"As do I," Szass Tam replied.

Homen hesitated then decided that if the lich hadn't struck Azhir dead for her outburst, he might likewise tolerate a somewhat impertinent question. "Master, pardon me if I presume, but you almost sound as if… you agree with us? I thought you supported peace and the trade enclaves."

Szass Tam smiled. "There are only eight zulkirs, but our politics, our gambits and maneuverings, are more intricate than any sane outsider could imagine. You should be wary of assuming that all is as it appears, but we can talk more about that later." He shifted his narrow shoulders like a laborer about to set to work. "For now, we must determine how to turn today's debacle into a splendid achievement, a deed meriting a triumphal procession as opposed to pincers and thumbscrews."

Homen reflected that it was strange. By rights, conversation ought to produce enlightenment, but the longer the three of them talked, the more perplexed he felt. "You… mean to help us escape the consequences of our folly?"

"It should be easy enough," said the lich. "It's all in how one tells the story, isn't it? How about this: Because the two of you are astute commanders, with scouts and spies cunningly deployed, you discovered that a band of Rashemi intended to invade Thay via the Gorge of Gauros. You marched out to stop them and stop them you did, albeit at a heavy cost. Let all Thay applaud your heroism."

Homen studied Szass Tam's fine-boned, intellectual features, looking for some sign that the necromancer was toying with them, proffering hope only for the amusement of snatching it away once more. As far as he could tell, the undead warlock was in earnest.

"Your Omnipotence," Homen said, "if you show us such mercy, then for the rest of our days, we will serve you above all others."

"That seems fair." Szass Tam saluted them with his cup. "To better times."

chapter one

7-8 Mirtul, the Year of Risen Elfkin

It wouldn't take long for the crew, accomplished sailors all, to moor the cog and run out the gangplank, but Bareris Anskuld was too impatient to wait. He swung his long legs over the rail, and ignoring the shout of the mariner seeking to dissuade him, he jumped for the dock.

It was a fairly long drop and he landed hard, nearly falling before he managed a staggering step to catch himself. But he didn't break anything, and at last, after six long years abroad, he was home in Bezantur once more.

He gave his traveling companions on the ship a grin and a wave. Then he was off, striding up the dock and on through the crowds beyond, picking his way through stacks and cart-loads of goods the stevedores of the busy port were loading or unloading, sword swinging at his hip and silver-stringed yarting slung across his back.

Some folk eyed him speculatively as he tramped by, and he realized with a flicker of amusement that they took him for some manner of peculiar outlander in a desperate hurry. They had the hurry part right, but he was as Thayan as they were. It was just that during his time abroad, seeking to make his way among folk who were seldom particularly fond of his countrymen, he'd abandoned the habit of shaving the wheat blond hair from his head.

He supposed he'd have to take it up again, but not today. Today something infinitely more wonderful demanded his attention.

For all his eagerness, he stopped, stood, and waited respectfully with everyone else while a pair of Red Wizards and their attendants passed by. Then he was off again and soon left the salt-water-and-fish odor of the harbor behind. Now home smelled as he remembered it, stinking of smoke, garbage, and waste like any great city, but laced with a hint of incense, for Bezantur was Thay's "City of a Thousand Temples," and it was a rare day when the priests of one god or another didn't parade through the streets, chanting their prayers and swinging their censers.

There were no great temples where Bareris was headed. A worshiper would be lucky to happen upon a mean little shrine. He passed through a gate in the high black wall and into the squalid shantytown beyond.

He took the back-alley shortcut he'd used as a boy. It could be dangerous if a fellow looked like he had anything worth stealing, and these days, carrying an expensive musical instrument, he supposed he did. But during his travels, he'd faced foes considerably more daunting than footpads, and perhaps it showed in the way he moved. At any rate, if there were thieves lurking anywhere around, they suffered him to past unmolested.

A final turn and his destination, just one nondescript shack in a row of equally wretched hovels, came into view. The sight froze him in place for a heartbeat, then he sprinted up the narrow mud street and pounded on the door.

"Open up!" he shouted. "It's Bareris. I'm back!"

After a time that seemed to stretch for a day, a tenday, an eternity, the rickety door creaked open on its leather hinges. On the other side stood Ral Iltazyarra. The simpleton, too, was as Bareris remembered him, doughy of body and face, with a slack mouth and acne studding his brow and neck.

Bareris threw his arms around him. "My friend," he said, "it's good to see you. Where's Tammith?"

Ral began to sob.

The youth was nice-looking in a common sort of way, but he looked up at Dmitra Flass, often called "First Princess of Thay" for the sake of her sharp wits, iron will, and buxom, rose-and-alabaster comeliness, tharchion of Eltabbar and so mistress of the city in which he dwelled, with a mixture of fear and petulance that could scarcely have been less attractive.

"Maybe I did throw a rock," he whined, "but everyone else was throwing them, too."

"Bad luck for you, then, that you're the one who got caught," Dmitra replied. She shifted her gaze to the blood-orc warrior who'd dragged the prisoner before her throne. "Take him to your barracks and tie him to a post. You and your comrades can throw stones at him and see how he likes it. If there's anything left of him at sunset, turn him loose to crawl away."

The boy started to cry and plead. The orc backhanded him across the face then manhandled him out of her presence. Dmitra looked to see who the next prisoner was-in the wake of a riot, administering justice was a time-consuming, tedious business-and Szass Tam appeared in the back of the hall. She had a clear view of the doorway but hadn't seen him enter. Nor had she, Red Wizard of Illusion though she was, felt a pulse of magic. Yet there he was.

And about time, too, she thought. She rose, spread the skirt of her crimson brocade gown, and curtsied. As a mark of special favor, he'd decreed she need no longer kneel to him. Her courtiers and prisoners turned to see whom she was greeting, and they of course hastily abased themselves.

"Rise," said the lich, sauntering toward the dais, the ferule of his ebony staff clicking on the marble floor. "Dmitra, dear, it's obvious you're busy, but I'd appreciate a moment of your time."

"Certainly, Master." She turned to the blood-orc captain. "Lock up the remaining prisoners until-on second thought, no. I refuse to feed them or squander any more of my time on them. Give them ten lashes each and turn them loose." She smiled at Szass Tam. "Shall we talk in the garden?"

"An excellent suggestion." He'd always liked the garden, and the open-air setting made it difficult for anyone to eavesdrop.

Outside, it was a fine sunny afternoon, and the air smelled of verdure. Heedless of the thorns, which evidently couldn't pierce or pain his shriveled fingers, Szass Tam picked a yellow rose and carried it with him as they strolled, occasionally lifting it to his nostrils and inhaling deeply.