Xaphira sighed in relief. "His name on the streets is Junce Roundface." The woman noticed the man across from her start slightly. He knew of whom she spoke. "No one knows him, or where he spends his time. Or, at least, no one's talking."

Quill nodded again. "I've heard of him. Dangerous character. Not someone you want angry with you."

"Well, I'm pretty angry with him, and I want to find him. Can you help?"

"Maybe," Quill replied doubtfully.

Xaphira could sense his reluctance. "It's important," she said earnestly, leaning forward. "He's crossed my family, and I've got a score to settle with him."

Quill took in a deep breath and nodded a third time. "All right. I think I might know someone who can get you where you need to go. I'll try to arrange a meeting. Come back tomorrow night."

Xaphira smiled, feeling a surge of hope that she might finally track down the man who was tormenting her family. So long as Junce Roundface roamed the streets of Arrabar, the Matrells were in danger. It was time to put an end to that.

"Thank you," Xaphira said, giving Quill an appreciative smile. "I owe you."

"Yes, you do," the man opposite her replied, getting a devilish grin on his face. "And I intend to make you pay," he added.

Xaphira smirked and shook her head in wry amusement. Then, as she rose to leave, she leaned across the table and gave Quill a kiss. It was just a quick peck, all she would allow herself for the moment, but it rekindled a fire that she had not felt burning in many years. The warmth felt good. "I've got to go," she said breathlessly and slipped out through the heavy curtains.

Behind her, the man she knew as Quill stared after her departing form, a worried frown on his face.

Pilos Darowdryn's slippered feet made a soft swish-swish sound on the thick carpet that ran the length of the hallway leading to Grand Syndar Mikolo Midelli's personal quarters. While he didn't exactly hurry-moving too fast with a full pitcher balanced on one's tray was a certain recipe for mishap-the Abreeant priest also did not dawdle. Mikolo would be ready for bed soon, and he did not like to wait for his nightly dose of warmed milk. Pilos was not about to disappoint the highest-ranking priest in the entire Temple of Waukeen if he could help it.

As he walked, Pilos casually eyed the rows of ornate artwork flanking him. Magnificent paintings, fine needlework wall hangings stitched with thread-of-gold and other precious materials, bas-relief wood carvings highlighted with gold and silver leaf, statuary decorated with precious stones, all representing aspects of the Merchant's Friend and her faithful, either hung from the wall or glowed within magically illuminated alcoves. The young priest had seen them all many times, but each trip down the lengthy hallway brought with it an awareness of some new nuance, some previously unnoticed facet of the displays that caught his eye and made him catch his breath in delight. The opulence was truly a fitting tribute to Waukeen in all her splendor.

At the far end of the passageway, two ceremonial guards stood smartly at attention on either side of the wide, deeply stained wooden doors leading into the Grand Syndar's private quarters. The duo was dressed in highly polished adamantine chain shirts, over which they had donned white-and-blue striped tabards. Each guard held a halfspear perfectly vertically, the butt of which rested next to his respective right foot. Though largely ceremonial, the guards were veteran soldiers, seasoned in the temple's mercenary forces for quite a few years before being given the honor of warding the Grand Syndar's well-being.

The Abreeant knew the two guardsmen well, and as he passed between them and pushed open the twin doors into the high priest's chambers with his rear end, he gave them a respectful nod and murmured, "The Lady's blessings on each of you." Then he was through the portal and pushing the doors shut again with one foot.

Mikolo Midelli's rooms took up almost an entire wing of the temple, with numerous windows and shaded balconies opening to the outside, suitably trellis-covered to let in the breezes but not the heat of the sun. They had been further screened to keep in the multitude of tropical birds that were permitted to roam freely inside the chambers. The hallway Pilos had navigated was the only means of ingress to the chambers, and it opened into a large sitting room dominated in the middle by a large pool with a rather ornate marble fountain. A number of overstuffed divans and throw pillows were scattered around the perimeter of the pool.

Pilos crossed the room diagonally, heading toward the Grand Syndar's study. "I brought your milk, Reverent One," the younger priest called out as he approached the doorway. He intentionally spoke loudly and clearly, knowing all too well that Mikolo had grown somewhat hard of hearing in more recent years. As he passed through the inner doorway into the study, he added, "I'll just set it over here on the table, and I'll-"

Pilos started in mid-stride, nearly dropping the tray as he pulled up, staring at the desk situated in the far corner of the room. The Grand Syndar was there, as Pilos had expected, but the aged priest was slumped awkwardly over the top of the desk, his head lolling on one arm.

"Grand Syndar!" Pilos yelled, practically tossing the tray on the table as he dashed across the space toward the desk, heedless of the milk that sloshed out of the pitcher. He reached the elder priest and gently took hold of the man's shoulders, pulling him upright. The younger man was astonished at how thin and frail Mikolo felt, how little he weighed.

The Grand Syndar slouched back as Pilos righted him. A string of drool ran from the corner of the high priest's mouth to the table, and his eyes, usually so clear and amber, seemed glazed, staring at nothing. Desperately, Pilos felt for signs of life. The Grand Syndar's heart still beat, but it was slow and weak.

Without thinking, Pilos extracted a stylized coin from within his robes and placed his other hand upon his leader's brow. Closing his eyes, the younger priest began to mutter a prayer, the words familiar and delivered by rote. He felt the tingling presence of his goddess flow through him and down his arm, passing into the still form of the most influential man in the entire temple.

There was no visible effect.

"Guards!" Pilos screamed as loudly as he could while he tried to lift the man from his chair. The younger priest had both arms around Mikolo's chest and was just beginning to drag him out from behind the desk when the two soldiers who had been flanking the entrance burst into the study. When they spied Pilos struggling with the Grand Syndar, they both approached hesitantly, spears held before them, unsure of what they were seeing.

Realizing it appeared that he was assaulting Mikolo, Pilos said, "He's very ill! One of you, help me, the other go fetch a high priest. Quickly!"

Though unused to accepting orders from a mere Abreeant, both guards recognized the urgency of the situation, and neither one of them delayed a moment. As one spun on his heel and dashed back out of the chamber, the other set his halfspear aside and came on.

"Take his feet!" Pilos instructed. "Help me get him to his bed."

Together, Pilos and the guard, Atabi by name, carried the ill priest out of his study and into his sumptuous bedchamber. They crossed the floor, strewn with finely stitched carpets and throw rugs, to the large bed that sat near one screened-off window. Very carefully, the two men laid the Grand Syndar down atop his light covers. Pilos grabbed up several pillows and propped the aged priest's head up and tried to position him so he appeared comfortable.