passage on a caravan. The river is too treacherous this time of year.'
Pulling his hood back up, Chane left the rotund apprentice staring in confusion after him. Once the tall priest reached the courtyard and found his saddled horse waiting, he smiled again.
Rysheos was situated along the trade routes between Cormyr and Waterdeep, a day's ride north of Soubar. The newly established boomtown bustled with life and color. Though still somewhat primitive in its architecture and inhabitants, the small city exhilarated Chane, filled as it was with smoke-scented trading shops and citizens seeking a fresh start. Until recent years, warring nobles-along with roving bands of goblins and ores-had given rise to chaos as each fought for control of Rysheos. But one powerful lord and his followers managed to crush all other factions and bring about a fear-induced peace. As the city flourished, opportunities surfaced for those with the courage to seize them. So far, no loremasters had established a temple here.
Seated in the dining hall of the victorious Lord Teelo of Rysheos, Chane felt a sense of urgency tickling the tiny hairs of his forearms. While the city as a whole appealed to him, this one room expressed all the qualities he found so desirable. Rich scents of mulled wine, spiced meats, warm whole-nut bread, stale sweat, leather, and exotic perfume drifted comfortably into his nostrils. Closing his eyes for a moment, he listened to the sounds of laughter, music, clanking steel from mock fights, and toasts to good health.
He raised his eyelids again and focused briefly on a silver bowl brimming with a bright array of fruit. So much wealth here, and so few who knew how to use it. His mouth watered, but he did not hunger for the taste of food. Warriors, wealthy merchants, and barbarians — at least to Chane's perspective — occupied every chair. A wide array of humans, elves, dwarves, and gnomes surrounded him. It was not the mix that differed from that of the Twilight Hall; it was the feel and mood and code of dress. There were no minstrels here. No loremasters. No bards. No teachers of any kind. And for once, all gazes drifted to him. Here he was no perfect rose hidden behind a dozen other nondescript flowers. These people of Rysheos were thorns in the truest sense. Here he was truly appreciated.
'How is your lovely highlady, Cylyria?' Lord Teelo asked politely.
By the gods, Chane thought. Look at him sitting there in chain mail armor with food in his beard, trying to make pleasant conversation. 'She is well and sends her greeting.'
Everyone who knew anything of Berdusk was well aware that Highlady Cylyria had little do with the governing of her city. She relied on the mages, thieves, bards, and lore-masters of Twilight Hall to govern it for her.
'Then why have you requested an audience?' Teelo continued. 'Does some other matter need my attention?'
This was the crux of the matter, the heart of Chane's lie. He had not been called to Rysheos for diplomatic reasons. He had written to Lord Teelo a few tendays past, requesting an audience. This hand must be played carefully. Teelo may have possessed the manners of a Shadowdale goat, but he was no fool.
'I am concerned, my lord,' Chane began, 'about the state of education in your vast city.'
'Education?'
'Yes, there are no churches here, no loremasters to teach the knowledge of Oghma. You don't appear to even possess a bard who might teach your people music, art, or ancient history. Does this not concern you as well?'
Chane noticed a pretty, dark-haired merchant's daughter hanging on his every word. Perhaps she was interested in the conversation. Perhaps she was simply overcome by his charm. He enjoyed the company of women, but only if they were completely enamored of him. Pursuing a romantic challenge held no interest whatsoever. He liked to be adored.
'What are you suggesting?' Lord Teelo asked.
'Suggesting? Why nothing. The recent past of Rysheos has been colored by bloodshed. Now that you have brought order and justice, should not the next logical step be education? What will become of your people without music and history?'
The lines of Teelo's wide forehead narrowed. He had once been a warrior. Now he was a strong leader, and the welfare of his city took precedence over all else. 'Yes, I see truth in your words. Should I bring in loremasters and bards, teachers to set up churches and schools?'
