"There, my friends," said Rexfelis sadly. "The Demiurge has taken care of the traitor in our midst."

Lurajal wasn't dead — only unconscious, Basiliv explained. He would be questioned immediately when he awakened in an hour or so. Raug was completely taken aback and bewildered, but the Catlord took him aside and patiently went over the whole affair for his benefit. While this was occurring, Gord looked from Gellor to the Demiurge. "I would have wagered my life against Raug and on him," he said, pointing to the prone Lurajal.

"And lost, too," the one-eyed troubador observed. "Then again, I would probably have made the same misjudgment as you... until it came time to pledge an oath of fealty."

Basiliv nodded. "That was the undoing of Lurajal. He was too ready, and Raug too honest. Lucky for us that both did not agree readily, for then we would have had to use some potent spells to discern the truth — and that might have allowed Lurajal an opportunity to make good an escape. But no trick or enchanted object will save that one now," the Demiurge noted. "Even now there are spell-workers and priests hastening here with armed warriors. Soon Lurajal will be stripped, chained, and put to the question in a place where none of his magic will work. Soon we will know his master's name and perhaps more; the evil ones he serves will not guess the fate of their agent until it is too late, I think. For once, we are ahead in this deadly game!"

Chapter 6

REVELRY AND LAUGHTER filled the Blue Lantern Tavern's long, narrow confines — not overly loud and boisterous, but enough so that the musicians hesitated to resume their playing.

The four veteran players didn't mind. Why should they? All the more time for them to drink and laugh themselves. Soon enough the crowd in this place would begin to demand more of their art — and that of the girl who danced to their melodies.

For now, though, the musicians would allow the crowd's amusement to run its course while they enjoyed the relative calm of the eddy. In fact, several others near their back table seemed to be doing much the same, deep in drink and close conversation during the break before sensuous music and writhing dancer would again drive the patrons of the Blue Lantern into a frenzy of noise over which no voice in conversation could prevail.

"Typical crowd," the drummer offered rather idly.

"Not so! This is the third round of potables those kind gentlemen at the nearby table have furnished us in appreciation for my playing." This came from the viellist, who was remarkably haughty for one of his occupation.

The fat musician who played the sackbut eyed the patrons to whom the viellist had referred. Garbed in nondescript clothing, these four were as unlikely a group as any he had ever known to send musicians drinks in appreciation of their musical talents. The fellow was quite intelligent enough, and a realist as well, so he accepted the harsh fact that if they were virtuosos they would be performing for nobles, not seedy denizens of a Foreign Quarter tavern. "The dancers are graceless or lumpy or both," the sackbut player supplied in answer to the viellist's boast. They feed us drink to keep us from playing."

At that the virginal player laughed, nearly choking on his ale and splattering the viellist with a shower of the brown liquid in the process. Sniffing disdainfully, the latter man arose, brushed at the droplets and announced, "It is past time for us to play again. Let us by all means put our respective theories to the test. I say it is my artistic renditions of these common folk melodies which generate such enthusiasm!"

Still sniggering, the virginal player followed him, so the other two decided to get on with it as well. Just as they were mounting the low platform whereon they performed, the sackbutist happened to glance toward the door. A pair of hooded men there were motioning toward the table where the four who had bought the musicians their drinks were seated. A bald half-elf positioned so as to be able to watch the entrance noticed the two strange figures, said something to his friends, and all four arose and left the tavern in the wake of the hooded pair.

The viellist refused to speak to anyone the rest of the night.

Outside the Blue Lantern Tavern the four plainly dressed men joined the pair of heavily cloaked wayfarers who had gestured to them. All six walked rapidly along Hardcobbles Way, entered Lost Lane, and disappeared into the deep darkness there. A drunken fellow weaving along across the street from them burst out in a ribald song, took a few more steps, then fell into the gutter in a drunken stupor. The sound of his singing disturbed a cat or rat elsewhere, for there was a clatter just after the last off-key notes died away. Then the street was quiet.

"We are being followed."

"Very perceptive, Chert," Gellor whispered dryly. There seems to be some sort of relay setup, I believe, designed so that we wouldn't notice that which you immediately spotted," the one-eyed bard added softly. The big hillman's sixth sense was keen, and Gellor did not want to discourage Chert from using it to the fullest.

There are at least two men on the rooftops above," Gord hissed. "Watch that we aren't caught unawares if they try to rain death upon us in this narrow place."

Curley Greenleaf, uncomfortable in this urban wilderness, started to walk faster. Gellor unobtrusively caught hold of the druid-ranger's cape and tugged on it to slow his pace. "Let's not alert the enemy and let them know we're aware of them," he said in his soft whisper. The sound didn't carry more than a few feet. Then, loudly enough for any nearby to hear, he asked, "How far is this place you're taking us to?"

One of the hooded figures turned and replied casually, "Just a little way ahead. We'll arrive soon enough, I assure you."

Lost Lane had several narrower alleyways leading from it, but it terminated in a close called Heart's Desire. Not only did the street there make a vaguely heart-shaped bow among the buildings of the close, but the establishments there were of the sort sought out by those abroad at night. There were dens where exotic substances could be consumed, houses of pleasure, and gambling establishments of unusual sort. There were many such places in the Foreign Quarter, but no others quite so varied or expensive as these. In fact, outside of certain places in the Garden and High Quarters, the whole of Greyhawk offered no establishments of higher quality than were to be found in Heart's Desire. It was therefore quite plausible that the half-dozen men would be where they were.

Thieves, or... ?" Gord muttered, allowing the question he had whispered to the troubador to trail off meaningfully.

"Killers, I think — meaning to make their work look like that of street bandits if need be," the one-eyed man replied. "Being where we are, they'll hold off, awaiting our exit from whichever of these houses of iniquity we should choose."

Being very much familiar with the operations of both assassins and thieves, and knowing such places as Heart's Desire as well, Gord shook his head, even though the negatory gesture could not be seen in the all-but-lightless lane. "No, Gellor. They'll certainly strike when we're inside and diverted from wariness by the pleasures of the place we're in. Tell the others — I am certain of it."

One of the hooded men pointed to a flight of stone stairs leading to a cellar door. Narrow windows of deep amber glass, dirty and coated with grime, allowed a faint glow from within to illuminate the steps slightly. "Mind now. We're going down here to Hegmon's Underground... a place you're sure to like!" the man said. With laughter and rude jesting of the sort that a group out for such sport would make, the six clumped down the stairway and entered through the old door at the bottom.