not been broken. Finally, he relaxed slightly.
Then Cyric noticed the shape, roughly the size of a man, that suddenly appeared outside the window. The window imploded and Cyric flung himself backward, attempting to avoid the flurry of razor-sharp glass fragments that rained into the room.
Cyric heard his assailant drop down into the room before the last of the shattered glass fell. He imagined his opponent only moments before, waiting in the room above Cyric's, listening for the sounds of the former thief's arrival. Cyric cursed himself for adopting a routine; it was obvious the assailant must have been watching Cyric for days.
A slight rush of air at his right alerted Cyric to danger as he rose. He moved to the left, barely avoiding a knife thrust to his back. Without turning, Cyric crashed his elbow into the face of his foe, then dove across the bed to the opposite side of the room. His short sword was in his hand before he landed, facing the direction of the shattered window.
There was no one in the room. Through the destroyed window frame, Cyric observed the rope his attacker had used. It swung back and forth like a pendulum, entering the room, then exiting again. Yet the man who had used it was nowhere to be found.
A rush of air again alerted Cyric, and he moved quickly. In the wall beside him he saw a dagger materialize.
Invisibility, Cyric noted calmly. Yet something was wrong. Invisibility only protected its user until he attacked. In this case, his adversary had become invisible as he attacked.
Cyric knew he had very little chance of survival. Still, a grin wider than any he had known in recent times spread across Cyric's face.
The thief moved quickly, cutting an area before him with his blade at all times, connecting with nothing but air, shifting direction constantly. With his free hand, Cyric picked up stray items in the room and tossed them in random directions, waiting to hear something hit the unseen assassin.
The edge of the bedspread pulled slightly, and a thread from it rose up into the air, seemingly attached to nothing, yet obviously hooked to the clothing of the invisible enemy. Cyric turned his back on his attacker and moved away, then suddenly fell into a crouch.
The attacker's thrust was high, and Cyric quickly reached up and felt his fingers tighten on a human arm. He rose up and threw the man over his shoulder with ease and heard a knife skitter across the floor, then saw it materialize.
Cyric brought his knee down over his attacker's throat and slid his blade in beside it.
'Show yourself,' Cyric commanded.
'Have to wait,' a muffled voice said.
'What?'
'Have to wait for the spell to fade. Takes a bit once I've stopped attacking. Anything to do with magic works a bit strangely these days, you know. If it works at all.'
Cyric frowned. Despite the fact that the voice was muffled, it had a familiar ring to it.
A moment later, the spell faded and the man was revealed. His face was wrapped in some type of fabric that seemed to have been reinforced by steel mesh, and most of his leathers had been similarly enshrouded. The only other noticeable detail was the blue gemstone that sat in a ring upon his finger. Cyric unwrapped the fabric from the man's face with his free hand.
'Marek,' Cyric said in a whisper 'After all these years.'
Cyric stared into the older man's eyes and Marek began to laugh — a hearty, good natured roar. 'Always the ill-tempered student, Cyric. Even to your mentor.'
Cyric tightened his grip, and Marek looked to the ceiling. 'Young fool,' he said hoarsely. 'If my intent had been to take your life, your last breath would have been drawn days ago. I merely wished to prove to myself that you still possessed the skills I taught you, that you were yet worthy of my attention.' Marek grimaced. 'An old man's folly, if you will. You might well have killed me in my foolishness.'
'Why should I believe you, the master of lies?'
Marek let out a dispassionate wheeze. 'Believe what you like. The Thieves' Guild wishes you back where you belong, back with your own kind.'
Cyric attempted to hide his reaction, but he could not quell the smile that crossed his lips and betrayed him to Marek.
'You have had these thoughts as well,' Marek said, pleased. 'I have observed you, good Cyric. The life you lead isn't worthy of a dog.'
'It's a life,' Cyric said.
'Not for one with your gift. You were shown the way, and you elevated it to undreamed-of heights.'
Cyric's smile broadened. 'Once the lies begin it is as a dam bursting, is that it? I was a fair thief. My absence was noticed by few. This is only a point of pride for you. In fact, I would wager the Guild knows nothing of this visit.'
Marek grimaced. 'How long can this charade last?'
'That depends,' Cyric said, and pressed the blade tightly against his former mentor's throat.
Marek looked down at the knife. 'Will you kill me, then?'
'What?' Cyric grinned. 'And waste the sharp edge of my blade on such as you? Nay, I believe Arabel will have use for your talents. I may even reap a decent commission in the process.'
'I'll expose you!'
'I'll be gone,' Cyric said. 'And no one will believe you, nor care to find me even if they do. Our kind is rarely in demand once our secrets are out.'
'Others will come,' Marek said. 'Sell me into slavery and others will come.'
'Then you would prefer I kill you?'
'Yes.'
'All the more reason not to,' Cyric said and rose up and away from Marek, the game at an end.
'I taught you too well,' Marek said, then stood to face his former student. 'The Guild would take you back, Cyric. Even though you didn't even try to take my ring.' Marek winked. 'Stole it from a sorcerer, along with a cache of items I don't pretend to understand.'
There was a knock at the door. 'Yes?' Cyric shouted, taking his eyes from Marek for only a heartbeat. Cyric heard the sound of glass crunching. When he looked back, Marek was nowhere to be seen. Cyric rushed to the window and caught sight of Marek on the street below. The older man seemed to dare Cyric to follow him.
The knock at the door was repeated.
'A summons from Kelemvor and Adon to meet at the Pride of Arabel Inn at your earliest convenience.'
'And your name?'
'Tensyl Durmond, of Iardon's Hirelings.'
'Hold for but a moment, good Tensyl, and I will have a gold piece for you.'
'Join us,' Marek called from the street. 'Else your petty little life among the hard-working will be shattered in a fortnight. I'm not above exposing you to get what I want, Cyric. Remember this.'
'I'll remember,' Cyric said softly, then turned his back and went to the door. 'I always remember.'
Cyric opened the door to the boy, ignoring the gaping expression of surprise on Tensyl's face as he saw the shattered window and the clear signs of a recent battle in the small room.
III
Midnight's head cleared quickly after she left the farm, and she got a ride into Arabel with a small caravan, which was a common sight on the road to the city, even in times of trouble. Still, none of the travelers she met could tell her anything new about the events of the past two weeks, though all had stories of magic gone mad or the unrest in nature. Once the caravan reached the city, Midnight went off in search of her own answers.
