below before she could think to open her mouth to scream.
Tanar turned back to the magical communication device. His sheets lay stretched from the bed to the window, a long white accusing finger pointing the way to his crime. He balled them up and tossed them on the bed before returning to his seat at the desk.
“It is done,” Tanar sighed, as he slid into the chair. “The woman will not speak.”
“Well done, Tanar,” the Voice purred. “I hope her death does not interfere with your duties.”
Tanar stiffened. “The proper authorities will be consulted. There is nothing to worry about. I know how to do my job.”
“I sometimes wonder. You were warned not to abuse the power of this artifact, yet here I find you using it to subdue your… evening’s entertainment.”
“A simple spell,” he answered. “I could have cast it without the magic of the device.”
“Remember that when you are at the bottom of the sea.”
Tanar started, genuinely surprised.
“You are ordered,” the Voice of the Night continued, “to accompany a ship of gnomes on their journey to find the sub-Ansalonian passage, and to report back everything that they find. Should they attempt to return to a Solamnic port, or find themselves in danger of capture by Solamnics or any other power, you will destroy the crew and scuttle the ship. Do you accept this assignment, even though it may mean your own death?”
“I’ll do it,” Tanar answered darkly.
“Of course, you know that Lord Targonne has ordered you on this journey, even though he has no confidence that these gnomes will succeed on their mission, and that he fully expects you may die with the gnomes in their ship. He would be rid of you, but without directly offending the Order of the Thorn. You, Sir Tanar, are a Thorn in his side. He fears you as he fears me.”
“Then why do you concur with his orders?” Tanar ventured to ask.
“Because I have confidence,” the Voice continued. “Confidence the gnomes will succeed in their curious task. Portents and auguries indicate a high probability of success. These gnomes are not yet aware that they are also working for me, to further my power, but you shall teach them this-and other lessons on my behalf. Besides, I do not wish to openly oppose Lord Targonne.”
“How shall I proceed, then?” Tanar asked petulantly. He despised politics and didn’t really care who he was working for or why, as long as he was paid according to agreement.
“You shall sail this submersible of theirs with them to the bottom of the Blood Sea and there discover the crack that leads to the Abyss. If you can find the way for me, Tanar, we shall enter the Abyss together.”
Tanar’s face darkened. “The Abyss?” he growled suspiciously. “What do you seek there? Takhisis is no longer there. She doesn’t answer our prayers. She fled with the other gods from Allfather Chaos.”
“It’s the Abyss, Tanar. Why do I need to explain every little detail to you? Think! If a magical artifact such as the communication device can grant a little power, how much more power is there in even one stone of the Abyss? The Abyss served once as the home of a goddess, Tanar. Its power must be infinite. And so shall be ours, if you succeed. Will you do it?”
“I said I would,” he answered shortly. “Don’t I always do what I say?”
“Eventually,” she answered. “In your own time. But you must not dally this time. You must be of the most serious mind. You must not fail. Barring any unforeseen accidents, the gnomes should be in Flotsam before winter arrives. Be ready for them.”
“I will,” he said, glancing around and rehearsing his story of the poor woman’s suicide, as the Voice of the Night faded.
Chapter
11
Even in Snork’s glass of farseeing, the boat was tiny, cutting its way through the green northern sea with two great sails of red and white stripes pushing it through the waves. A black flag, unadorned, rippled from the top of its single mast. They saw the white waves curling away from its sharp prow like parings before the planer blade.
Snork passed the glass to Commodore Brigg. He sucked his teeth as he put his eye to it. “There’s no doubt,” he muttered. “She’s already seen us.”
They had just rounded the northern tip of Nordmaar. Off the starboard bow lay a land sparsely populated- poor, terrorized by the ceaseless raids of buccaneers, and unfriendly to strangers. To port stretched the endless leagues of the Northern Courrain Ocean, which no ship had ever navigated and returned to tell the tale.
Commodore Brigg passed the glass to Razmous, who sighed as he put the wonderful device to his eye. “I’ve never met a real live minotaur before,” he said. “Much less a pirate.”
“It is to be hoped that continues,” the commodore said sternly.
But Razmous went on. “It must be very interesting to have big cow horns sticking out of your head. Awfully convenient, I should imagine, for hanging things like umbrellas on them, when it is raining and you don’t have enough hands.” He lowered the glass and gazed out over the ocean at the tiny dot barely visible on the horizon.
“Hey! Give me that!” Sir Grumdish snapped, indicating the glass of farseeing that was sliding into the kender’s pouch.
“This? I thought you were through with it,” Razmous protested.
“I haven’t even looked through it yet!” Sir Grumdish barked as he yanked the glass from the kender’s grasp.
“Well, you should have said something!” retorted the kender in hurt tones.
With a frown, Sir Grumdish lifted it to his eye and peered through. He harrumphed, then gnawed his lower lip. “What do you suppose is her crew complement?” he asked, lowering the glass and passing it to Conundrum.
“Forty at least, not counting officers,” Snork said.
Conundrum lifted the glass to his eye. The minotaur galley had drawn closer as they talked, near enough now to see tiny figures scurrying around on her decks. A steely blade flashed in the sunlight.
“More than enough for the likes of us,” Sir Grumdish commented. “Well, someone will have to help me get my armor up here on deck.”
“Nay, we cannot fend off a boarding,” the commodore said. “We’re a ship of exploration, not war.”
“Well, it’s come to war, no matter what your intentions,” Sir Grumdish argued.
“She’s lowering her sails!” Conundrum cried. “Perhaps she hasn’t seen us after all! '
Commodore Brigg snatched the glass from Conundrum’s eye and put it to his own, a fierce grin splitting his white beard. After a few moments, the grin faded, and he passed the glass back to Snork. “She’s seen us all right. She’s putting out oars. They need oars to ram us and board us.”
“Well, if we aren’t going to fight, what are we going to do?” Sir Grumdish asked.
The commodore thought for a moment, some inner struggle revealed in the anguish of his expression. His hands gripped the rusty rail of the conning tower until his knuckles turned white. Then, sighing, he released his grip and plunged his hands into the pockets of his red jumpsuit. “We’ll submerge and wait her out.”
“But you said-” Sir Grumdish began.
“What would you have of me?” the commodore interrupted. “We cannot outrun her, and we dare not fight her, not even with UAEPs. Even if we sunk her, her crew would simply board us to save themselves. What good would that do us? We’d still be dead, and our Life Quests would remain incomplete.”
“This ship is a submersible,” Snork chimed in cheerfully. “I think it’s high time we submersed.”
“Aye!” the others agreed, even Sir Grumdish, albeit reluctantly.
“Chief Conundrum, are you prepared to maintain proper oilage levels?” the commodore asked.
“I think so, sir,” Conundrum answered.
“Then man your station, sir,” Brigg ordered.
“All hands! All hands!” Snork bellowed through the open hatch. “Prepare to submerge the ship!”
Conundrum made his way into the ship while several gnomes rushed topside to lower the reefed sails and
