the beam ends all around, and a few nightingales woke to sing their arrival. As the door gaped wider than was needed to spy, Sprite and Pinch both scrambled into the shadows, acting on years of larcenous instinct. Had an observer been in the small garden, he would have assumed that Lissa alone had managed the great door. Fortunately, there were no observers.
When there was no alarm, the two rogues moved quickly through the potted jungle, getting the lay of the land. Of the three other doors, one in each wall, two led to nothing, just rooms shuttered up for the night. The third was a gate of wrought iron that opened on the avenue linking the Great Hall to the world beyond the palace gates. The pair took care not to be noticed, for there was a steady stream of revelers all bound in the direction of the feast.
Pinch was just checking the oil on the gate hinges before opening it when Sprite touched his arm. The halfling had a cloth from his sleeve to cover his face. 'Wisely good, but how you going to get around, Pinch? You ain't your inconspicuous self.'
Lissa, who'd kept herself silent and distant to this point, added, 'You've got the stench of death to you, too.'
Pinch's smile was an awkward grimace. 'Sprite, boy, do you know what day it is in Ankhapur?'
'Some sort of festival, Pinch.'
'It's the Festival of Wealth, my halfling friend. For one day, the fine citizens of Ankhapur celebrate the gods of money with food, drink, and masked balls.'
'So?'
Pinch looked to Lissa, mindful of her disapproval as he spoke his true mind. 'We're thieves, boy- scoundrels. Out there the streets are filled with folks in costumery-gowns, cloaks, and… masks.'
'Who just need a little persuading to help us out.' A sly smile enriched the halfling's face. ' 'Struth, Pinch. I'm sure some kindly generous souls truly want to help us.'
'Ankhapur is noted for its generosity.' The dead-bodied rogue nodded, flaking little hunks of his neck as he did. 'All it takes is a little proper explaining.'
'So how are we planning to get them in here? Nobody trusts a halfling-'
'And I'd scare them off.'
The pair turned to look at Lissa.
'No. No-you're not suggesting I go out there and-'
'Our need is great,' Pinch croaked.
'It's only once,' Sprite added.
'It's a sin in the eyes of the Morninglord!' she resisted, shaking her head.
'Maybe he's not looking. Gods can get awfully busy, you know.' The halfling at her side couldn't help being flip, and for it she gave him a wicked glare.
'I suppose Ankhapur will manage.' Pinch tried for a sigh of resignation, but without breath it sounded more like a quack. 'And I'll get used to living in the tombs, where I won't have to walk the streets and listen to the screams of the women and run from the swords of men. The tombs are quiet. I'll have lots of time to… sit.'
Sprite sniffed.
'Enough!' Lissa threw up her hands. 'I'll do it. I just want you to know, you're vile and evil and I hate you both!'
The two rogues, one dead, the other short and shiftless, smiled and did their best to look angelic.
'That's not very fair,' Sprite sniffed, his tears turning to wounded honor before they'd even welled up in his eyes. 'We're only this way because there's no other-'
'You are a person to rely on,' Pinch extolled. It was best to shut the halfling up before he changed her mind for her. With a hand on her arm he steered her toward the gate. 'Be quick-three people, our size, with masks.' Before she could have regrets, he gently pushed her into the street.
Fifteen minutes later, three revelers, two men and a woman, one short, two tall, hurried toward the Great Hall. The woman wore a delicate domino mask and a gown that didn't fit quite well, too tight at the bodice and too long in the leg. The tall man was resplendent as a great black raven with a golden-beaked mask and a coif of feathers that flowed down into a lustrous black cloak that served well to hide the grimy clothes underneath. The little man waddled along, trying to keep up with the others, his effort constantly hindered by the papier mache head that was as big as him. His tabard jingled with every step as the bell-stitched hem dragged on the ground. The shiny, grinning jester's face lolled drunkenly, threatening to decapitate itself at any moment.
'Wonderful choice,' the short one groused. The nasal voice had a dead echo like the inside of a barrel. 'It's not like you could have found a worse disguise-'
'Sprite, stow that,' snapped the raven in truly dead tones. 'Be thankful to Lissa she found anything.'
'Oh, I should be thankful that I'm going to die dressed like this.' The halfling struggled to avoid tripping over his jingling hem, casting an envious eye at the ease with which the priestess handled her oversized gown. 'You know, Pinch, I'm not so sure this fighting a lich thing is such a good idea. I mean, you could just stay like that. You'd get used to it after a while and it's got some positive advantages. Think about the insurance we could run. There wouldn't be no sensible merchant who'd withhold a payment from anyone who looked like you. We could run ourselves a nice system, me and Therin fronting it and you taking the collection-'
'Sprite-stay your rattling trap!'
So much was the vehemence in that voice that the halfling squeaked quiet.
'We do this to save Ankhapur,' Lissa announced to no one except perhaps herself. She spoke with the virtuous certainty that comes upon the sinner determined to redeem herself. 'There will be no turning back or backsliding now. Understand, little one?'
From inside the bloated plaster head came a sour grumble that lapsed into silence, but the halfling kept pace with the others.
The entrance to the Great Hall was thick with the royal guard, loyal soldiers standing in rows like overdressed mannequins. Pinch's teeth ground like millstones as they fell into the line of guests passing through the doors. A guard captain briefly scanned each reveler as he or she passed. With his keen scent for the law, Pinch spotted others who were doing a miserable job of being inconspicuous: several servants who lingered in the foyer with too little to do, and a robed 'guest' who lounged in the hall. Probably hired warriors and a mage, and probably loyal to Vargo, just in case he needed to force his ascension. Pinch had not forgotten Iron-Biter's suggestion to take the crown by force if necessary.
Still, the lot looked distinctly uncomfortable, no doubt because their commander, Iron-Biter, hadn't shown. That pleased Pinch, thinking of the consternation that must be going through Vargo's ranks because their lord's right-hand man had failed to appear.
The captain, seeing only another group of celebrants, waved them by with hardly a glance. Their ill-fitting outfits were beyond notice in the garish crowd that surrounded them. There were mock medusas, gold-festooned dwarves, even a hulking lizard man clutching a goblet in its taloned hand. Pinch judged that, from the interest the lizard showed in the ladies, many of whom had dressed to reveal and not disguise, that this guest was an enterprising wizard with a polymorph spell and not a true emissary of that reptilian race.
Once past the guards, the three slipped easily through the packed crowd. Everyone was here and everyone was gay. The rogue figured he could make a year's profit from the jewelry that dripped from the arms, necks, ankles, and ears of those around him. With so much temptation at hand, Pinch kept a wary eye on his small friend, although the halfling's oversized plaster head seemed an effective restraint.
When they finally squeezed into the Great Hall, past the ballrooms where the dancers turned to stately pa- vanes, past the tables creaking with roasts and pastries, and past the choke in the hallway, every head was craned for a view of the four princes on their thrones. Raised up on a broad dais, the four looked through their masks upon the crowd with the unconcealed habits of their natures radiating in their very poses. Vargo, foremost of the lot, awaited the ceremony with keen expectation, confident that he would be supreme no matter what the outcome. Throdus and Marac sat in their places with distinct unease, well cautioned of their brother's plans and perfectly aware of their own weakness to oppose him. Bors always loved the festival. The bright colors, music, and food appealed to his childish spirit. He laughed and giggled in his seat, but the importance of the occasion was lost on him.
It wasn't hard to spot their quarry. Cleedis-or rather, not-Cleedis-stood behind Bors, playing the part of the faithful retainer. Manferic, inside Pinch's shell and cloaked as the old chamberlain, did a masterful job of
