"It's also said that she is ten feet tall and breathes fire," Jack pointed out.

Anders nodded. "I don't necessarily rule it out. I'd believe almost anything I heard about the Warlord. Somehow she united tribes that had spent generations killing each other and made them follow her banner. Two springs ago, as the snows melted in the high passes, she led her horde down the valley of the Fire River, marching straight on Raven's Bluff."

"Why Raven's Bluff? Hlammach, Lyrabar or Filur would have been closer. Tsurlagol or Tantras would have been easier targets."

"She didn't consult with me, Jack. All I know is that Aeldar marched us all over the Vast keeping up with Jelan's army."

"What else?" Jack asked. "Wasn't she supposed to be immune to magic? I seem to remember stories to that effect."

"I heard that many Ravenaar mages and priests spent a great deal of time and effort attempting to divine her location and her intentions but failed, and I heard stories from soldiers who'd seen her in battle. They reported that no magic seemed to harm her." Anders paused, then continued, "You should also keep in mind that I heard stories claiming that Jelan could fly, grow to a giant's stature, tear the hearts from fallen warriors and devour them raw, and uproot hundred-foot trees with the strength of a titan. Tyr knows who she really was and what she was capable of."

Jack tugged at his thin stripe of a goatee. He would give a lot to know the truth. Did she still plot the destruction of the city? Or had she decided to pursue her inscrutable goals in some less distasteful manner? For that matter, what were her goals? What did she need the Sarkonagael for? Why did she risk her life by hiding in the very city she had tried to conquer, surrounded by thousands of people who wished her dead?

"It makes no sense," he sighed, waving a hand in dismissal. "On to less difficult questions. Have you any news to report of Zandria and her intents?"

"She's preparing to descend into Sarbreen the day after tomorrow at first light," Anders replied. He drained another gulp of wine, evidently relieved by the change of topic. "Just as you said, friend Jack. She and her company mean to visit the Guilder's Tomb without troubling us for our assistance."

"Brilliant, capable, and predictable," Jack remarked. "That, of course, is the very reason I asked you and Tharzon to watch Zandria's company night and day. I knew that she would think twice about retaining my services for a share of the loot."

"So, what's the plan? Follow her and fall on her band when they lead us to the tomb?"

Jack raised his hand. "No, no, no. Follow her, allow her and her companions to loot the tomb, and then fall on them if need be. First of all, the Guilder's Tomb may be guarded by all manner of unwholesome guardians and devious traps, so we shall allow Zandria and her stalwarts to take the measure of their strength. Second, if the tomb's wards claim some of her companions, Zandria may be amenable to a renegotiation of our arrangement."

Anders grinned. "Ah, so you'll rob her at swordpoint after she's spent her strength in forcing the tomb and removing the loot. An excellent plan, Jack."

"Robbery is such a hard word. I prefer to think of it as encouraging her to generously reconsider our mutual association. After all, I am rather fond of Zandria, and I would hate to have her be sore with me."

"I am not concerned with how she feels about the situation," Anders said.

"Ah, but isn't it better to provide her with an opportunity to purchase our assistance in the event that Sarbreen's deadly traps and ancient defenses put her company in a bad way?" Jack sipped at his wine. "If the right circumstances develop, friend Anders, she might give us the lion's share of the loot and feel glad that she had the opportunity to do so. Now that is a plan."

The Northman furrowed his brow, thinking hard through his intoxication. Anders was one of the most lucid drunks Jack had ever known; no amount of ale or wine ever seemed to fog his wits. "And what if Zandria and her company recover the loot with little trouble? She'll have no need of us then."

"In that event," Jack said, "we'll consider more direct measures."

Despite his best efforts, Jack discovered once again that copious amounts of drink drown one's troubles in only the most transient and misleading manner. Hours of conniving, plotting, and planning with Anders and an imprudent amount of wine developed no certain plans for dealing with Zandria's expedition and did nothing at all to alleviate Jack's concerns about his meeting earlier in the evening or his enemies in the Game of Masks. But he did become quite drunk and had a roaring good time when he wasn't trying to think too hard.

The next morning eluded Jack entirely, as he was unable to dispel the miserable stupor smothering him after the night's festivities. He rose about two hours past noon and spent most of the next hour dressing slowly and painfully, one article at a time. Eventually he rallied enough to stagger out into the street and purchase bread, cheese, and a half-dozen boiled eggs for his breakfast, after which he felt much better.

"Illyth would undoubtedly say that I deserved my earlier misery," he mused while he ate, perched under a ramshackle porch in front of the grocer's shack. "She does not view overindulgence with the good-natured humor one looks for in that sort of situation." Then Jack sat bolt upright and smacked his hand to his forehead. "Illyth! The Yellow Lord's tournament is tonight!"

He looked up to the sky; the sun was only two hours short of setting, and the next Game event was only an hour off. In a panic, Jack dashed back to his apartment, dressed quickly in his best clothes, and then hired a coach to drive him out to Fleetwood Manor as fast as he could get there.

After a very anxious half hour for Jack, the carriage turned into the short, shady lane that led to Fleetwood Manor, passing another coach on its way out. He was only about a quarter hour late in picking up Illyth, which was better than he'd expected when he remembered their date. He was dressed rather casually for the evening, with tight black cannons and a pleated tunic of yellow and maroon. The coach stopped at the ivy-covered manor door; Jack hopped out before it had stopped rolling and took the short flight of steps two at a time.

"Lord Jaer Kell Wildhame for the Lady Illyth," he told the major domo.

The man didn't say a word in response. Jack turned on him in some annoyance-after all, he was running late-and found that the manservant was simply staring at him in amazement. The man's astonishment darkened visibly into suspicion.

"The Lady Illyth left with Lord Jaer Kell Wildhame just a moment ago," he said, motioning to a pair of house guards nearby. "Who, may I ask, are you?"

"I beg your pardon," replied Jack. "Did you say that Lady Illyth just left with me?"

The major domo nodded at the coach that had been departing just as Jack arrived. "There she goes. If you are not in that coach, sir, I do not know who is."

"Nor do I," said Jack. He dashed back to the coach he'd rented and climbed up beside the driver. "Quickly, man! After that coach!"

The driver, a stout old man with flowing white mutton-chops, hesitated just a moment before snapping the reins and shouting. The two-horse team snorted and started off, wheeling the carriage around the drive and out toward the road. Jack could hear sounds of consternation and pursuit behind him, but he ignored them. They thundered down to the end of the lane and turned onto the road, heeling dangerously before finishing the turn.

"Faster!" cried Jack.

"We're running all out!" the driver replied. "What are we going to do when we catch them?"