town.'
Tybalt indicated the town hall, half a block away, which included Hillhome's single jail cell.
The derro started to object but, apparently, something in Tybalt's eyes stopped him. Also, by that time the crowd around them had grown to several dozen or more onlook ers, all hill dwarves. Some of them clucked with dismay at the sight of Moldoon's lifeless body, though none stepped forward to offer comfort to the weeping Hildy.
With a shrug, the Theiwar dwarf picked up his short sword, wiped off the blood, and sheathed his blade. Un buckling his belt, he handed it to the constable.
'But he… Moldoon…' Basalt choked on the words through his outrage, watching the derro swagger down the street with one of the constables. 'By Reorx,' cried Basalt,
'give me your axe, let me finish it here!' His voice was a wail of despair.
'Let the law handle it,' Tybalt said curtly. 'It was a fight on the street, with plenty of witnesses. A fight that might have been avoided…'
Tybalt didn't finish the thought, but Basalt understood his meaning. He looked at the crowd, desperately searching for an understanding face, but saw only horror and pity. He looked toward Hildy, saw her cradling Moldoon's lifeless head and looking up at him with tear-filled eyes.
Suddenly Basalt could not face these dwarves of Hillhome.
Twisting free of the crowd, he sprinted away, around a corner and down a side street. He turned again, stumbling into an alley, not at all sure where he was going. Blinded by his own tears, he stumbled around another corner, still flee ing with no direction. Finally, his weakened knees and straining lungs forced him to slow, then stop. Gasping for breath, he leaned against a shed for support.
Suddenly he heard giggling, children's laughter. Had they witnessed the whole, shameful event and followed him from the inn to mock him? No, it couldn't be — they must just be playing in the alley. Still, Basalt found their gaiety infuriat ing. 'Go away, you brats!' he hissed through clenched teeth, not turning around.
But that only brought more cruel, haunting giggles.
Basalt whirled, half-crazed and ready to scare the wits out of the little fiends. From the depths of the shadows, two of the ugliest, dirtiest children he had ever seen rushed toward him. They broke into a run, waving twine, thong, and rope over their heads as they charged the startled hill dwarf.
They were on him instantly like rats, wrapping him in the rope and twine even as they scampered around him. One of them charged up his back, knocking him down. His head, still throbbing from the derro's chain mail, smacked into the packed earth, and the alley, his attackers, and even the ground began to spin uncontrollably.
And then he caught the scent of his assailants. Before he passed out, Basalt knew they were neither children nor rats, but something much worse.
As he lost consciousness, he wondered why he had been kidnapped by gully dwarves.
Chapter 14
A cloudy silty puddle of mushale remained at the bottom of the mug. Pitrick swished it one way, then sloshed it back toward the other, watching its rhythmic, symmetri cal motion. He watched the sediment, inevitable in mushale no matter how much it was strained, travel to and fro with the tiny tide. He found little solace in its simple spectacle.
The fact that this was his sixth mug in half as many hours was both comforting and galling. For if Pitrick utilized mushale as a transcendental aid, as a step toward relaxation and deeper understanding, rarely did he allow himself to get so completely lost in its more addictive charms. Overuse was an abuse.
The savant was already addicted to power. To become de pendent on anything else, to develop an intimacy with any thing else like he had with the concept of power, would only serve as a distraction.
Yet, something had already diverted his attention. Perian Cyprium, the flame-haired officer of the thane's House Guard, was consuming his thoughts. Pitrick swished the mushale dregs around the cup once more, listening for the soft murmur of the liquid. In frustration he dashed the con tents into the fire, then smashed the cup on the andiron. The low flame turned bright blue as the fermented potion blazed to life. Swelling not unlike the flame, Pitrick's melancholy grew to anger.
She had humbugged him, by the gods! He did not know how, or why, but somehow she had conspired with the fates to cheat him. One of his most powerful and potent devices, the 'wish' scroll that he had held in reserve for so many years, was gone, shriveled to ashes and blown away by its own magical wind. Its power was unquestionable, un doubtable, but still it had failed. Pitrick had left no loop holes for the mystical powers. Yet the scroll was consumed, the toll on his life span taken, and Perian was most defin itely not at his side.
'I have been a fool!' moaned Pitrick aloud in his empty chamber. 'And worse, I have been a blind, manipulated fool. I have squandered one of the most potent magics known and gained nothing.
'How could I allow this to happen? How could this frawl become such an obsession?' With his face buried in his hands, Pitrick limped around the chiseled and polished desk and up several steps toward the chamber in the right corner of the room. His gaze was falling on another place, another time, perhaps another world. He didn't need to see anything — the details of the room were clearly and perfectly fixed in his mind. Without as much as glancing at his sur roundings, he stopped and collapsed into the seat by the hearth, propping his elbows on his knees.
'I loathe her, and yet I must have her. Every denial, every move away only increases my desire. Does fate conspire against me, does the magical fabric of this world seek to frustrate me?' Pitrick's head snapped back and he howled,
'How could it fail me? I made no mistake!'
The sound of rapping at his door stiffened Pitrick in the granite seat. He looked all around the room, at first con fused by the sound, until it came again. The cloud of mushale and anguish in his mind cleared away as his focus returned to more immediate surroundings.
Along with the scroll, I have prematurely disposed of Le gaer, as well, he mused. The memory of the hapless ser vant's soft neck beneath Pitrick's fingers brought a wry smile to his lips as he stood. Still, a replacement was needed immediately.
The knocking at the door resumed. Pitrick clumped irri tably across the room, thoroughly annoyed by the intru sion. He paused, debating whether to answer it at all, but decided a fresh face might be diverting.
'What is it?' he demanded as he yanked open the heavy door, surprising the black-armored harrn of the House
Guard who was standing there. The startled soldier snapped to attention, then just stood in the doorway, unsure of what to do next.
Pitrick reached toward his five-headed amulet but then stopped and withdrew his hand. This guard was here for a reason, after all.
'Have you a message, clod?' Pitrick snapped. He could feel a chill draft blowing across his feet, and knew that his cozy rooms would quickly grow cold.
'I was sent from the North Warren, Excellency. The duty officer there requests that you come at your earliest conven ience.'
This is unusual, Pitrick thought. 'For what reason?'
'We captured an Aghar, Excellency. The duty officer felt that you should see him.' Pitrick could tell from the dwarf's tone that he was frightened, probably thinking that bearing such a trivial request to the thane's unpredictable adviser was flirting with death.
Pitrick enjoyed that part of his reputation. 'Why bother me with this? I am not concerned with the comings and go ings of thieving gully dwarves. Deal with him in the usual manner and be done with it… unless there's something more to it that you haven't told me?'
The messenger was sweating now, rivulets coursing down his neck beneath his close-fitting armor. 'Yes,
