Now that it wasn't trying to smash his skull against the wall, there was some chance and gain in that recognition. Naming the thing, though, added more to the mystery than solving the problem.

It was a quaggoth, an albino beast of the far underground realms. They were virtually unknown on the surface. The only reason Pinch knew of them was his youth here in Ankhapur. Manferic had raised a few, like slavish dogs, as his special lackeys. They were hunters and jailers, one of old Manferic's "special" punishments.

"You not Janol. Janol boy." Amazement that the thing knew him once was increased by urgency as the thing reached down to continue its beating.

"I've grown," he blurted hastily.

He tried to duck beneath the sweeping arms, but the monster was quicker than its speech. With the thief in its grip, the quaggoth slowly and deliberately squeezed. The wind crushed out of him in a last series of choking words. "I… am… Janol," he gasped in vain.

The beast snarled and crushed harder. Pinch heard a crack from within his chest and the sharp burn of a broken rib, but there was no air left in him to scream. The dim tunnel of light was quickly becoming even more dim.

"Ikrit-stop!"

The pressure ceased. The pain did not.

"Is he Janol?" It was a woman's voice, quavering and weak but unmistakably female.

"He say, lady."

"And you?"

"Me, lady, say he not Janol."

"Put him down."

Pinch tumbled to the floor. This time he made no move to get to his feet. He gasped for air like a landed fish, and each heave brought a new lance of pain that drove out all the wind he had regained.

"You want look, lady?" From his hands and knees, Pinch looked up to see the beast addressing something or someone in the darkness.

"… Yes." There was a pained hesitancy in the framing of her simple answer.

The beast stooped to seize Pinch and present him like a prisoner before the dock. The rogue tried to crawl away, but all he did was trigger a paroxysm of choking that ended with a mouthful of coughed-up blood.

"No-wait." Her words shook, as though they were a dam to her fears and uncertainties. "You say he's not Janol?"

"No, lady. Not Janol."

There was a drawing of breath from the darkness, a drawing of resolve. "Let me see him."

The quaggoth bowed slightly to the darkness and stepped aside. Pinch, suspecting that his life might hang on this display, wiped the blood from his chin and lips and struggled to stand upright. He peered into the gloom of the tunnel, but even with his thief-trained eyes, he could not make out the slightest shadow of his examiner.

At last a sigh, pained and disappointed, floated from the darkness. "It's too long. Who can tell?… Let him go, Ikrit. Take him out."

"Who are-" Pinch's question was forestalled by a spasm from his chest, the broken bone protesting even the rise and fall of words. There were so many questions inside him, all strangled by the lancing pain inside.

"Who am I?" The echo was a confused musing of his words. "I'm… one who loved unwisely."

Riddles! Every answer led to more riddles. If he hadn't felt so lousy, Pinch would have cursed the voice in the darkness. He forced himself to frame one last question.

"What am I-" he paused to force back the pain, "- Janol, to you?" The effort left him collapsed against the wall.

Footsteps crept closer from the darkness. The quaggoth took a protective step to intercede between Pinch and its charge. There was covert tenderness in its move, uncharacteristic for its race. "Janol is-" Suddenly the whispers halted in a gagging retch, like a drunken man. When it stopped, the woman tried again. "Janol is… hope," she said weakly, although it was certain those were not the words she wished to use.

Pinch gave up. He hadn't the strength to ask any more questions, and the lady, be she human, sprite, or spook, was not going to answer him straightly. The pain exhausted him so that all there was left was to let himself sink into aching stillness.

"Ikrit, take him out."

"He attack lady," the quaggoth argued as its duty.

The weakness faded from the woman's voice as if filled with kind strength, the will of a mother imposed on her child. "Take him out-gently."

"Yes, lady," the big white creature rumbled obediently, even though it was clearly not happy with the command.

Pinch moaned as it picked him up. The lances were so constant now that their pain became almost bearable. The cracked bone had settled, not in the best place, but was at least no longer trying to reshape his muscle tissue. The quaggoth strode in great jolting strides, and with every lurch the rogue thought for sure he would pass out. They moved quickly through the total darkness, the quaggoth easily picking the way with eyes adapted to the dark. Even if he still had his full wits about him, the rogue could not have studied the way.

At last the beast stopped and lowered the rogue, weak and sweating, to the ground. "Go there," it growled. In the pitch blackness, Pinch had no hint of where "there" was. Perhaps sensing this, a great clawed hand shoved him roughly forward, and he would have fallen if his body had not collided with a stone wall. "There-the bright world. Your world." No more was said as the thump and clack of clawed feet signaled the beast's departure.

Not ready to die in the darkness, Pinch forced himself to reason. The beast claimed this was the way out, therefore there had to be a door. With his trained touch, the rogue probed the stone searching for a knob, handle, crack, or catch. Patience rewarded him, and with only slight pressure, which was fortunate, he pushed a section of the wall aside.

It was the very last of twilight outside, the embered glow of the sun as it pulled the last of its arc below the horizon. The lamplighters were out, wizard-apprentices who practiced their cantrips activating the street lamps. Faint as it was, the wilting dusk blinded Pinch after his sojourn in darkness. Everything was orange-red and it hurt his eyes.

Blinking, he stumbled into the street, unable to clearly see where he'd emerged. It was good fortune that traffic was light at this hour and he was not trampled by some rag-picker's nag that chafed to be home in its stable. As the glare finally faded, the buildings resolved themselves into shapes and places. Here was a tavern, there a gated wall, and farther along it a cramped tower.

It was from these clues that Pinch realized he was standing outside the necropolis. The necropolis meant priests and priests meant healing. A plan already forming in his mind, Pinch stumbled toward the barred gate.

When the priests saw a bloody and bruised wretch staggering toward them, they reacted just as Pinch expected. Most held back, but a few, guided by the decency of their faith, hurried forward to aid this miserable soul. As hoped, among them was Lissa, and toward her Pinch steered his faltering steps.

As she caught up to him, Pinch collapsed dramatically in her arms. It wasn't that hard, considering his state. Real wounds added far more realism than what he could have done by pig's liver, horse blood, and a few spells.

"Lissa, help me," he murmured. "Take me to the temple of the Red Priests."

"I will take you to the Morninglord," she insisted, intent on repaying him with the works of her own faith.

"No," he insisted, "only the Red Priests. It is their charge to minister to the royal clan. Take me to another and you insult their god."

Lissa didn't like it; it was against her inclinations, but she could not argue against custom. She called for a cart and horse, and Pinch knew she would take him.

Soon, as he lay on the straw and watched the rooftops go by, Pinch smiled a soft smile to himself, one that showed the satisfaction that broke through his pain. He'd be healed in the halls of the Red Priests, and he'd case those same halls for the job he intended to pull. Sometimes his plans realized themselves in the oddest of ways.