"You know where Lord Corin Silvertor is?"

The wizard's face quickly grew solemn as she too willed away the effects of the firebrandy.

"I do."

Artek bore into her with his black eyes. He could see her pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat, but she did not look away. Thief's instinct warned him that she was not telling him everything. But she was not lying. Of that he was certain. She did indeed know where to find the lost lord.

Take me to him," he said intently.

Take me with you," she replied in an even voice.

For a silent moment the two gazed at each other. Then a reluctant smile spread across Artek's face; this time, it was not from the firebrandy.

It looks like we have a deal, wizard."

Beckla beamed brightly in reply. She stood, gripping her wizard's staff. "All right, thief," she said crisply. "Let's go rescue us a nobleman."

Outcasts

Artek and Beckla came to a halt before a high basalt archway shaped like a gaping mouth. Whether the maw was open in laughter or a scream was impossible to tell. Green mold clung to the stony lips, and black water dripped from jagged teeth. Distant sounds drifted through the archway: grunts, snarls, and high-pitched howls. They were almost like the noises of animals. Almost, but not quite. Beyond the mouth lay darkness.

'This archway marks the border of the territory of the Outcasts/ Beckla whispered. A faint blue radiance bathed her face, emanating from the wisp of magelight hovering on the end of her staff.

"The Outcasts?" Artek asked quietly. The oppressive silence seemed a living thing. It did not like the intrusion of their words. "Who are they?"

Beckla shook her head grimly. "What are they might be a more appropriate question."

Artek gazed at her in puzzlement. Quietly, the wizard explained her cryptic words.

"I think they were people once," she began. "But they were shunned by the world above and driven down beneath the city. I suppose it was because they were different. They were the city's malformed, its ill, its mad." She shook her head ruefully. "I don't know why people are so terrified of those who aren't exactly the same as everyone else. But they are. They fear difference, and hate it. I imagine that was what drove the Outcasts down. It wasn't their fault they were different, but it still made them pariahs. I think that over the years, one by one, the unwanted of Waterdeep retreated down into the sewers beneath the city, and many eventually found their way into the halls of Undermountain."

Beckla gazed thoughtfully into the darkness with her deep brown eyes. "There's a whole world down here beneath the city," she murmured. "One that those who walk the daylit streets above have no idea even exists."

Artek let out a grunt. He knew well what it was like to be despised simply because he was not like others. Would the Magisters have been so deaf to his claims of innocence had orcish blood not run in his veins? He could feel sympathy for the Outcasts, for those who had chosen to live in the dark below rather than be feared in the light above.

"So it's these Outcasts who have Lord Corin Silvertor?" he asked finally.

Beckla nodded, confirming his guess. "They're holding him prisoner deep in their territory."

"Well, I don't suppose a ragtag band of misfits will give us much trouble," Artek said gruffly.

At this, Beckla shook her head fiercely. "You don't understand, Artek. The Outcasts are not what they used to be. Anyone scorned by the world above is welcomed among them. But they hate those who are whole-those like us. And over the years that hatred has… changed them."

A chill snaked down Artek's back. "Changed them?" he asked slowly. "How?"

She gripped her staff with white-knuckled hands. "I think their hatred melded with some dark magic that lingers in these corridors even now, so long after Halaster created them. The very stones exude an evil enchantment like a foul odor. The Outcasts fled the world above because they were perceived as monsters. And over time, down here in the darkness, they have become just that. The atmosphere of Undermountain has twisted them. I've never laid eyes on any of the Outcasts myself-few who do so survive. But accord-. ing to the stories, they're not human anymore." Beckla could not suppress a shiver.

Artek stared at her in grisly astonishment. "So why wouldn't they just kill Lord Silvertor?" he asked. "From the description I got, Silvertor is young and handsome. If what you've said about the Outcasts is true, they would loathe him."

"Yes, they would," the wizard agreed solemnly. "But you don't know the whole story. The Outcasts don't kill those who intrude upon their territory." Revulsion choked her voice. "Instead they twist their bodies and minds, turning the intruders into Outcasts like themselves."

This time it was Artek who shivered. It was a horrible image. "How do you know all this, Beckla?"

The wizard flashed a wan smile in his direction. "I have my ways."

He frowned at this enigmatic answer, and she let out a soft laugh.

"Actually, it's no mystery," she explained. "I'm not the only one hiding out down here. And rumors tend to travel pretty swiftly through these dreary tunnels."

Artek nodded, temporarily satisfied with her answer. An uneasy feeling gathered in his stomach. He glanced down at the dark ink tattoo on his arm; the arrow was now halfway between sun and moon. Already six hours had passed. He didn't like the idea of meeting up with the Outcasts, but he had little choice. If he wanted to live, he had to venture into their territory.

He shot the wizard a questioning look. "Are you certain you still want to come with me, Beckla?"

That little golden box of yours might be the only way I'm ever going to get out of here." She crossed her arms, fixing him with an even gaze.

"You could just kill me and take it, you know."

Her lips parted in a crooked grin. "If I was going to do that, wouldn't I have done it by now?"

Despite his fear, he let out a laugh. "I suppose so."

Together, they stepped through the archway's gaping mouth.

While elsewhere the dank air of Under-mountain had been oppressive, here it was downright menacing. As they went, the darkness parted sluggishly before Beckla's flickering ball of magelight and closed turgidly behind them, like oily water in the wake of a ship. Artek found himself taking shallow breaths; he was reluctant to draw the noxious atmosphere into his lungs, as if once inside his body it might fester, filling him with its dark disease. He knew that they were not welcome here.

The two walked down a twisting tunnel; its walls were strangely curved and ridged. A dark, glistening mucus covered them, dripping onto the floor, which was nauseatingly soft and spongy under their feet. In all, the tunnel seemed as if it had not been hewn of stone, but was alive. Artek felt as if they had been swallowed by a gigantic creature, and were now moving down its long, sinuous esophagus. Hot bile rose in his own throat. He tried to force the queasy image from his mind, but had little success.

They had gone only a short way when the moist tunnel divided. They paused, and Artek pulled the heart jewel out of his pocket. The blue light glimmering in the center was stronger now. He moved a few paces down the right-hand passageway. The gem 'flickered. He retraced his steps, then padded down the left-hand tunnel. The glow inside the heart jewel steadied and strengthened.

"This way," Artek whispered.

Beckla followed after him, and the two moved down the slime-covered passage. Before long the tunnel forked again, and again. Each time Artek used the glowing heart jewel to determine which way they should take. Soon they found themselves in a labyrinth of networking tunnels, branching and rejoining countless times in a chaotically braided pattern. Artek began to wonder if they could ever find their way back out if they needed to. He did not voice his fear.