"I have been loyal to Lord Manferic and he recognizes that. He will reward me for my effort."

"I see. Bors will be prince, you'll be the regent, and Manferic will dangle you both before the crowds as his puppets. Always the dog, never the one holding the leash, eh, Cleedis?"

The old man never broke his slow stride, though Pinch knew the words stung his warrior conscience. "There is no dishonor in loyalty, no shame in the rewards. I have done well by my life, far better than your mangy existence."

Another piece cut away. Pinch palmed it and continued his work. "I, at least, have my freedom. I choose what I want and I take it."

"Hah! That pathetic lie. Tell me, Janol, are you here now because you choose to be or because you've been trapped by your own greed and lust? You scramble for what I have, and not able to earn it by your own skills, you steal it from others. Or you used to-I've seen your hand though you try to hide it. Tell me, what becomes of a one-handed thief?"

Suddenly, Pinch lost his taste for conversation. He followed behind his guide, who was showing unusual vigor as they wound though arched passages, down stairs, and through vaults until they finally reached a large crypt just beyond a bridge that spanned an underground stream. Even before they entered the chamber, Pinch could feel the tingle of fear that had touched him in the necropolis. Manferic, cold and decaying, was near.

Cleedis stopped at the entrance to the room, sheltering the light from the door. "Lord Manferic, I've brought Janol," he announced to the darkness.

"Bring him in," resonated the chill voice of the dead.

Pinch paused at the door. If Sprite had followed him, he needed to stall for as much time as possible while the halfling scurried back for help. His plan, such as it was, depended on the others. He had few doubts what fate Manferic intended for him once the goods were passed over. He needed the distraction the others would provide if he wanted to escape alive.

Cleedis was in no mood to dawdle, perhaps motivated by fear of his dread lord. He impatiently drew Pinch through the door and into the center of the floor. The chamber had the pungent air of shriveled leather, the peculiar dry scent of decay.

The chamberlain fiddled with the lamp, lowering the wick until the flame was little more than a spark. It exaggerated the limestone walls even further until they were black canvases upon which played a grotesque shadow play of leaps and shimmers.

Something moved at the very outer layer of this bleak hell. Pinch saw it only by a shadow that stretched the thin limbs into an enormous insect scuttling across the wall. The shadow moved with a chiseled rattle that spoke of bones. It sounded like a skeleton the rogue had once stumbled into while breaking into an alchemist's garret, but it made him feel like a moth drawn too near the deadly flame.

"Chamberlain, you kept me waiting. There is no time for waiting," the shadow rasped like a bellows wheezing stale air, whispery yet harshly echoing from the stone walls.

"My apologies, Your Highness," Cleedis fawned. Using his sword as cane, the old man stiffly got himself down on one knee and bowed his head before the former king. "The path here confounds old men, my lord, and makes them loose their way. I have brought you Janol so that you can reward his service."

The shadow scraped closer, stepping into the edge of the dim light. In the sheltering darkness of the catacombs, Manferic the lich stood uncloaked before them both.

It wasn't as disgusting as Pinch expected, in fact it was barely disgusting at all. The thing that had been his guardian-Pinch could not change guardian to father so quickly-this thing almost looked alive. Certainly at midnight Manferic could have hurried through the streets unremarked, at worst a poor consumptive in search of good air. His face was drawn and stripped of fat. The skin was pearly gray and translucent as if someone had painted it over with wax. Pinch had expected the eyes to be deadest of all, but it was just the opposite; they burned with a life more ferocious than any living man's. They were the furnaces of Manferic's will, the driving ambition that kept him alive.

In that gaunt face, Pinch barely recognized the likeness of his guardian, now father. Death had not changed him nearly as much as the fifteen years apart from each other. He was thinner and sharper of bone, and he stood half-hunched as if bowed by some great weight. But when he moved and when he spoke, even in that sibilant whisper, he was still Manferic, the imperial arrogance just as Pinch remembered.

As Manferic stepped farther into the light, the first impression was denied. A flicker of the lamp highlighted a white spot on the lich's cheek, a spot that suddenly wriggled and twisted. Pinch was suddenly aware of the pale grave worms that wriggled out of the smooth skin and dropped to the floor with every step. They crawled out of the ruin of the lich's ears and tangled themselves into the matted filth that remained of his hair. Manferic, when alive, would never had tolerated this. Dead, the decay that was corrupting his flesh was of no concern. The lich was sustained by the dark combination of magic and will; the body was only a husk to hold it all. This was no longer Manferic the king, but a thing that Pinch could never call else but "it."

"Give them to me," the thing coldly demanded. It turned its burning gaze full on Pinch. The fires of its desire riveted him and then proceeded to pour into his soul the cold terror of its existence.

Although the lich was appalling to behold, there was no logical basis for the intensity of his fear. Had it been his sword, his purse, even a friend that the lich demanded, Pinch very certainly would have succumbed, so oppressive was the fear on his heart. Fortunately, what the lich demanded cut to the soul of what mattered for Pinch-to surrender without profit.

The rogue clutched the bag. "Payment first."

The Manferic thing scowled, unaccustomed, as both lord and omniscient horror, to resistance from a mere mortal. "Indeed," it clicked through its lipless mouth. "And what is that?"

"Fifty thousand nobles," Pinch responded, the burden of fear lifting from him. Haggling with a broker, no matter how fearsome, was something he understood, and understanding broke the dread awe.

"Vile rogue! The price was set at forty," Cleedis interrupted.

Pinch assumed an air of great injury. "Liar? I spoke the truth, dread lord," he lied brazenly.

"Enough," rasped the undead thing. "I can well guess the truth of it, Pinch. You forget; I know who-and what-you are." Those fire-filled eyes blazed into the thief, boring pits through the bone. A dread discomfort crawled like lice over the regulator's brain, itching and poking at the very thoughts of his mind.

Pinch fought the feeling, tried to block it out. He knew what it meant. The lich was probing his mind, rummaging through the tangled mass of his thoughts and memories. Pinch knew the trick well enough; it was one of Maeve's old standbys.

"I see it clear. You hoped to cheat me of forty-"

Manferic cocked its head with the looseness of death. "Father," the lich whispered. Without breaking its transfixing gaze, the thing spoke to the chamberlain, who had prudently stepped aside. "Cleedis-he knows," the mealy lord hissed.

"Yes, my lord," the old man fawned, trembling at the darkness in his lord's voice. "He only just confronted me."

"So, Janol-you are fatherless no more."

Perhaps there was still a mote of sentimentality in the creature that Manferic had become, for the thought probes retreated. Pinch held back his sigh of relief. The lich's feelers had come too close. If Manferic learned he was bargaining for a fake, that would be the end of the whole plan, and Pinch's life, too. Of course, if Sprite didn't arrive soon with the cavalry, it would all be over. He needed to stall.