lit the lantern in the parlor and laid the shard of marble on the sturdy, rough-hewn table.
The letters, BRILLISS, were clearly inscribed in one corner of the shard, and the stone had been broken in such a way as to suggest that the word had continued on the missing surface.
“Brillissander Firesplasher. That’s the name Cornellus gave us,” the swordsman said.
“Yep. That was it. Should we get started looking for him?”
“Don’t see that we have any other option.”
“We could wait until morning,” Dram said wearily.
His companion shook his head. “If we head out in an hour or two, we’ll stand a better chance of a lot of the gnomes being asleep. I prefer to take my gnomes-and my kender and gully dwarves, for that matter-by surprise, whenever possible.”
The dwarf took a small lantern along as they departed the inn, and this proved wise, as the few burning streetlights in this part of Caergoth were confined to the wide avenues around the palace and treasury. As soon as they started down the narrow lanes leading toward the riverbank they found themselves surrounded by darkness.
Dram touched a match to his lamp and held it so that they could avoid the overturned barrels, sleeping drunks-human, invariably-and other refuse that seemed to be scattered haphazardly in the muddy, winding way. They passed an inn that was raucous with the sounds of fiddle music and loud conversation. The doors burst open and a big man staggered out. He glared at the two, his eyes small and bloodshot in the midst of a flowing black beard and a mass of dark hair. With a belligerent sneer he raised his fists until, a moment later, his eyes glassed over and he collapsed, facedown, on the ground.
“Nice place,” muttered the dwarf, carefully stepping around the fellow. “Let’s keep it in mind for a drink afterward.”
The dwarf’s companion wasn’t listening. Instead, he was trying to remember his way around this part of the city.
“Down here,” he decided at the next intersection. For two blocks they walked close to the battered facades of two-story wooden houses, on streets that were slippery with mud and worse.
The road began to change. The mud became clean, white stones. The wetness vanished through grates. Several buildings here were made of stone, with rows of windows reaching three or four stories. Some doorways were tall enough for a man, but many were barely four feet high, with eaves hanging so low that the tall warrior would have to duck his head just to stand next to the house.
“If this is a ghetto, I like it better than the neighborhood we’re staying in,” the dwarf said sourly.
Lanterns bobbed here and there as individuals, mostly gnomes, bustled back and forth along the well-kept road. The warrior stepped in front of one of the lantern-carrying gnomes, a youngish-looking male with a short beard and a distracted expression. He was busy talking to himself, an earnest discussion in which he sounded as if he was trying very vigorously to press his point of view.
“Excuse me,” said the warrior.
“What?” asked the gnome, blinking in confusion. “You are most certainly excused. But… do I know you?”
“No-I’m a stranger here,” the warrior said patiently. “I’m hoping you’ll help me with some directions.”
“Directions?” The little fellow scratched his head. “Not my specialty, directions. What are you looking for around here?”
“Who, not what. I’m looking for a gnome named Brillissander Firesplasher, or anyone who might know something about him.”
The gnome’s eyes went wide. “Oh! Oh. Do you mean the Brillissander Firesplasher?” he asked in a tone of awe.
“I think so,” the dwarf confirmed.
“Never heard of him.”
With that, the earnest pedestrian was off, muttering to himself once again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The welcoming banquet was a great success, despite the absence of the dukes of Thelgaard and Solanthus. Patriarch Issel began the occasion with an overlong invocation but spoke many beautiful words in praise of the Lord Regent in Palanthas. Duke Crawford also made a splendid speech, and Lady Selinda and the duchess, Lady Martha, got a little tipsy on the bubbly wine.
“I remember Palanthas,” the duchess said dreamily. “Such a beautiful city. Not like Caergoth, all walls and towers and forts.”
“I suppose any place can get tiresome,” Selinda replied, thinking of her private delight at getting out of her own city.
“That Golden Spire!” Martha said. “It was breathtaking! Is it true that it’s your father’s gold up in that tower that makes it glow like that?”
“Oh, yes. He wanted it displayed so the people could see it as a measure of our prosperity,” the princess explained. “Of course, he’s the only one with a key to the room!”
“Nobody ever tries to steal it?” the duchess inquired, sipping more wine.
“They couldn’t possibly,” Selinda replied. “Lady Coryn, the white wizard, has placed spells of protection around the tower. No one can remove so much as a speck of the gold-not even another wizard-without my father’s permission.”
“They say the Duke of Solanthus is very rich, too,” Martha noted, a little blearily. “Not gold, in his case.”
“Yes, he has control of the Stones of Garnet,” Selinda explained. “They are gems the merchants of Solanthus have gained in trade from the dwarves over more than a thousand years. Each to their own, I say, but my father prefers his riches in gold.”
A little later, the hostess leaned over and whispered rather wickedly to Selinda that the dinner owed some of its success to the fact that the two argumentative lords of Solanthus and Thelgaard were absent.
“They are certainly late arriving. I do hope that nothing is seriously wrong,” the princess replied. “I am looking forward to speaking with both of them.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” the duchess said, swallowing half of her glass of wine in one gulp. She held out the vessel for a passing steward to refill. “The fact is, I wouldn’t trust either one o’ them.” Lady Martha blinked, as if surprised at what she had just said.
To Selinda’s left, the duke was arguing loudly with one of his nobles over the manner of some criminal’s execution. The duke had paid little attention to the princess after they were seated, which had given her a chance to get to know her hostess.
Now Selinda leaned over, delighted with the duchess’s frankness. “Tell me more! I barely remember them. The Duke of Thelgaard… a big bear of a man? The Lord of the Crown…?”
Frowning in concentration, Lady Martha nodded. “Yes, big Lord Jarrod. Don’t let him hug you. He’ll crack your ribs.”
“Hug! Oh, my.” Selinda was a little taken aback.
“Only after he drinks too much. He’s polite enough ’til then, but he drinks every day. All day. Starts when he gets up in the morning.”
“I will keep that in mind,” said the princess. “Perhaps, therefore, we should schedule the most important conferences for early in the day.”
“Drinking makes him grumpy,” Martha admitted, “but then, so does everything else. Not that he doesn’t have a few good excuses, you know.”
“For being in a bad mood?”
“Yes. After all, Rathskell in Solanthus has got all the money. That’s what they say. My own Crawfish-” She gasped in mock astonishment and clapped a hand over her mouth with a glance at her husband. The duke was still engaged in his conversation, and hadn’t heard his wife’s use of the detested nickname. “He has this great big army.
