As he dropped the last piece of rope to the floor, the final bit of the jumbled puzzle locked into place. "Malark!" he said. "Did you get him?"

"No," Bareris said.

"Curse it! Why did I bring you into this in the first place? What good are you?"

Even as he spoke, Aoth realized he was being unfair. But he didn't care. He'd been crippled and humiliated twice, once by blindness and once by madness, an enemy had escaped, and the false friend who'd tampered with his mind was a convenient outlet for his frustrations.

Bareris frowned. "I'm sorry Malark got away. But at least you unmasked him. He can't do any further harm."

"You offered to leave the Griffon Legion," Aoth replied. "It's time for you to do that."

"No," Mirror said.

Aoth turned his head just in time to see the ghost's blur of a face sharpen into a kind of shadow-sketch of his former self-a lean, melancholy visage, an aquiline nose, and a mustache.

"I know I owe you," Aoth said, "and I know you've taken Bareris for your friend. May he prove more loyal to you than he did to me. But-"

"We champions of the order are one," Mirror said. "What stains one man's honor tarnishes us all, and by the same token, a companion can atone for his brother's sin. I helped you. Accordingly, our code requires you to forgive Bareris."

Aoth shook his head. "We aren't your ancient fellowship of paladins or whatever it was. I'm a Thayan, and we don't think that way."

"We are who we are," Mirror said, "and you are who you are.

Even by the ghost's standards, it was a cryptic if not meaningless declaration, yet it evoked a twinge of muddled, irrational guilt, and since Aoth was truly the injured party, he resented it. "The whoreson doesn't even care whether I forgive him or not. If you understand anything about him, you know he only cares about his woman."

"That isn't true," Tammith said. Her voice had an odd undercurrent to it, as if echoing some buried sorrow or shame. "He always valued his friends, even when grief and rage blinded him to his own feelings, and now his sight is clearer."

Aoth glowered at Bareris. "Why are you standing mute while others plead for you? You're the bard, full of golden words and clever arguments."

"I already told you I'm sorry," Bareris said, "and I truly want your forgiveness. But I won't plead for something to which I have no right. Hold a grudge if you think you should. Sometimes a wrong is bitter enough that a man must. Nobody knows that better than I."

Brightwing spread her rustling wings, then gave them an irritated snap. "Either forgive him or kill him. Whatever will stop all this maudlin blather."

Aoth sighed. "I'm just getting up off my sickbed. I'll need a bath and a meal before I feel up to killing anyone." He shifted his gaze to Bareris. "So stay in the legion if you'd rather."

Bareris smiled. "I would. Thank you."

"What's been going on while I was insane?"

"The zulkirs are convening another council of war. You recovered just in time to attend."

"Lucky me."

Nevron gazed at his fellow zulkirs-prissy, bloodless Lauzoril, gross, bloated Samas Kul perpetually stuffing food in his mouth, and all the rest-and suffered a spasm of loathing for each and every one of them.

Nothing unusual in that. He despised the vast majority of puny, muddled human beings. In general, he preferred the company of demons and devils. Even the least of them tended to be purer, grander, and certainly less prone to hypocrisy than the average mortal. He often entertained the fancy of abandoning the blighted realm that Thay had become and seeking a new destiny in the higher worlds. What a glorious adventure that would be!

But it could also prove to be a short one. Nevron was a zulkir and confident of his own mystical prowess. But he also comprehended, as only a conjuror could, what awesome powers walked the Blood Rift, the Barrens, and similar realities. He would have to confront them with comparable capabilities if he was to establish himself as a prince among the baatezu or tanar'ri.

Which, he supposed, was why he tarried where he was, learning and inventing new spells, crafting and acquiring new talismans, and impressing new entities into his service. It was the most intelligent strategy, so long as he had the judgment to recognize when he'd accumulated enough. Otherwise, preparation could become procrastination.

Dmitra Flass clapped her hands together to call the assembly to order. The percussive sound didn't seem louder than normal, but was somehow more commanding, as if she'd used her illusionist abilities to enhance it in some subtle way. They were all gradually figuring out how to make their spells reliable in the dreary new world Mystra's death had spawned.

The company fell silent, zulkirs and lesser folk alike, but the response seemed slower and more grudging than on previous occasions. Nevron wondered if Dmitra perceived the challenge apparent in the rancorous stares of several of her peers.

"We're here-" she began.

"To decide our next move," Lallara snapped. "We know. You don't have to begin every council by harping on the obvious."

"In fact," Nevron said, "you don't have to begin them at all." A fiend bound in the iron bracelet he wore around his left wrist whispered to him, encouraging him, as it often did when he said or did anything that smacked of malice or conflict.

Dmitra arched an eyebrow, or rather, the smooth stretch of skin where an eyebrow would be if she hadn't long ago removed it. "Someone must preside, and we seem to have slipped into the habit of letting the task fall to me."

"Well, perhaps we should slip out of it," Lallara said. "I'm not fighting Szass Tam just to see someone else set herself above me."

"That was never my intention," Dmitra said.

Nevron sneered. "Of course not. But it's inevitable that the one who presides over our deliberations exerts a degree of leadership, and perhaps you aren't the best choice for the role, considering the damage Malark Springhill did."

Dmitra sighed. "We all opted to trust Malark."

"But he was your servant," Nevron said, "and thus, your responsibility."

Dmitra waved a dismissive hand adorned with ruby rings and long crimson nails. "Fine. You guide the discussion. What does it matter, so long as we confer to some intelligent purpose?"

Her quick acquiescence caught Nevron by surprise, and the spirit in the bracelet sniggered at his fleeting confusion. Through an exertion of will, he afflicted it with pain, and the laugh became a scream, another sound that only he could hear.

"As you wish," he said. Since she'd plainly wanted to preside herself, Lallara gave him a glower, not that it differed appreciably from her usual clamp-mouthed, venomous expression. "This is the situation. We've sent a host of messengers-ravens, griffon riders, spirits, and others-racing around to countermand the false orders and refute the fraudulent intelligence Malark Springhill transmitted, and to find out exactly what lies he disseminated."

Dmitra smiled her radiant smile. "Thanks be to the High One," she drawled, "that the zulkir of Conjuration isn't wasting our time harping on the obvious."

The devil Nevron carried in the heavy silver ring on his left thumb murmured to him, imploring him to unleash it to punish the bitch for her mockery, and he wished that it were practical. Yes, he was saying what everyone already knew, but he had to launch the discussion somehow, didn't he?

"Once we determined what falsehoods Springhill uttered," he continued, "we could try to figure out why. The reason for some of it was obvious. He steered companies into traps, or to destinations that served no military purpose, or sowed suspicion and disaffection in the ranks. But he also sought to shift all our forces off the plain where the road heads up the Third Escarpment to Thralgard Keep."