"Then consider this: Whatever doom Khelben Arunsun might visit on you is a mere possibility, whereas what I, Golskyn, will do here and now if you do not try to master the gorget is a cold and final certainty."

The priest strolled away, then turned back to face Mrelder, still wearing that faint smile. "Perhaps," he added, his tone still disconcertingly reasonable, "that serves to put matters into proper balance?"

Because he had no choice, Mrelder lifted the Guardian's Gorget with quaking hands and placed it around his neck. He sensed

Nothing.

The tendril of magic connecting him to the silver fire of the great wizard's mind was gone.

Mrelder breathed an intense sigh of relief. The shields he'd unintentionally raised fell away. With their passing, a faint glow of magic filled his thoughts.

The link was not quite gone, but it was changed. No longer a road that ran two ways, it was fading fast but sending Mrelder an image such as he might have seen in a scrying bowl-one whose powers were swiftly dimming.

Khelben Arunsun lay in slumber, beard singed and hands and face blackened as if by fire. What seemed to be deep green woods surrounded him, and a woman with long silver hair knelt over him, her eyes closed and her lips moving like someone praying.

The vision receded, dwindling behind him as if Mrelder was riding away from it, until dark mists closed over all. Then the faint glow of magic faded entirely, and Mrelder opened his eyes and gave his father a jubilant smile.

"The archmage," he announced, trying to sound victorious rather than relieved, "won't trouble us for some time."

Golskyn nodded as if he'd expected Mrelder's triumph. "And the gorget?"

"Nothing more," Mrelder admitted. "Yet."

Golskyn nodded, very slowly. "If Piergeiron lives, we will find him. In time, he'll tell us what we wish to know."

The likelihood of this struck Mrelder as slight indeed, but he knew better than to do anything but nod agreement. He cast the spell that allowed him to sense the little copper badge Piergeiron wore.

"He still lies below," he announced, frowning in surprise.

The angry din from the street was diminishing, which meant order was being restored. Surely tending the fallen First Lord would be paramount in the minds of the Watch!

The two men hastened back down into the smoke-filled street. Mrelder promptly pulled Golskyn aside to let several frantic Watchmen rush past, carrying on their shoulders a fat, ragged-mustached man wearing floppy sea-boots, seaman's breeches, and a blood-stained tunic.

Then the sorcerer led the way through bodies and wreckage and suspiciously frowning Watchmen to the alley where they'd dragged Piergeiron.

There they stopped in dismayed silence. The signboard that had felled the Open Lord had been tossed aside. Piergeiron was gone.

"Well?" the priest demanded coldly.

A glint of metal caught Mrelder's eye. Kicking aside the twisted splinters of a wooden crate, he plucked up the Open Lord's helm. The copper badge was still affixed to it; the spell of binding he'd placed to keep it there had done its job. This was, alas, cold comfort.

He turned the helm so his father could see the badge. "The spells worked as intended," he said haltingly.

Golskyn regarded him with disgust. "Better you should have fed him the copper piece in his morningfeast sausages. Then your 'spell of binding' could have been put to better use!"

"We were set upon, officer," Korvaun Helmfast repeated for perhaps the tenth time, feeling the cold stares of the Watchmen who stood in a tight circle all around, "as I told you. We were simply walking past that quaffhouse, and they all came charging out at us."

"And you had no blades drawn? Made no gestures? Said nothing?"

"No swords and no gestures," Taeros put in. "As I recall, we were explaining what a quaffhouse was to Lord Jardeth at the time."

That earned him a sneer of disbelief from the grizzled old Watch rorden. "Come now, milord! You seriously expect me to believe that your friend here-" He waved at Starragar, who, with his glittering black cloak and blood-smeared face, looked like a large carrion bird-"is unfamiliar with alehouses?"

A chorus of sarcastic chuckles arose from the surrounding Watchmen.

Taeros felt unaccustomed anger rising in him. "What my friend meant," he said rather sharply, "is that the Lord Jardeth expected a drinking establishment to present a more inviting face to the world or lack for clients, just as I expect the Watch to keep the streets safe or at least stand aside to allow us to procure healing for our friend."

The Watch officer regarded him rather coolly. "Part of keeping the streets safe, Lord Hawkwinter, is ascertaining who's to blame for bloodshed-and I note that two young lords stand before me unhurt, whereas over a dozen outlanders and citizens lie hurt or dead, many by wounds almost certainly made by your swords. If for some reason you feel it beneath yourself to answer a few questions…"

"I feel nothing of the sort," Taeros snapped, truly angry now, "yet as we seem to be noting things here, I note that you've not assisted these ladies to rise, nor asked after their health-or asked them anything at all, for that matter."

Another Watch officer snorted. "Ah, yes, shift eyes to your doxies; that'll prove an effective distraction. D'you think we're all dunderheads?"

Surprisingly, it was Naoni who erupted from the cobbles like a leaping flame. "Doxies? DOXIES?'

She flew at the man, heedless of his drawn sword, and delivered a slap that spun his head sideways and brought roars of laughter from other Watchmen.

"We're crafters," she shouted at him. "Honest women doing an honest day's work, not the playpretties of titled men!"

By then, several Watchmen had tugged her arms down, and the swordcaptain she'd attacked had staggered back out of reach, more startled than angry.

"Naoni," Faendra cried desperately, afraid she'd see her sister stabbed right in front of her. "Have done!"

Her sister heard and fell silent but didn't stop struggling against the hands that held her.

"Well, we seem to have touched some nerves here," the grizzled rorden observed. "Not had your share of battle yet, m'dear?"

That "dear" and the patronizing tone it was delivered in brought Faendra to her feet. She flounced over to put herself between Naoni and the graying officer, hands on her hips and blue eyes ablaze.

"Surely Mistress Dyre, the daughter of a guildmaster, is worthy of more respectful address!"

The officers exchanged glances, and the men holding Naoni released her and stepped back.

"See now, young mistress, no harm was meant."

"Oh? Perhaps if your daughters and sisters were penned into a battlefield, left to fend for themselves, then mocked as dockside trulls," raged Faendra, "less rust would have collected on your weapons! Speaking of which, my sister's 'battles' are her own business, but no graybeard with 'rusted weapons' need apply as sparring partner."

A few uneasy chuckles arose. Faendra, however, was not quite finished. She turned and pointed at Naoni dramatically.

"And know this: my sister is a sorceress, goddess-gifted with the ability to spin anything into thread! She could conjure every sword you carry into scraps of fishing line."

She cast a scathing glance over the gathered Watch and added, "Not that most of you would perceive the change."

A young Watchman stepped forward, eyes narrowing. "Threatening the Watch with sorcery, are you?"

"Thellus," an older swordcaptain hastily interrupted, "I think we'd better take these lasses in for some proper questioning. Separately. I'll take-"

"No, goodsir," Korvaun announced then, his sword out and his voice even colder than his drawn blade, "you'll not. These women are now under my protection, and I'll fight any man who tries to-"