Thrul's nature, infinitely adaptable in politics and deceit, did not allow him to admit an error in ordinary housekeeping. By his order, the cauldrons were kept full and cindering; the fans never stopped swaying. He surrounded himself with the most priceless perfume of all: crisp air invoked from a distant mountaintop. Clothed in heavy velvet, the Zulkir sat on his throne while sweating petitioners paraded before him.

Sultry heat and foul air weren't all that made the Bezantine petitioners uncomfortable. Life was dangerous for a Thayan zulkir who accumulated enemies as the ceiling above him accumulated flies, doubly dangerous for a zulkir who was also a territorial tharchion. Death threats were routine; some were serious. Thrul took no unnecessary chances: when petitioners came to the state room, they entered it naked.

Conventional weapons were impossible to conceal, and it was a rare mage whose concentration was not addled by embarrassment. Shame was further compounded by the constant presence of the citadel's legion of slaves. Never mind that the slaves were equally unclothed or that most of them were undead: They had eyes, they stared, and there was always the chance that they might recognize or remember.

There were drawbacks: Unnerved petitioners were often incoherent. It took patience to understand their logic, and Aznar Thrul was not a patient man. He'd have foregone these bribe-heavy occasions entirely were it not useful, even in Thay, for a tharchion to hear the complaints of common folk at least once a season-or twice, in Reeking Heat.

Thrul saw a score of petitioners before the storm swept in; twenty-three, if he counted the three who fainted between the door and the front of his chair. Once the storm arrived, thunder made it too difficult to hear, and wind whipping through the unshuttered windows blew embers from the incense cauldrons to the ceiling where the greasy soot caught fire.

Lesser wizards levitated slaves with damp rags to beat out the blaze. Two slaves burned when the flames ignited their undead flesh. Another four were lost when the wizard who held them in the air was distracted by a particularly loud thunder blast. The confusion and cleanup delayed the zulkir's dinner well into the evening. He was in a foul mood when his chamberlain appeared in the doorway.

"Neema Gaz," the blue-tattooed wizard announced. A ragged kilt hung around his waist, a mark of the favor he risked by interrupting Thrul as he ate. Warily, he placed a carnelian brooch on the table. "I do not know her, O Mighty Tharchion, Mightier Zulkir, but she had this." He pointed at the brooch, the token of a wizard whose rank was considerably higher than his own. "She says she will not leave without seeing you, O Mighty Tharchion, Mightier Zulkir. I would dispose of her, but…" He shrugged. "If I failed, and she burst in here unannounced, you would be even more displeased."

The zulkir, still robed in velvet and surrounded by mountain air, set down his soup spoon with elegance and drama. He rolled his eyes in frustration or possibly the start of an invocation that would consign the chamberlain to the citadel's legions of undead soldiers. The chamberlain, assuming the latter, folded his arms in prayer.

Thrul chortled. He seized the brooch, breaking the wards around him. Candle flames flickered briefly in a cool breeze, then sultry calm was restored as the zulkir rubbed the dark red gemstone between his fingers.

"Give her what she wants, then send her in… alone."

"O Mighty Tharchion, Mightier Zulkir, she wants-"

"I know what she wants, lead-head. Assist her!"

The chamberlain wisely foreswore further argument. Shortly thereafter-when the soup tureen had been carried away and the main course laid in its place-a woman entered the room… alone, according to the zulkir's command.

She was a tall human, slender but at least a decade past her prime. Sinuous tattoos in shades of blue and green wound from her scalp to her toes; weathered wrinkles cut across the tattoos, especially where she'd singed away her hair years earlier. Her breasts, visible beneath a loose gown of bleached gauze, had begun to wither-hardly the sort of companion Thrul chose when companionship was on his mind, yet he poured a goblet of wine for her and pointed toward the wall where a three-legged stool waited for those privileged enough to sit in a zulkir and tharchion's presence.

Neema Gaz took the goblet, declined the stool.

"I was not expecting you."

"I'd have failed you, my lord, if you were."

Thrul slid the brooch across the table. When she picked it up, the pocket of mountain air expanded to surround her as well. He watched her closely-he'd never honored her in this way before-but if she was surprised or flattered, he could not detect it. Then again, a spy-master whose thoughts could be read by an amateur wasn't worth his gold. Thrul's own thoughts were duly protected by his robe, which was constructed of spells and velvet. No one, not even the great Szass Tam himself, could probe his mind while he wore it.

"If you have not failed me, then why have you come?"

The spy master studied her brooch a moment before fastening it to her flimsy robe. "Messages, my lord, from the west. There was a problem."

She paused, met Thrul's eyes, finding the precise balance between honesty and pride necessary to survive in the tight circle of associates around any zulkir or tharchion. Thrul lowered his gaze first; she continued.

"A woman in Nethra. She let her guard down and drew unwanted attention, but everything's been taken care of, my lord. There'll be no repetition. The web wasn't compromised."

"Why tell me of your mistakes, woman?" Thrul's scowl took a cruel turn. "I'm not interested in mistakes."

"The woman was a fool, my lord, and we're well rid of her, but she was looking under a very interesting rock when the Tall One interrupted her."

"Tall One? You mean the Aerasume?" the zulkir's tone was frigid. "What trade do the Aerasume have in Nethra?"

"That is not known, my lord. The Tall One took ship immediately after the incident. We looked for his associates but… My lord, pursuing one of them is hardly worth the risk. Whatever his reason for visiting Nethra, he's gone now. I will tell you if he returns. That is not why I've come."

"Yes, and why, precisely, have you come?"

"We are not the only fishers with a net to fling over Aglarond."

Aznar Thrul, who shaved his scalp and beard daily but left his eyebrows intact, raised both of them to astonished heights. "Who else? Allies? Enemies?" He paused after each question, but his spy master did not respond. "Zulkirs?" he asked finally. "Who? Toward what ends?"

"Enchantment no longer relies on our advice. He's put his own hand on the map."

"Lauzoril," the zulkir drawled, wrapping his voice around the name as he considered his ally of convenience-inconvenience-against Szass Tam. The man gave lip service to the notions of Thay's imperial destiny, but he was an opportunist, a coward in his gut, like so many enchanters. What Lauzoril knew of strategy and tactics could be written on the back of a woman's hand, but he had a golden tongue. No gnolls and goblins, undead or unclever, for the Zulkir of Enchantment-the man could raise a human host and hold it together with words alone. He'd proved that last year in Gauros Gorge where he'd extracted his human legions safely from a battlefield rout and gained an undeserved reputation for martial genius. His popularity with the common folk-rare for a zulkir-made him useful… for now.

"Enchantment is an ally, a friend. I'm sure his spy gave a good account."

"The bastard unstrung himself, my lord."

Thrul sucked his teeth. The minions of Enchantment were uncommonly good at dying with their secrets intact. A more suspicious man than Aznar Thrul-if such a man were ever born-might suspect their zulkir of practicing forbidden magic or a bit of treachery with Szass Tam. In which case, woe to Necromancy-and Lauzoril was still more useful alive than destroyed.