarded. The usual oddments of gear surrounding it-cloth sunshades for the soldiers, stools, and skins of wine and water hanging from posts-all had been knocked down and trampled. The gate itself stood open. A few steps inside they found a dead man, a Khurish guard. He’d been stabbed in the back.
The Lesser Souk had been sacked. Dozens of soukats, with their heads broken or worse, lay in the wreckage of their booths. Here and there, women and children tugged at the broken structures of cloth and lath, trying to find a lost husband or father, or to salvage the family inventory. Many of the beleaguered merchants stared with open hostility at Planchet as the two elves walked past. Hytanthas was still in his scruffy human disguise.
