Jaxanaedegor snarled, “I claim my right to parley under the Twenty-Eighth Precept!”

Or at least Jhesrhi thought that was what he’d said. Like many wizards, she spoke some Draconic. But she wasn’t entirely fluent, and unless she was mistaken, the green had used an obscure or archaic dialect.

With the possible exception of Aoth, none of the other humans gathered there comprehended any of it at all. They continued readying their weapons, Shala gripping her stub of sword for want of anything better. The warriors at neighboring campfires cried out. Their footsteps thumped as they scrambled for their gear.

“Halt!” Tchazzar roared, tongues of flame flaring from his jaws. The sound was prodigiously loud, and everyone faltered.

“Lord Jaxanaedegor and I will confer,” Tchazzar continued in a somewhat softer voice. “Alone.” And then, to Jhesrhi’s astonishment, he and the green stalked into the dark together.

TEN

16 KYTHORN, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

Medrash and his companions climbed out of the Catacombs as fast as they could. But as they scrambled up the steps that connected one of the uppermost tunnels to the Market Floor, he saw that it hadn’t been fast enough.

Some-the most agitated or tainted ones, no doubt-slithering vertically in place, wyrm-worshipers surrounded the top of the stairs. They glared down at those whose path they obstructed.

Balasar gave them a charming grin. “Brothers! Sisters! Wonderful news! My clan brother and the dwarf have decided to join our faith!”

“Spy!” someone spat.

“Liar!” cried somebody else.

Others called for Nala. Her name echoed off the thick stone columns and away across the market.

“Let us pass,” Medrash said. “You have no right to hinder us.”

In response, some cultists inhaled deeply, readying their breath weapons. Others hefted blades and maces. Probably thanks to the dancing, they had a goodly supply.

Medrash cloaked himself in the majesty of Torm. The cultists’ eyes widened. “Let us pass,” he repeated.

The dragon-worshipers flinched. Started to clear a path. Then, in a puff of displaced air, Patrin and Nala appeared out of nowhere, the latter with a small gray drake perched on her shoulder. It had a scabby gash in its flank where Balasar’s knife had pierced it.

And what a shame the blade hadn’t killed the portal drake. For it was no doubt the creature’s power that had enabled Nala to exit the Catacombs far enough in advance of her foes to arrange the reception.

“My friends,” Patrin said, looking down the stairs, “what are you doing?”

For an instant, Medrash considered lying. But Balasar’s lie hadn’t accomplished anything. Besides, lying had never been Medrash’s way, and it certainly wasn’t the path of Torm.

“You know,” he said. “Or rather, you know what Nala told you-a distorted version of the truth. Down in the Catacombs, we found evidence of her crimes. Proof that she doesn’t worship your Bahamut but a different Power altogether, and has tricked the Platinum Cadre into serving that goddess as well. Proof that she herself creates the summoning orbs for the giants.”

A sort of collective snarl sounded from the mob.

“Growl as much as you like,” Balasar said. He reached into his jerkin and brought out one of the green globes. “Here’s a talisman she hadn’t yet gotten around to smuggling out. We have papers she wrote as well.”

Patrin scowled. “We just won a victory against the giants. I don’t suppose it was difficult to loot the bodies of a few adepts. If a clan has the resources of Daardendrien, I don’t imagine it’s difficult to get documents forged either.”

“You know us,” Medrash said. “Would any of us be a party to such a thing?”

“I don’t like believing it,” Patrin said. “But time after time I’ve seen how my faith repulses you, even when you tried to hide it. And plainly you’re not above deceit, or Balasar would never have joined the Cadre.”

“You have us there,” Balasar said. “I did trick you. But a little trickery is one thing. A false accusation of treason is another. I ask you to believe we wouldn’t stoop to that.”

Nala laughed an ugly laugh. “He has the gall to say that, when we intercepted them on the way to do that very thing!”

Khouryn looked up at Patrin. “If you won’t trust us, then trust the vanquisher’s justice. If our accusations are false, then Nala has nothing to fear.”

The wyrmkeeper touched her lover and champion on the forearm. “We’ve come so far,” she said. “But there are still many-including counselors close to Tarhun-who despise us. Don’t give anyone a chance to undo what we’ve accomplished.”

“Iron and stone,” Khouryn said, still speaking to Patrin, “just think, will you? I’m no priest or mystic, but even I now understand why your gifts are nothing like those of the rest of the Cadre. You were pledged to Bahamut before you ever met Nala. Your bond with your god shields you from Tiamat’s taint. But the rank and file aren’t as lucky.”

Patrin hesitated, and Medrash hoped the dwarf was getting through to him. Then the other paladin said, “I do have a tie to the Lord of the North Wind. So I’d know it if anyone were subverting his worship.”

“No,” Medrash said. “Ever since Torm drew me to the scene of one of the murders in Luthcheq, I’ve prayed for him to tell me everything I need to know and what I’m supposed to do about it. But I’ve learned that except in the rarest instances, the gods don’t operate that way. Which means that even paladins can miss the truth and make mistakes.”

“My dear one,” said Nala to Patrin, “remember how it was for you-for all of Bahamut’s worshipers-before I heard his call and came to guide you. You were a tiny circle of outcasts scorned by all. Look at us now. Can you possibly doubt that you and I have been doing his work?”

“No,” Patrin. “Of course I don’t.”

“So what happens now?” Balasar asked. “Are you going to set this whole mob on us? You’ll make murderers of them if you do.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Nala said. “No one will ever know what became of you.” But perhaps that had been the wrong tack to take, for it drew a frown from Patrin.

“If you send dozens against three,” Medrash asked, “is that in accordance with Bahamut’s creed?”

Patrin scowled. “It would be better if you surrendered. I’m not sure what we’ll do thereafter, but I guarantee your lives.”

“I have a better idea,” Medrash said. “You and I will fight a fair fight, one against one. A duel of honor that won’t get anyone in trouble with the law.

“If I win,” he continued, “then we all go to Tarhun together. Balasar, Khouryn, and I will present our charges, and Nala will rebut them as best she can.

“If you win, then Balasar and Khouryn-and I, if I’m still breathing-will give ourselves into your hands. You can destroy our evidence, extort promises, or anything else you like.”

Nala’s fingers tightened on Patrin’s forearm. “There’s no need for this. We have them.”

Patrin smiled at her. “You’re not a warrior, so you don’t understand. There is a need, because it’s the honorable thing. Besides, there’s nothing to worry about. Truth and right are on our side.” He gently removed her grip from his arm and looked at the cultists clustered around them. “Clear a space.”

Medrash took a deep breath. He’d achieved his purpose. The mob wasn’t going to tear them apart. But he hated the thought of dueling a warrior whom, despite everything, he regarded as a comrade and a friend.

Especially when he was by no means certain he was going to win.

Aoth felt as dumbfounded as everyone else looked. Jaxanaedegor was Alasklerbanbastos’s chief lieutenant and the commander who’d nearly slaughtered Tchazzar’s army. And the two of them were strolling off together like old friends? What in the name of the Black Flame was the Twenty-Eighth Precept anyway?