"Yes. I wondered if I'd been mistaken when Jivin was killed, but then, if your father's right, 'twould be a small matter for a Lord to order a man's death. I know Elaith's interested in the New Day; he's asked me about it."

Naoni caught her breath sharply. "What did you tell him?"

"Forgive me: That Master Dyre and his friends, like many old men, said much but did little."

"Words lead to deeds," Naoni said grimly. "The riot in the City of the Dead began with those old mens' words."

Faendra regarded Lark shrewdly. "You're not so loyal to Waterdeep-nor half so stupid!-that you'd do what the Serpent demands, just because you think he might be a Lord of Waterdeep. He knew your past and threatened to tell the city, losing you your employment here-and everywhere respectable. That's why you took the charm from Lord Taeros: The Serpent demanded it."

"Yes," Lark whispered miserably.

"Did you give it to him?" Naoni asked.

Lark pulled up her kirtle, clawed open the small cloth bag sewn to her shift, and handed the charm to her mistress.

Closing her fingers around it, Naoni gave Lark a long, level look. "You told us Beldar took it from you."

"He did."

"You also said you didn't have it!"

"I said it wasn't in my belt-bag, words as true now as when they were spoken." Lark sighed. "I beg pardon, Mistress, for deceiving you with… truth untold."

Naoni shrugged. "Well, at least you didn't give it to The Serpent."

"I couldn't, not knowing for certain what it was or why he wanted it, so I had Lord Roaringhorn take me to a mage and pay for her seeking-spells. She found no magic in it at all."

Faendra frowned. "But why would he-"

She snapped her fingers. "Beldar was the wealthy young man in Luskan!"

"I hated him… but have since come to know he never knowingly pandered for that beast. Please, let's speak of this no more. I want nothing more in my life than an end to all this."

"Gods willing, you'll have it," Naoni said briskly. "When the elf asks about this, tell him Taeros no longer has it, nor do you."

"And if he persists?"

Naoni looked down at what she held. "Tell him," she said slowly, "that the charm was taken from you by a metal worker, who made something else of it."

"Mistress, his magic will test my words for truth."

There was steel in Naoni's sudden smile. "True they will be! Faen, fetch me my spindle!"

Beldar stood in silence, staring at the stone skull. He wasn't sure what the old witch could do for him, but where else could he turn?

One of the teeth shifted. "Are you alone this time?" the Dathran asked coldly.

He touched his eyepatch. "No man or monster stands with me or follows me, as far as I know, yet I can't in all honor claim I'm truly alone."

"More puzzles you bring Dathran? Very well, so long as you also bring gems and gold."

Beldar shook his bag of gems, and the skull grated open.

Climbing into the room, he was surprised to find the Dathran already at work, settling a large, shallow bronze bowl onto a spiked iron tripod, and pouring dark fluid into it.

She looked up and made the usual demand: "Blood."

The Roaringhorn drew his dagger and carefully cut his forearm. As blood dripped into the scrying bowl, its surface began to roil and seethe. When the surface calmed, the Dathran leaned over it to peer intently into its depths.

A gout of steam burst from the bowl, scalding the old woman into staggering retreat. The steam darkened to smoke, and with horrified speed thickened into A pair of long, black tentacles!

One lashed out, snapping around the Dathran's throat with vicious force. She clawed at it, her fingers passing through it to leave bloody furrows in her own skin, and tried in vain to gurgle out a spell.

Beldar flung down his dagger, drew his sword, and swung it high overhead. He brought it down with all his strength behind it-straight through the tentacle as if he'd been slicing empty air, to strike sparks from the stone floor.

The tentacle undulated unharmed, the Dathran gagging.

The imp streaked off a shelf to pounce, shrieking and clawing. Its claws and fangs could find and harm the tentacle, slicing long, bloodless rents in the dark flesh. The imp sprang from the second tentacle to the first, slashing and gnawing in frenzy as the dark suppleness choked the Dathran.

That sinuous limb never slowed, dragging the witch toward the scrying bowl.

The second tentacle stabbed down-not at Beldar, but to flick the imp away. It spun into a hard, wet meeting with a wall and slid to the floor, spasming, to crouch hissing like an angry cat.

That tentacle darted menacingly at Beldar. He sprang aside, hefting his sword, but it swooped aside to dash the bowl off the tripod.

Dark fluid splashed in all directions, and the smoky tentacles thinned to the girth of ropes. Beldar hacked at one, but it curled away from him as the other tentacle hauled at the Dathran, hard. Snatched off her feet, the feebly struggling witch was jerked forward.

Her body struck the three iron spikes with a thick, wet rending thud, and rode them downward.

The tentacles collapsed into smoke. Wisps curled almost tauntingly around the twitching woman… and were gone.

It had all happened so fast. Beldar stared at down at what was left of the Dathran. Blood drenched the floor below the tripod, and the witch's flesh seemed to be melting away from the barbed spikes thrusting wetly up through her body.

A delighted cackle arose from the imp. It flapped unsteadily up from the floor to hover in front of Beldar.

"You've freed me from her service, so I don't suppose we'll meet again," it hissed. Then it leered, pointed at its right eye, and added, "And then again, we just might!"

It disappeared in a puff of stinking smoke, departing much faster than its parting chuckle.

Retrieving his dagger, Beldar clambered hastily through the skull, half-fearing it might start to close, and staggered away. Waterdeep held men who might help him without magic. Everyone knew of the barbers who sewed and slashed flesh in dark Dock Ward rooms, aiding-if that was the right word-those who spurned priestly prayers and couldn't afford potions. Surely one of them would be willing to free him from this abomination in his head!

If he died, what of it? It was becoming increasingly clear to Beldar Roaringhorn that his life was no longer his own.

The second bell past dawn was striking as Elaith Craulnober strode through the smoking ruins of what had been a barber's hovel and kicked aside the blasted, twisted thing that had been its owner.

The dead man's patient looked little better. A magical backlash had thrown him across the room before the Watchful Order's firequench spell had taken effect, and greasy soot from the barber's badly burned corpse had settled thickly over him. His eyes-the right one markedly larger than the left-were closed, but his chest was rising and falling shallowly. He was larger and heavier than the elf, but Elaith lifted him onto one shoulder with seeming effortlessness and carried him out onto the street.

A few curious onlookers saw the grim face of The Serpent and scattered like a flock of startled birds.

Elaith tossed a small glass vial to the cobbles. From its bursting spilled a glimmering liquid that promptly spread into a perfectly round puddle, which in turn birthed a rising cylinder of glittering motes. The elf stepped into it with his head-lolling burden and promptly vanished, taking all traces of his portal magic with him.

Handy things, jumpgates. Elaith's boot came down on the fore-hall tiles of one of his quieter Waterdeep houses.