The Coral Kingdom

She really is beautiful, he realized. For once, the sister knight did not wear her silvered plate mail. Her petite form, clad in a gauzy dress, seemed almost frail by comparison to the robust, though hardly large, Alicia. Both of them had light-colored hair, but Alicia's was tinged with red and long, carelessly bound with a scarf that left many rogue strands free to tickle her cheeks and sweep across her shoulders. Brigit's, on the other hand, curled softly in a much shorter cut. When she wore her helm, none of the thin strands, as yellow as spun gold, were visible. Though the elfwoman didn't bind it in any visible way, her hair lay soft and lightly curling against her scalp, hiding the tips of her pointed ears and accentuating the delicate shape of her features.

Brigit joined Alicia for each toast, and as the evening wore on, the two females grew louder and more boisterous. Gradually the sister knight's elven reserve dropped away, and when she and Alicia joined Tavish for a ribald chorus of 'The Murderous Maid,' the whole hall resounded with cheers.

'Humans!' cried Brigit, slowly stifling her laughter as she settled back into her chair. 'I wouldn't have believed it, but your festive spirit is catching!'

'Obviously,' murmured Deirdre, too quietly for anyone but Keane to hear. The mage cast a quick look at the princess, who had been silent during the course of the dinner.

'You should try it,' Keane couldn't resist pointing out.

Deirdre looked at him frankly, her lip curling into a faint sneer. 'Some of us have more important things to do.'

Keane looked at his former student with concern. The chaos of the banquet was not the place to talk with her. Tomorrow, he told himself-before we sail-I will speak with her. She hasn't listened before, but perhaps. .

'.. when the firbolgs saw the Sisters of Synnoria ride over the hill, their faces dropped into every expression of astonishment you could imagine.' Keane looked up, realizing that Queen Robyn was relating the story of the battle of Freeman's Down, the first time she and Tristan had fought with the aid of Brigit and the sister knights.

'It was a costly day,' continued the queen, her voice dropping sadly. 'Many brave Ffolk perished at the ditch, and one of the knights, fell, too. But we held them.'

'Just as we'll hold them now,' concluded Alicia softly. 'May the goddess protect our efforts!'

Through the mirror of scrying, Talos watched the development of the humans' plans. Many options existed for thwarting those plans. Naturally the one he selected called for the use of his favorite avatar. Coss-Axell-Sinioth, now dwelling as master of the Coral Kingdom, would again serve his god in Corwell.

The command of Talos penetrated the depths of the sea, tickling the evil brain of his avatar as Sinioth lolled among the coral pillars of his submarine grotto. The giant squid oozed upward from the bottom, into the pale green of the shallows, as if here it could better absorb the message of its evil god.

'Arise, Coss-Axell-Sinioth, and hear the words of your master!'

'Speak, O Awesome One, and I obey!'

'You will again don the guise of a man,' ordered Talos. 'And quickly. You must go ashore in Corwell. There is a task you must do for me there. …'

When Sinioth heard the wishes of Talos, he could only gurgle in appreciative glee.

9

Corwell Town

The streets of Corwell were dark and generally abandoned at this late hour. A few guardsmen marched about, spending most of their time lingering beneath the occasional oil street-lamps, while late-night revelers stumbled from this inn to that tavern, seeking a little more entertainment before giving themselves up to the night.

Of course, every decent Ffolk was home in bed-at least, that would have been the opinion expressed by any city guard one bothered to ask. And for the most part, the man-at-arms would have been right.

This was especially so in the case of one dark side street, and a particularly ill-lighted tavern at the blackest end of that dingy lane, a place frequented by the lowest class of sailors and anyone else lacking the few copper pieces necessary to find better accommodations or entertainment.

In short, The Black Salmon was the seediest dive in Corwell Town, and so it attracted the kind of customer one might expect. Now, in the predawn hours, most of these derelicts had fallen asleep in pools of spilled beer, or staggered off to the common sleeping room or their lodgings elsewhere in town.

The exceptions were few: a painted harlot, alone for the night; a pair of young Ffolkmen spending their last night ashore before embarking, as crewmen, on the trading galleon in the harbor; and two northmen sailors, one profoundly drunk and the other only halfway so.

The fire grew dull, but the grease-stained innkeeper did nothing about it. A few candles guttered and dripped on some of the tables, casting wavering shadows around the room. The barely coherent northman broke the silence abruptly by calling out for two more mugs. The innkeeper poured stale beer from a leaking keg and examined the copper piece he received as if he were a master jeweler assessing the value of a princely ransom.

But even that dullard's eyes widened as a shadowy form moved through the door. One of the sleeping men snored loudly and then started awake. All conversation ceased, and the two pairs of men watched, the drunken northman rubbing his eyes in an attempt to see more clearly.

But nothing could form that shape in the doorway into other than a murk. It was no natural fog that rolled in from the street, sapping the feeble light from the room and bringing with it a chill from the sea … or beyond.

Then the haze dissipated, and a man entered the Black Salmon. The stranger was a tall fellow, dressed in black trousers and tunic, with hair and beard to match, and gleaming boots of midnight-dark leather reaching to his knees. He smiled around the inn, flashing white teeth, though his eyes remained hooded by carefully lowered lids.

Then he stalked across the common room to the table where the two northmen sat, pulling up a chair and seating himself without waiting for an invitation.

'Barkeep!' he shouted, a sound that jerked all of the others upward like marionettes seized by frantic puppeteers. 'Bring us a pitcher of that… ale?' He regarded the contents of a half-filled mug with distaste, but then shrugged and tapped his fingers impatiently while the innkeeper filled a tall jug from his keg and hurried over with it.

The stranger flipped a coin to the server, and silver flashed briefly in the candlelight. The greasy little man seized the coin from the air and scampered back to the shelter of his grimy bar.

'On me, friends,' said the newcomer, smiling with his mouth only. The two northmen still gaped at him as if he had two heads or three arms.

'Who are you?' demanded the less drunken of the two, finally recovering his voice.

The stranger blinked. 'Call me … Malawar,' he said after a moment. 'Malawar of Alaron. And you, if I'm not mistaken, are men of the north.'

The two sailors, with their long blond hair tied into twin braids, drooping mustaches, and fur-lined tunics, could hardly have been anything else. Nevertheless, they both nodded and assented seriously, as if a question of great import had been asked.

'That's a sleek ship in the harbor,' the stranger continued. 'Sailing on her?'

'Soon now,' said the one who was still coherent. 'With the afternoon tide, tomorrow. We just wanted to sample a little more of the local treasures before we go!' The sailor concluded with a chuckle that grew into a long, ale-flavored belch.

The stranger grimaced at the sight of the amber liquid in the pitcher, with its slight film of white foam. Nevertheless, he reached over and refilled the mugs of each northman. His own glass stood before him, barely touched.

'Did you sail here on that pig scow?' asked the northman, gesturing to the door. The indication of the great galleon was not lost on the one called Malawar.