shutters in the upper levels had been closed and heavily boarded over in an attempt to block out the noise.
Dressed completely in black, Cyric ignored the shriek as he stood in the trees at the far end of the tower's stables. Though it was night, the thief could see the guard who stood before the northeast entrance to the tower, near the kitchen. During his last night in Mourngrym's home, on the day Midnight and Adon had been arrested, Cyric had made a detailed study of the tower's defenses. Plying a disgruntled guardsman with gold and liquor, the thief had learned all he needed about the tower's secrets to formulate his plan.
A half dozen guards were always posted at the main entrance, while other soldiers patrolled the tower's perimeter. Security at the Ashaba bridge stations had been relaxed, since most of the bridge's length lay in ruins at the bottom of the river. The guard Cyric had bribed stood alone on the west bank of the river, but when the time came, he would be at the northernmost end of the bridge, investigating a 'minor disturbance' that Cyric left to the guard's imagination.
The only other guards who had been posted near the boathouse were inside the tower, looking out from time to time through spy holes to verify that the quiet of the night held no hidden dangers. The workmen who sometimes prowled the boatyard long into the night had been ordered home to their families, so that they might be properly rested when they attended the execution of Elminster's murderers in the morning.
Inside the tower, a large number of Mourngrym's men had been assigned that night to the upper levels, to guard their liege. The magical wards that normally protected the dalelord were unstable. Worse still, the trial had raised concern about the whereabouts of Lord Bane, and Mourngrym was troubled over the welfare of his wife and child should the Black Lord seek revenge against him.
Cyric was certain that the lower levels of the tower, where Midnight and Adon were being held until their execution the next morning, would be occupied by quite a few guards, too. But Cyric was prepared to assault the Twisted Tower. He was armed with a pair of daggers, a hand axe, several lengths of blackened rope, a small black cylinder, and the skills that only training by the Thieves' Guild in Zhentil Keep could foster.
The light from the torches lining the tower wall suddenly flared intensely, and a series of brilliant flashes lit the streets. A string of curses erupted from a guardsman. His back pressed against the trunk of nearby tree, Cyric forced his breath slowly from his lungs as he waited for the lights to flicker and fail. He had been in full view of the rear guard when the torches flared.
The guard, a young blond man who reminded Cyric of Adon, rubbed his eyes. Silently hurrying for the cover of the stables, Cyric glimpsed a pair of eyes in the stable and tensed, but he did not break his stride. He sighed with relief when the huge whites of the eyes merely revealed a pony that had wandered to the doorway.
'Here, now!' a deep, age-withered voice called. 'You come back here!'
The pony pranced closer to the stable door, and the footsteps of the stablemaster sounded inside the building. Cyric unsheathed one of his daggers, angled to his left, and doubled up into a crouch, ready to spring at the man and silence him before he could raise an alarm. Another voice cried out abruptly as the guard from the rear entrance turned the corner.
'Manxtrum! You've got a runaway, it seems,' the guard shouted. 'Better get a tighter rein on your charges!'
The man from the stables walked past the pony and stood at the doorway, oblivious to the dark figure who crouched in the shadows a few yards to his right. Cyric was not facing the guard, and the thief couldn't tell if he'd been spotted. He didn't dare to turn around, but since no one had cried out yet, he assumed neither the guard nor the stablemaster had seen him.
'Ah, this little beauty is the one Mourngrym promised to your daughter last week,' Manxtrum said. 'Care to come over and take a look?' Cyric gripped his dagger more tightly.
'Can't now,' the guard said. 'Perhaps after my shift.'
'Decent folk will be asleep!' Manxtrum said, waving his finger at the guard like an angry parent.
'Then you should be wide awake,' the guard called, laughing at his own joke, then suddenly bursting into a coughing fit.
Manxtrum shook his head and led the pony back into the stable. Counting to twenty, Cyric slowly looked over his shoulder and saw the guard cough again. The man's back was to him. Cyric shifted position slightly and, with a deft flick of the wrist, hurled his dagger.
