Vargo set his cup aside. "What service have you done for old Cleedis? I know you, Pinch. You're a guttersnipe playing at nobility, like you always were and always will be. Well, guttersnipe, name your price. I can make you a wealthy man. That's what you want, isn't it?" The words hissed with soft anger between them.

Pinch ignored the cut. His pride could not be wounded by hollow words. There was only one thing untrue in what Vargo said-he wasn't just playing at nobility. He had the blood in his veins-all these years. Vargo's taunt was the finger that released the bolt, the magical words that triggered what was locked inside him. All the memories that he'd forgotten, set aside, and ignored roiled back to the surface-the slights at his parentage, the constant reminders that they were greater than he, the threats and promises that always began, "When I become king…" Vargo was right, he did have a price. So why not steal from them the only treasure they cared for? It would be the grandest theft of all and it warmed the cold side of his heart.

Draining the last of his tea, he stood and politely bowed to his enemy. "What I want, you won't pay me, Vargo."

"Name it. Gold? Magic? Women? Charter for a thieves' guild? Iron-Biter? Maybe you'd like the dwarf for your revenge? Take him, do what you want. He's yours if you want him."

Pinch just shook his head. "Your crown, the one you covet. For that I might even give you back your life."

The prince's face went red, then purple, and Pinch thought for certain he was about to explode in a gale of rage. All at once Vargo burst into a thunder of laughter. The servitors and courtiers craned their necks to see what was happening even while they pretended not to notice.

"Wit-even in the face of defeat!" the noble kin croaked out through gasps of air. A tear moistened his cheek. "It is one of your most pointlessly admirable traits, dear Janol.

"But know this, cousin," he added as his fit subsided, "you've made a bad choice of stars to set your fate by. Bors will never be king. Should it be Throdus or should it be I, we'll pluck you from our scalp like the flea you are. Now begone. You no longer amuse me."

At another wave, the courtiers closed back in again. The audience was over. Pinch snaked through the chambers, brushing away the insignificants who wanted to talk to him, and returned to his rooms. There the magnificently overstuffed featherbed welcomed him with outstretched pillows. Pinch collapsed into it like a sailor drowning in the arms of the sea.

"Sprite, you here?" he asked as he lay staring at the canopy.

"Aye, Pinch," came the halfling's nasal voice in answer.

"Any troubles?"

"Getting in? No-slipped in behind you and you didn't notice," Sprite bragged. "You're getting almost as bad as those guards, blind as posts. It was an easy walk."

Pinch smiled where he lay. It was true, the halfling had managed to evade him completely. "What about out?"

"I can crack the door and slip behind their backs without notice," the little sneak answered with great confidence. "Like I said, blind as posts."

Pinch closed his eyes and felt the abandonment of sleep flowing over him. "Excellent, my friend. Now, get out of here and see that the others are ready, then be back. The meeting's tonight. Be ready to follow me when we leave. Don't fail me on this one, Sprite. I've got the feeling that this one could be my neck. Do you sense it?"

"Aye, Pinch. The fur of my feet's quivering," drifted in the halfling's reply, and then there was darkness.

The scrape of stone on stone alerted Pinch and he sprang out of bed, still fully dressed, with the expectation of constables pouring through the door. There were no constables, no bed in a cheap stew, no laughter of harlots down the hall, only the warm night air that played over the thick tapestries. In the moment it took to establish his whereabouts, the secret door in the bedroom wall swung open and a sword waveringly emerged from the darkness. Satisfied that no one was lying in wait, Cleedis entered the room, brushing dust and cobwebs from his robes.

"Good," he noted, "you're ready. Let's go."

"Go through there?"

The chamberlain scowled. "Of course. Did you expect me to traipse you through the halls for everyone to see? People would wonder what we were about at such an hour."

If all was right, Sprite was waiting outside for just that signal. Going through the tunnels meant bypassing the halfling and that meant his entire plan was for naught.

"This seems like an ill idea to me. There's things down there, trying to kill me. I say we use the door-I can lose anyone who tries to follow us."

The old man was adamant. "The tunnels-Manferic waits for us there."

"It's too dangerous."

"Nothing will harm us."

"How can you be so sure?" Pinch challenged in feigned anger, his voice rising in hopes that Sprite would hear it through the door. To increase the odds, he strode into the sitting room as if in a restless fury.

"Because I am the chamberlain of the Famisso household, right hand of Manferic the Great, and nothing down there will dare attack me or anyone carrying the privy seal of our lord," Cleedis blustered in exasperation. "Now, end this nonsense and let us go-unless all this is just to hide your own failure. You do have the regalia, don't you?"

The clear suspicion in the lord's voice warned Pinch not to press the issue any further. "Very well," he practically bellowed in his false temper, "we'll go by the tunnels!" Even as he did, he prayed to Mask and any other god who cared to grant Sprite particularly sharp ears.

Gathering up his goods-his well-used short sword, a fine black cloak, and the velvet sack that held his treasure-Pinch followed his guide.

"Close it," the chamberlain grunted as he set a taper to the lantern he'd brought with him. The rogue seized the handle and pulled the heavy wall shut. Just as it was about to close, he slipped the hem of his cloak into the gap so that it dangled like a pennon on the other side. Though it pained him to ruin such fine clothes, Pinch slashed the fabric away before Cleedis was done. He was barely able to manage it, forgetting until that moment that he had only one good hand.

When the sputtering lantern was finally lit, sparks rising from its wick, the old general led the way. The cobweb shadows quivered like veins against the crumbling stone walls. The lantern gave barely enough light to see the way by.

"You could have brought a wand or something enchanted with daylight," Pinch sourly observed.

"Lord Manferic disapproves," was all the explanation he got.

"Of course, I forgot. He's dead."

They ventured farther into the tunnels and Pinch could not say if these were routes he'd traveled before. Unsure that Sprite could follow their dust-marred trail, Pinch set to slicing off more bits of his cloak, scraps of cloth for the halfling to follow, assuming he made it this far. He was barely able to grip the fabric in his crippled hand, and the task threatened to be noisy. To cover his actions, he became unusually talkative. "Why do you serve him, Cleedis? He's dead and it's better he was gone."

"Lord Manferic is a great man."

"He's not a man anymore, and he was more monster than man when he was alive."

"He did what he must to protect Ankhapur from its enemies. The city is strong because of him."

"What about me, Cleedis? What reason was there to hide my past from me?" Pinch shot back. "How did I threaten the city?"

"I'm sure he did what he thought he must," was the old official's icy reply.

"Is that what you'll say when he turns on you?" The rogue cut free another strip of cloth as they reached an intersection. He let it drop at the start of the branch they took.