Chane smiled his warmest smile, turning his face toward the candlelight to make his smooth skin glow softly. 'A brilliant idea, my lord. К you would, let me look into this matter for you. Perhaps a few members of Twilight Hall would be willing to relocate for the chance to undertake so worthy a challenge?'
'Good,' Teelo's gaze shifted to a dwarven mock fight that appeared to be growing less mock each moment. 'Do that for me, Master Chane. I appreciate your counsel.'
Chane sipped his mulled wine as though the exchange meant nothing to him, but his heart beat fast beneath the tan cloak he wore. The lord had expressed a mild interest at best, but a mild interest was all Chane needed. A servant laid half a roast pheasant on the loremaster's plate. Unlike those around him, he cut into it carefully, making certain the bird's juices did not soil his sleeves or spatter his neighbor.
A caravan on its way to Iriaebor arrived in Berdusk late into the night nine days later. The bards, mages, and thieves of Twilight Hall paid no heed to the passengers on the incoming wagons, only the supplies they carried. They had no idea that one of their own traveled in the heart of the clamor.
Chane kept quietly hidden between two wagons, having exchanged his tasteful cream robes for leather breeches and a heavy black tunic. He told no one of his arrival. He told no one on the caravan his true identity. As far as Berdusk was concerned, Loremaster Chane was visiting Rysheos on diplomatic business.
As the horses and wagons began to separate near the marketplace to park safely for the night, Chane turned his mount down a side street and headed for the city's west end.
The Seat of Lore, temple to Oghma.
The very thought of the temple filled him with anticipation. Long ago, scores of ancient books had been spirited inside those sacred walls. Centuries-old texts of legends and lore waited for him like glittering jewels in a consecrated mine. The temple's overseer was a gnome called Bransul-dyn Mirrortor, a former rogue and wanderer who now guarded one of the largest collections of ancient and rare texts that Chane could ever desire. And what did Mirrortor do with all his wealth? He simply locked it up like some sad old man hoarding coins under a mattress.
A familiar litany tripped through Chane's thoughts: Knowledge is power. Power is wealth. Wealth is adulation and respect. That sorry gnome knows nothing of possibilities. He deserves to die.
A not-so-charming smile twitched at the corners of Chane's lips. How would Teelo reward a loremaster who knew more archaic history than any other priest on the continent? What would he pay to keep such a prized scholar within the walls of Rysheos? Yes, in Rysheos, such a lore-master could have anything he desired. He would rule the colleges and dole out positions to other prospective teachers, priests, or bards-just as long as they weren't too educated and remembered their place. Life would finally be as it should… grand and glorious.
It would take a few years of study, of course. After stealing the texts, he'd have to hole up somewhere to read and prepare. But then, just think of Teelo's gratitude, to command such a loremaster. So much preserved knowledge would be at Chane's fingertips. He would soon be worshiped as the right hand of Oghma. No other position could offer so perfect an existence. His mouth began to water again.
The huge oak doors of Oghma's temple loomed up before him. How to proceed? Cultured charm always worked best for Chane, but he could frighten and bully if the need arose.
Opening the unlocked doors without knocking, he stepped into a cavernous room. All around him simple wooden benches littered the vast floor. Sparsely filled shelves had been pushed up against three of the walls. There was no hall or entryway. To his surprise, he found himself looking at the far wall and a mahogany desk. Sitting at the desk, busily writing, was a slender elven girl with light gold hair.
Her eyes lifted when he entered.
'Welcome,' she said softly.
Chane cursed under his breath; all the stories he'd heard portrayed Mirrortor living alone. He could not leave any witnesses alive to testify of his presence in the temple, so this unfortunate girl would have to die as well. Mirrortor was a great, selfish waste of flesh, hiding history from the eyes of the world. Whatever evil befell him, he deserved. But Chane had not planned to turn this theft into a night of multiple murders. There was nothing to be done about it now, however.
'Good evening,' he said smoothly. 'I know it is late, but I wish to speak with Mirrortor.'
The girl had serious eyes, clear gray that seemed to look through him. 'One moment,' she said. 'Let me see