The blond guard's arms jerked backward as the blade pierced his neck. He went down, falling backward with a gurgling, strangled cry that was cut short when he landed.
Cyric waited for any sign that the guard's cry had been heard. After a moment, the thief scrambled to the servants' entrance to the tower, near where the dead man lay.
Took care of that nasty cough, now, didn't we? Cyric thought grimly as he turned the corpse over to pull his blade from its throat. The thief grabbed a plank left over from some work on the shutters and placed it next to the guard. Uncoiling three lengths of rope from his waist, Cyric laid them out horizontally, then placed the wood plank over the center of the ropes. The thief rolled the corpse onto the plank, tying the ropes around his thighs, waist, and chest, then propped the dead man up in his usual station, visible from within the shadowy confines of the tower as well as the stables. His head hung limply upon the man's chest, concealing the bloodied throat.
Cyric entered the alcove that housed the servants' door. When he looked back toward the stables, the thief saw that the light from within the building revealed no sign that his actions had been detected. He then looked up to check where he had removed the large stone block in the alcove's ceiling several hours earlier. It had not been sealed up. Cyric silently climbed up the wall into the indentation, took a breath, then, reaching down with one leg, gave the wooden door a kick.
Moments later, he heard a muffled voice call from the other side of the door. 'Segert?'
Cyric frowned, lowered his leg once more, and kicked the door once again, this time adding an exaggerated cough. Drawing back up into the indentation in the ceiling, Cyric watched as the door opened and a short man with a gray mustache stepped out into the alcove.
'Segert?' the guard asked as he moved toward the still figure that leaned against the wall just outside the alcove. Muscles straining, Cyric prepared to drop on the guard, but froze when he heard a second guard approach from inside the tower.
'Trouble, Marcreg?' the second guard asked, his voice high and trembling. Cyric could barely see the younger guard's face in the doorway.
'Guess not,' the guard with the gray mustache snapped impatiently. 'Better get back to your post. We'll continue your training later.'
'Aye, sir,' the other guard said and hurried away.
Marcreg shook his head and stepped forward. 'Now, what's your problem, Segert? There'll be no sick leave until after the prisoners are executed. I told you that — '
Cyric relaxed the pressure on his braced legs and allowed his body to fall. The thief landed with his legs around the neck of the gray-mustached guard and twisted hard until he heard the sound of cracking bones. Marcreg fell into the door, nearly slamming it closed. In a moment of blind panic, Cyric let go of the guard and jammed his foot in the upper corner of the door. Suppressing a cry of pain as the heavy door pressed against his foot, Cyric wriggled out of his boot and landed beside the corpse.
Cyric dragged Marcreg's body away from the door, then slid his boot to the bottom of the doorjamb. The thief unraveled his last section of rope, set it aside, and arranged Marcreg's body like that of the other guard. After propping up the corpse outside the door, Cyric entered the tower.
The service hallway stretched in both directions, following the curvature of the tower. Cyric knew that he would have to search out the guard who had spoken to Marcreg. The younger man wouldn't wait for his tutor forever. When the older man didn't return, he would certainly raise the alarm.
There was a clanging of metal bowls and a whispered curse from off to Cyric's right. The thief followed the noise to the delivery entrance to the kitchen. A sign had been tacked up above the open doorway, marking it as a portal safe from magical chaos. Cautiously he peered around the corner. Inside the kitchen, the young guard stood in semi-darkness. The dull orange glow of a lantern revealed the furtive motions of the guardsman as he gorged himself on a rare delicacy, a chilled bowl of chocolate covered with cherries and cream. He had his back to the door.
Drawing a dagger, Cyric advanced on the guard. This is too easy, the thief thought. He noticed, a moment too late, that the young man was gazing at the flickering shadows on the shiny metal surface of the bowl.
The cold metal bowl flashed in the dim light as the guard whirled and hurled it. It struck Cyric full in the face,
