The shaman stood a head shorter than the chieftain, and his widely spaced eyes looked slightly to the side of whatever he was looking upon. He wore a brace of humanoid skulls as a sign of his office.

The moment Eglos walked into the hut, Vraggen surreptitiously cast a spell similar to that which had enthralled the chieftain. Eglos greeted him cheerfully and raptly listened to his explanation of Ramenos's plan for the tribe.

"May the maw devour you painlessly," Eglos croaked.

Again, Vraggen humbly accepted the blessing.

"Prepare the tribe for my return," he said, then he teleported out as the chieftain and shaman watched in awe.

Back in his room at the Bent Chalice, Vraggen smiled at Azriim and Dolgan.

"A quarter hour of subtlety and deception has won us over thirty bullywug warriors as allies. Force has its place," he said, enjoying the lecture, "but it is not always the answer."

Azriim stared at the ceiling and said, "I can smell you from here. Perhaps you should bathe?"

Dolgan guffawed.

Vraggen, in a generous mood, let the insult pass.

"Azriim and I will journey to the Lightless Lake," the mage said. "Dolgan, you remain in Starmantle. If Cale somehow manages to track us, kill him. We'll leave Elura to watch the road."

His lieutenants nodded, though Vraggen could see the distaste in Azriim's expression. The half-drow did not relish the thought of spending any time with bullywugs in a fetid swamp. Vraggen smiled.

All of the pieces were in place. He needed only to wait for a new moon, and the appearance of the Fane of Shadows.

CHAPTER 14

STARMANTLE

Unlike Selgaunt, which had grown up at random around an earlier Chondathan settlement, Starmantle was a planned town. Straight, brick-paved streets and alleys radiated out at right angles from the large bazaar in the center of the city. Booths, tents of all colors, and tables laden with merchandise filled the bazaar. The smell of cooking fish, southern spices, mistleaf, and horse dung filled the air.

Founded centuries before as a commercial rival to Westgate and the Night Masks, Starmantle held its gates open to all races in the name of mercantilism. While it had never managed to match its rival city in size, it nevertheless attracted a diverse population. All manner of men and monsters filled the city's seething inns, eateries, festhalls, and markets. By day, lizardman tribesmen, half-ogre mercenaries, and bugbear woodsmen from the Gulthmere walked the streets beside human corsairs, merchants, and whores. By night, orcs, drow, and worse haunted the alleys and side streets. Cale marveled at the various creatures. In Selgaunt, half-ogres and bugbears would have been thought raiders and attacked on sight by the Scepters.

Starmantle had only a few streets as wide as Selgaunt's trade boulevards, but each of those was packed full by a seemingly endless train of merchants, porters, carts, wagons, crates, and barrels. A steady stream of merchandise moved day and night along the main trade arteries, flowing between the harbor, the city gates, and the bazaar. Despite the difference in size, in Starmantle as much as in Selgaunt, King Trade ruled the realm.

Still, Cale couldn't get over the feeling that the city was overcrowded with people and overstuffed with goods, as swollen and ready to burst as a waterlogged chest. Starmantle seemed to Cale nothing more than a miniature Westgate—a violent, dirty boil growing on the arse of the Dragonmere, with little to offer other than brisk trade. The fact that several towering temples dominated the skyline and looked down on the filth seemed more a joke than an aspiration.

They had arrived in the city a day and a half before, and Cale had yet to see any sign of an organized city watch. Instead, the inhabitants of Starmantle seemed to police themselves. Street violence was commonplace, but not wide-scale. Bystanders remained exactly that, and street brawls never escalated into riots. Cale had seen six knife fights since arriving—four of them had left one of the participants dead.

In that environment, Cale knew that the best way to avoid trouble was to appear capable of handling any that might come. Accordingly, Cale, Riven, and Jak wore their weapons and scowls openly.

Still, despite the lawlessness and violence, trade continued in earnest. Merchants managed to buy, sell, barter, and prosper. Cale figured anything could be bought or sold in Starmantle, from flesh to mistleaf. For his part, Cale wanted to purchase but one thing—the services of a guide who knew the Gulthmere and could take them to the Lightless Lake within—then get the Nine Hells out of that place.

To that end, he and Riven had made discreet inquiries after Magadon. No success. It seemed Riven's former comrade was out of town on other work.

Running short of time, they had put out through a handful of bawds notice of their desire to hire another guide—any guide—who knew the northern reaches of the Gulthmere. A full day had passed without a response, but finally they had at last gotten a name through one of Riven's inquiries—Gaskin Dreeve. Riven had arranged a meet and was away at it. Cale and Jak expected his return shortly.

They sat in a corner table of the Stone Hearth Inn with untouched ales on the table before them. Only a few other patrons shared the common room and all of them were human, a rarity for most establishments in Starmantle.

"I don't like Riven doing this alone," Jak said in a low voice.

He took a pull on his pipe and rubbed his whiskers thoughtfully. Cale swirled his ale but didn't drink.

"We're past that, little man," Cale replied. "He's in this now, as deep as us."

Jak didn't look convinced.

"One of us could have went with him," the halfling pressed.

"True," Cale acknowledged, "but that would risk tipping our presence to Vraggen or his agents."

Cale had deliberately chosen to keep the three of them, or even two of them, from appearing together in public other than in the inn. Until they retained a guide and were ready to leave town, he wanted them holed up. They ventured forth from the Stone Hearth only individually and in disguise. Riven was the best among them at disguise so it fell to him to handle the initial negotiations with Dreeve.

Time was short, Cale knew. They had a day and a half, and all he and Jak could do was wait on Riven's return and hope for the best. Tackling the Gulthmere without a guide didn't appeal to Cale. He was no woodsman, and neither was Riven or Jak.

After a time, the assassin entered the Hearth, clad in a nondescript gray peasant's cloak with the hood pulled up and drawn. When he saw Cale and Jak, he made his way over to the table. Disguised as an elderly man, he stood stooped and walked only with the aid of an oaken stave. Wordlessly, he pulled back a chair and slid in. When he threw back his hood, Cale saw that he had colored his goatee gray as well.

A spell or a dye? Cale wondered. The assassin was almost a shapeshifter himself.

"Well?" Jak asked.

Riven frowned, shrugged, and said, "Hard to say. We've got nothing else, and this Dreeve says he knows the Gulthmere. He also seemed to know of the lake when I mentioned it..."

He trailed off when the plump, dark-haired bar wench started to head over to their table. Riven waved her away. Cale took the opportunity to ensure that none of the other patrons appeared interested in their conversation. None did.

He turned back to Riven and asked, "But?"

"But he's a gnoll," the assassin replied. "And a mist-head. Our bawd failed to inform us of that little bit of information. I trust him about as much as I can tolerate his stink."

"A gnoll?" Jak hissed. "Are you mad? Tricksters hairy toes!"

Riven glared at the halfling and said, "You have a better idea, Fleet? He said he knows the forest."