From where he sat, Avarilous had plenty of leisure for observation. The crowd appeared at first to be a typical gathering of sailors, soldiers, and rogues from the Utter East. As he watched, though, he became increasingly aware of a subtly different dynamic in the courtyard, a tension that seemed to grow quietly among the various groups.
Avarilous’s attention was gradually drawn to the boisterous group of well-dressed men gathered at the table near the fountain. It was a large party, and their penetrating voices rose above the clamor.
“Slaver scum! Traders in human flesh. The men of Konigheim! Who knows from what port they’ll draw slaves next. Citizens of Tharkar, look to your children!”
“Fool of a Doeganer! We of the Mighty Kingdom of Konigheim, Beacon of the Utter East, Favored of the Five Kingdoms, take slaves only from the kingdoms we conquer. And yours will be next, unless I miss my guess. The fish-people at last caught in a net.” The speaker chuckled heavily and belched. “We’ve all seen the neck gills you Doeganers sport. What’s next for you? Will you grow fins? A kingdom of codfish? We’ll serve you up in a lemon sauce. Or perhaps you’d prefer to be fried in batter!” He roared with laughter at his own poor wit, as his companions sycophantically echoed him. Avarilous noted with interest the patch of wrinkled skin in the middle of his forehead, a patch surrounded by a multitude of complicated designs executed in dark ink.
Near the center of the table a man rose, evidently with some authority. As he spoke, the men at the table fell grudgingly silent.
“Now then, citizens! Peace among us all! Put aside those differences that divide us, and together, united as one powerful force, we can confront the fiendish enemy, while improving our mutual wealth and power!” The speaker lifted his glass. “A toast! A toast to our success in these negotiations. Neither shall be the loser in the pact we conclude.”
There was an embarrassed scraping of chairs, and both sides in the dispute halfheartedly lifted their glasses in assent. Once again, talk at the table sank into the general babble of inn voices.
Avarilous listened with apparent indifference to this dispute and its conclusion. The men at his table seemed at first equally unaware of it. But as he observed them closely, the merchant saw that this was not so.
As Kreelan went to the bar he spoke a word in passing to one of the Doeganers. As Spielt, a colorful scarf slanting over his forehead so that it concealed one eye, passed near the delegation he seemed to stumble and murmur something to the Konigheimers. The men at the large table drew together in a tighter circle, their voices hushed, suspicious looks passing between them like summer lightning.
Avanlous watched this with growing interest, waiting for the spark that would set off open conflict. It was not long in coming.
Kreelan leaned his chair back and stretched. As he did so, Avarilous saw him, with a flick of his wrist, toss a small rock, so accurately that it upset a full tankard of ale on the Konigheimers’ side of the table. A hulking, dark- haired Konigheimer with the white skin and tall build of the Ffolk, instantly leaped to his feet with a curse. He turned angrily to one of the Doeganers sitting across from him.
“Clumsy fool! Watch what you’re about!”
“Slaver dog!”-the Doegarier was on his feet now-”The curse of the mage-king upon you!”
Rather than reply, the slaver picked up his chair and bashed it across his opponent’s head. Other denizens of the tavern sprang up, and the brawl was on.
Avarilous slid further into his nook, avoiding flying furniture and bits of broken glass. To his right he could see his table companions watching the battle with evident satisfaction. The conflict was conducted with broken chairs and tables. Fists flew. Bottles crashed. The smell of spilled ale was overwhelming. Then, as one fighter staggered back into the dark nook in which Avarilous was standing, the merchant was plucked forth and swept into the midst of the battle.
He found himself parrying a myriad of blows, slashes, and flying cups. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Spielt and Kreelan had entered the fray. He worked his way into the middle of the courtyard, now jammed with thrashing bodies, most of them held upright by the press of people. Then, just as the fighting was heaviest, the crowd drew apart to reveal a man’s body sprawled facedown, floating in the waters of the fountain. Crimson ripples spread in a ghastly halo around his head.
