“The fool with his undead,” Kurth muttered.

Arklem Greeth had pushed too hard, too wickedly. He had crossed a line and had driven the whole of the city against him. The high captain kept his gaze to the northwest, to Whitesails Harbor, and though he couldn’t make out much from that distance, he clearly saw the banner of Mirabar among many on the quayside. He imagined Mirabarran dwarves and men working hard to load the courier ships with rocks and pitch.

Full of anxiety, Kurth turned angrily at the hidden visitor. “What do you demand of me?”

“Demand?” came the reassuring reply, in a tone that seemed truly surprised by the accusation. “Nothing! I…we, are not here to demand, but to advise. We watch the wave of change and measure the strength of the rocks against which that wave will break. Nothing more.”

Kurth scoffed at the obvious understatement. “So, what do you see? And do you truly understand the strength of those rocks to which you so poetically refer? Do you grasp the power of Arklem Greeth?”

“We have known greater foes, and greater allies. Captain Deudermont has an army of ten thousand to march against the Hosttower.”

“And what do you see in that?” Kurth demanded.

“Opportunity.”

“For that wretch Deudermont.”

A chuckle came from the darkness. “Captain Deudermont has no understanding of the forces he will unwittingly unleash. He knows good and evil, but nothing more, but we—and you—see shades of gray. Captain Deudermont will scale to unstable heights in short order. His absolutes will rally the masses of Luskan, then will send them into revolt.”

Kurth shrugged, unconvinced, and fearful of the reputation and power of Captain Deudermont. He suspected that those mysterious outside forces, that hidden character who had visited him twice before, never threateningly, but never comfortably, were sorely underestimating the good captain and the loyalty of those who would follow him.

“I see the rule of law, heavy and cumbersome,” he said.

“We see the opposite,” said the voice. “We see five men of Luskan who will collect the spoils set free when the Hosttower falls. We see only two of those five who are wise enough to separate the copper from the gold.”

Kurth paused and considered that for a while. “A speech you give to Taerl, Suljack, and Baram, too, no doubt,” he replied at length.

“Nay. We have visited none of them, and come to you only because the son of Rethnor, and Rethnor himself, insist that you are the most worthy.”

“I’m flattered, truly,” Kurth said dryly. He did well to hide his smile and his suspicion, for whenever his “guest” so singled him out as one of importance, it occurred to him that his guest might indeed be a spy from the Hosttower, even Arklem Greeth himself, come to test the loyalty of the high captains in difficult times. It was Arklem Greeth, after all, who had strengthened the magical defenses of Kurth Tower and Closeguard Island a decade before. What wizard would be powerful enough to circumvent defenses set in place by the archmage arcane, but the archmage arcane himself? What wizard in Luskan could claim the power of Arklem Greeth? None who were not in the Hosttower, as far as Kurth knew, would even be close, other than that Robillard beast who sailed with Deudermont, and if his guest was Robillard, that raised the banner of duplicity even higher.

“You will be flattered,” the voice responded, “when you come to understand the sincerity behind the claim. Rethnor and Kensidan will show outward respect to all of their peers—”

“It’s Rethnor’s Ship alone, unless and until he formally cedes it to Kensidan,” Kurth insisted. “Quit referring to that annoying Crow as one whose word is of any import.”

“Spare us both your quaint customs, for they are a ridiculous assertion to me, and a dangerous delusion for you. Kensidan’s hand is in every twist of that which you see before you: the Mirabarrans, the Waterdhavians, Deudermont himself, and the defection of a quarter of Arklem Greeth’s forces.”

“You openly admit that to me?” Kurth replied, the implication being that he could wage war on Ship Rethnor for such a reality.

“You needed to hear it to know it?”

Kurth narrowed his eyes as he stared into the darkness. The rest of the room had brightened considerably, but still no daylight touched that far corner—or ever would unless his guest willed it to be so.

“Arklem Greeth’s rule is doomed, this day,” the voice said. “Five men will profit most from his fall, and two of those five are wise enough and strong enough to recognize it. Is one of those two too stubborn and set in his ways to grasp the chest of jewels?”

“You ask me for a declaration of loyalty,” Kurth replied. “You ask me to disavow my allegiance to Arklem Greeth.”

“I ask nothing of you. I help to explain to you that which is occurring outside your window, and show you paths I think wise. You walk those paths or you do not of your own volition.”

“Kensidan sent you here,” Kurth accused.

A telling pause ensued before the voice answered, “He didn’t, directly. It’s his respect for you that guided us here, for we see the possible futures of Luskan and would prefer that the high captains, above all, above Deudermont and above Arklem Greeth, prevailed.”

Just as Kurth started to respond, the door to his room burst open and his most trusted guards rushed in.

“The Hosttower is under bombardment!” one cried.

“A vast army gathers at our eastern bridge, demanding passage!” said the other.

Kurth glanced to the shadows—to where the shadows had been, for they were gone, completely.

So was his guest, whoever that guest might have been.

Arabeth and Robillard walked along Sea Sprite’s rail before the line of archers, waggling their fingers and casting devious, countering enchantments on the piles of arrows at each bowman’s feet.

The ship lurched as her aft catapult let fly a large ball of pitch. It streaked through the air, unerringly for the Hosttower’s westernmost limb, where it hit and splattered, launching lines of fire that lit up bushes and already scorched grass at the base of the mighty structure.

But the tower itself had repelled the strike with no apparent ill effects.

“The archmage arcane defends it well,” Arabeth remarked.

“Each hit takes from his defenses, and from him,” Robillard replied. He bent low and touched another pile of arrows. Their silvery tips glowed for just a moment before going dim again. “Even the smallest of swords will wear through the strongest warrior’s shield if they tap it enough.”

Arabeth looked to the Hosttower and laughed aloud, and Robillard followed her gaze. The ground all around the five-limbed structure was thick with boulders, ballista bolts, and smoldering pitch. Sea Sprite and her companion vessels had been launching non-stop against Cutlass Island throughout the morning, and at Robillard’s direction, all of their firepower had been directed at the Hosttower itself.

“Do you think they will respond?” Arabeth asked.

“You know Greeth as well as I do,” Robillard answered. He finished with the last batch of arrows, waited for Arabeth to do likewise, then led her back to his usual perch behind the mainsail. “He will grow annoyed and will order his defenders along the shore to lash out.”

“Then we will make them pay.”

“Only if we’re quick enough,” Robillard replied.

“Every one of them will be guarded by spells to counter a dozen arrows,” said the woman of Mirabar.

“Then every one will be hit by thirteen,” came Robillard’s dry reply.

Sea Sprite shuddered again as a rock flew out, along with ten others from the line, all soaring in at the Hosttower with such precision and timing that a pair collided before they reached their mark and skipped harmlessly away. The others shook the ground around the place, or smacked against the Hosttower’s sides, to be repelled by its defensive magic.