Armenides stepped to the side. Behind him more crossbowmen aimed and loosed. Shield swung round, holding the feebly struggling bard before him. Half a dozen bolts struck the traitor. Some drove onward through metal to pierce the great orc's flesh.

"This way!" Zaranda shouted, pointing her bloodied sword at the entrance opposite the one occupied by Armenides and his troops. Chen had drawn her dagger rand crouched beside her mentor, menacing air. Zaranda grabbed her arm. "Let's go!"

Though Chen complied, the ranger was reluctant. Won't leave Shield, he signed.

"No one's leaving anybody. Shield, bring a live one!" The orog reached out a black-nailed hand, grabbed a nearby guard by the scruff as if grabbing a rabbit. Then he backed across the octagonal chamber, clutching his captive and the now-limp bard, looking like a child with two rag dolls. Shoulder to shoulder, Stillhawk backed with him, facing the enemy as the civic guards wrestled back their crossbow strings

Zaranda practically flung Chen down the corridor. Shield and Stillhawk backed in as guardsmen finished cocking weapons and reached for fresh quarrels. Zaranda flung a handful of skunk cabbage leaves from her magic pouch, which Chen had brought her, past her comrades and onto the floor. Dense green smoke billowed.

Zaranda patted the air frantically with her hands, signing, Down! Down! Stillhawk understood at once and threw himself flat, drawing the orog and his captive down with him. Zaranda tackled Chenowyn and pinned her to the floor.

Steel bolts buzzed overhead to clatter off walls and ceiling. Zaranda lay a moment with blood drumming in her ears. None of the blue-and-bronzes had had the wit to reserve a shot in case their quarry was up to tricks.

"Run for the cross-passage," Zaranda hissed as she jumped up. Her voice was raw from breathing the fringes of the stinking cloud she'd raised. "Head left. Go!"

They did. For a moment Zaranda crouched, gazing at the body of Farlorn, sprawled on the floor. Then she followed her friends.

She dodged around the corner. Shield stood in the cross-passage calmly pulling a crossbow quarrel through his left biceps. At least four projectiles jutted from his body.

"Can you still walk?" she asked him.

"Don't fear for me," he rumbled. Beside him Still-hawk pinned the prisoner to the wall, his sword tip pressed to the hollow of his throat. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine," Zaranda said. "You're badly hurt."

Shield took her sword hand in one bloody claw, raised it to his tusked mouth, kissed it. "Waste no tears on me, Mistress," he said. "I'll lose nothing today that hasn't been forfeit for a long time."

Coughing and choked curses echoed down the corridor. Zaranda stuck her head around the corner. Blue-and-bronzes were braving the noxious smoke. Several had torn the voluminous sleeves from their doublets and tied them over their faces. Two collapsed, retching, on the floor the instant they came through.

Zaranda plucked another pellet from her pouch, spoke words, hurled it, and ducked back as the corridor filled with fire and screams.

"Hardisty," she said to the terrified captive. "The false king. Lead us to him. And no wrong turns, or the orc will twist your head off."

Zaranda had misjudged the former Baron Hardisty. She was sure he would await the unfolding of events in his room on the uppermost floor, with his model city to keep him company.

But he was king now, even if he'd had to crown himself, and would play the role to the lasts and stays. He had prepared himself a throne room on the palace's ground floor and a throne to go with it, and he occupied both when Shield of Innocence put his shoulder to the fancy double doors and crashed them open.

A score of blue-and-bronzes stood between entrance and king, shifting weight from boot to boot and looking nervous. Behind them Tatrina sat slumped beside the huge gilt-washed throne. When the adventurers burst into the throne room, wild-eyed and bristling with weapons, she gasped, leapt to her feet, and tried to run to them.

The king caught her wrist. "Where are you going, my love?" he asked, baritone voice as beautifully modulated as if he asked if she wished to go for a ride in the country. "It's treason to desert your king. Or lese-majeste at least; I've never been clear on the distinction."

Zaranda pointed her sword at him. "Hardisty! You are deposed. Let the girl go and surrender, and we'll leave you with your life. Your freedom, even-if you'll help us stop the evil you set loose."

King Faneuil put back his head and laughed. His crown was a surprisingly modest circlet of gold. "Always fanciful, Zaranda. Might I point out that you're outnumbered?"

"Let's alter the balance, then," Zaranda said She spoke mystic words and cast a pinch of sand at the guardsmen. Five slumped down, sound asleep, their halberds clattering to the marble floor beside them. The rest leveled weapons and charged.

Stillhawk drew back his bow and loosed. Not for nothing had the king spent years as a fighter. Already in motion as Stillhawk pulled his bowstring, he rolled over the arm of the throne as the arrow sang past to strike the back and vibrate at the precise point his crowned head had occupied a heartbeat before.

He came up with an arm around Tatrina's neck. "No, no," he said, wagging a finger at Stillhawk. "Don't try that again. Kill them."

The last was to his guardsmen, who were already trying their best. Stillhawk had reslung his bow and was standing off three halberdiers with his long sword. Shield drew his two scimitars and began to lay about him. Zaranda ran straight at the guards. One pulled up short, clutching his halberd across his chest as if unsure how to deal with this menace. In passing, Zaranda gave him a jab to the face with the studded knuckleduster hilt of her left-hand dagger, then parried an overhand cut from a second foe.

Towing his reluctant consort behind, Faneuil dodged behind his throne and ducked under the corner of a huge tapestry depicting him, crowned in a laurel wreath, standing guard over a tiny stylized Zazesspur with sword in one upraised hand and a white radiance, representing Ao, in the palm of the other.

Zaranda slashed a guardsman across the fingers, causing him to shriek and drop his weapon. Another stabbed at her with his halberd. Zaranda beat the haft aside and lunged into a riposte that sent the tip of her sword through his throat. She was aware of Stillhawk on her left and Shield on her right working similar execution as they sought to win through and follow the king down his secret passage.

Chen had played little role in the proceedings. When she grabbed at Zaranda's sleeve from behind, the older woman's reflex reaction was a flash of irritation.

"Randi, look!" the girl cried.

Zaranda turned her head to see more blue-and-bronzes flooding the throne room through the double doors of the main entrance behind them, flowing to either side of Armenides, who stood with arms upraised, voicing an incantation.

By dint of long practice and hard-won experience, Zaranda had increased the suppleness and cogency of her mind enough that it could contain two fireball spells at a time. The effort in the thieves' foyer, aborted by the magic-deadening stones of Tantras, didn't count. She had one left in her, and she loosed it now.

The blast scattered guardsmen like skittles. A sphere of red flame engulfed the false priest. His flesh blackened, flowed, burned away- Revealing his true form: a fiend with the body of a giant scorpion and the head of a bull, rearing eight feet above the rose-marble flagstones. His laughter filled the throne room.

"This isn't good," Zaranda said.

"Go!" Shield roared. His blades were in constant motion, flowing about his body in intertwining loops that struck down any guardsman heedless enough to wan- der near. It seemed impossible that any foe could strike at him through such tapestries of steel, but his breast- plate was gashed, and his face and body bled from a dozen fresh wounds.