“Murder!” The cry came from a hundred throats. The crowd poured into the street, and in five minutes the only ones left in the tavern besides the owner were the two men from Avarilous’s table, the merchant, and the dead man. A second later, the landlord and his band of helpers emerged from behind the bar and ranged themselves before the door. Avarilous sank back into his nook, watching the scene with glittering, attentive eyes.
The two drinkers would have followed the rest of the crowd, but their way was barred by the landlord, who came at them in a furious rush.
“You fools! What have you been doing? This fight will bring the watch down on this house for sure!” The landlord’s voice ended in a shriek as Spielt seized him by the throat and pinned him against the wall with one hand, while his other drew a wickedly curved sword from beneath his robes. His friend stared grimly at the landlord’s henchmen as they started forward.
“Call off your dogs,” he growled, “unless you’d care to end the evening as a corpse.” The landlord gestured frantically with one hand, and the large guard, Sirc’al, stepped back a pace. His hand was on his own sword, and his eyes looked death at the scarred man.
The ruffian nodded to his companion, who loosened his hold on the landlord. The fat innkeeper choked and gasped for a moment, then sank into a chair. Kreelan gave his friend a ghastly smile and the two stepped confidently toward the door.
Light flashed suddenly from a blade, as one of the innkeeper’s men drew a broadsword and pressed it against Spielt’s throat. “Halt! Or your friend dies!”
Kreelan stopped, his mouth slipping sideways in anger. He glanced down, making a visible effort to regain his temper. Then he looked up again. “Go ahead! He’s less than nothing to me. I can pick up a better helper than him in any dockside brothel.” He took another step.
Spielt’s face had turned ashy, but his voice, when he spoke, was surprisingly calm. “Death’s waiting that way, Kreelan. Another step and you’ll be food for the Fallen Temple.” He flicked his eyes upward, toward a shadowed balcony that ran around the second story of the room. “Right now there’s a crossbow aimed straight at your head. Raeglaran was keeping an alternate escape route open for us. Well, that’s what he’s doing for me, all right.”
Kreelan began to look upward, then thought better of it. “You’re bluffing, Spielt.”
Spielt’s laughter had a touch of hysteria about it. “Am I? Then walk ahead. You’ll find out soon enough.”
Sirc’al’s stance appeared to relax slightly. He laughed deep in his throat and brushed a hand over his balding head, the skin mottled and scaly. “So you’ve betrayed each other. What more could I expect from such slime? Well, I’ll have you first, Kreelan.”
Kreelan grinned tightly. “Not quite.” Slowly he brought up the hand that until now had stayed clenched in a fist by his side. It held a small glass sphere that the others could see was divided in half by a thin partition. One half held a black powder; the other contained a clear liquid. “Know what this is?”
The smile froze on Sirc’al’s face. “What?”
“Smoke powder,” Kreelan crowed. “And next to it, oil of phosphorus. You know what happens if the sphere breaks, don’t you? The oil will ignite, and the smoke powder will explode.”
Sirc’al laughed. “Go ahead, fool! There’s barely enough powder there to blow yourself up.”
Kreelan said calmly, “Ah, but there you’re mistaken, my friend. This is just one sphere. In my pack, I have two more. True, there will be only one small explosion from this one, but it will be followed by a somewhat larger explosion. I shouldn’t care to be standing next to me.”
Sirc’al snorted. “You’re bluffing.”
“Am I? If your friend over there kills Spielt, Raeglaran will shoot me. I’ll fall. And with me will fall this little sphere. This little glass sphere.” He smiled nastily. “Spielt, if Raeglaran kills me, and the sphere breaks, I and our friend here will be dead. But his other friends will have no reason not to attack you. Five against two? Not good odds. And that assumes you won’t be taken down when I fall.”
Kreelan shifted his eyes upward. “Raeglaran,” he called. “In case you’re getting some bright ideas, shooting me now will only get your boss killed. And do you think you’d make it out of the tavern with these fellows, not to mention the watch, on your trail?”
Sirc’al grunted contemptuously. “You needn’t worry about the watch.”
“Why not?”
