“Yes,” said Mardiz-sul. “That’s exactly why.”

“But it isn’t the point,” Yemere said. “The point is whether this outlander is the right man to lead our expedition. People say he won some notable victories in his day. But not lately. Not in Thay and Impiltur.”

Aoth took a long breath that, to Cera’s eye, conveyed as eloquently as any words just how sick he was of having his supposed failures in those two campaigns thrown in his face.

“I learned to fight in the legions of old Thay,” he said, “one of the finest armies Faerun has ever seen. I’ve spent the past hundred years sharpening my skills in wars throughout the East. What are your qualifications to lead, Sir Yemere?”

“I don’t want to lead,” the windsoul noble said. “But in light of what just happened, I do wonder why we aren’t following Mardiz-sul.”

Some of the assembly muttered in agreement.

Mardiz-sul held up his hand. “Please. I’m honored that my comrades trust me. But if you really do, then trust my judgment. I agreed that Captain Fezim should command because I’m convinced it’s the best way to accomplish our purpose.”

Son-liin stood up. “If there’s anybody here who’s lost any claim on your trust, it’s me.”

“How true,” Gaedynn said.

“So hate me if you want to,” she continued, “for the sake of those who died. But don’t let it turn you against our leaders or our mission. I came upon one of the slaughtered villages not long after the raiders struck. I saw all the bodies, even children and babies, hacked to pieces. If this Vairshekellabex is responsible, then the firestormers need to kill him.”

“Like I said before,” said Aoth, “if there’s any blame to assign, it belongs to me, who made the decision to ride through this gorge. But the rest of what Son-liin said is on the mark. We came out here to do a job, and it’s just as important now as it was before.”

Cera rose. “It’s more than important,” she said. “It’s a holy quest, and Amaunator will support us as we fight to accomplish it. Surely you realize that it was his power that kept the blue mist from transforming every drake. Or us, for that matter.”

“We believe you,” said an earthsoul. “It’s just… those things. I mean, if dragons are anything like that…”

“They are,” said Aoth, “but I swear by the Black Flame that Gaedynn and I have killed them before. And when we kill Vairshekellabex, you fellows will be heroes. The girls in Airspur will fight over you like magpies.”

That made some of the firestormers grin, and Yemere, apparently recognizing that he’d failed to convince them, withdrew into sullen silence. By the time the assembly broke up, Cera judged that morale was about as high as anyone could reasonably expect. Yet the fact remained that most of the genasi weren’t hard men like Aoth, accustomed to sudden mayhem and horror, and she wondered if their spirits would hold in the face of more ill fortune. She prayed they wouldn’t have to find out.

Then the misery manifest in Son-liin’s expression recalled her to more immediate concerns. Wishing she could infuse her hand with some of the Keeper’s comforting warmth, she put it on the genasi’s shoulder. “Aoth was right,” she said. “There was no way for you to know, and so you have no reason to feel guilty.”

“Maybe I do,” Son-liin said. “I… I think my father told me to beware of traveling the canyon in high summer. But I didn’t remember! Not until after the blue fog rose!”

Oraxes raised the leather dice cup to his mouth and blew magic into it. But his intention was not to cheat, not anymore, profitable though it might have been. He considered himself an officer of sorts, especially with Aoth currently in the west and Jhesrhi in the south, and petty swindles were beneath his newly acquired dignity.

As he threw the eight carved ivory cubes, he spoke a monosyllabic word of power and reached after them with his mind. For a moment he fumbled the contact-a little too much beer dulling his edge-but then his power locked on to them.

First, he made them jump like maddened crickets, clattering and bouncing. Then he forbade them to fall back onto the dice table. Instead, his will floated them higher and higher, whirling them around one another all the while.

He raised them almost to the smoke-blackened oak beams supporting the ceiling before letting them drop, and even then, he kept control of them. They bounced around a little more then stacked themselves into a tower where they finally came to rest.

His audience, a mixture of hunters, sailors, soldiers, and whores, whooped and applauded. Someone slapped him on the back. He glanced around and gave Meralaine a wink, and she smiled back. He’d learned early on that she wasn’t as fond of raucous taverns as he was, but she seemed to be enjoying herself. And why not? They’d come a long way from the bad old days in Luthcheq, when just the green tattoos on their hands, let alone an actual demonstration of arcane power, could have earned them a beating or worse.

Another hand fell on his shoulder. He turned and looked into the beak-nosed, bushy-browed face of Ramed, a sellsword he’d first met during the siege of Soolabax. In fact, it was Ramed who’d saved him from falling off the top of the wall.

“My friend!” Oraxes said. “Have a drink on me!”

“You have to come with me,” Ramed answered. “Meralaine too. Right away.”

Oraxes started to ask why, then realized that might be indiscreet with so many folk loitering close enough to overhear the answer. He smiled and gave a wave to his audience, then beckoned to Meralaine. She picked up her slim bone wand where it lay within easy reach of her dainty-looking hand, and rose. They followed Ramed out into the night.

Alasklerbanbastos’s war had brought an influx of coin to Mourktar as the mercenaries the dracolich had hired passed through the port. Most of those warriors were gone, in many cases added to Tchazzar’s army in the south, but the town still clung to a fading air of celebration. The windows of taverns and festhalls burned bright, and music lilted through. It was as if the proprietors couldn’t bring themselves to admit the boom was over.

But it mostly was, and once Oraxes and his companions had progressed a few paces down the rutted, muddy street, Oraxes judged that they had enough privacy to converse. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“A wyrmkeeper showed up,” Ramed said. “He’s got a paper with Tchazzar’s seal on it. Apparently it authorizes him to get a report from Captain Fezim about how the hunt for the rebels is going.” Oraxes inferred that Ramed was as illiterate as most men who followed his trade and hadn’t been able to read the document for himself.

“Did you tell him the captain is away on patrol?”

“Yes,” said Ramed. “He said he’ll wait.”

“Well,” said Oraxes, “let him wait, then. Maybe Lady Luck will smile, and Captain Fezim and the others will get back soon.”

The soldier shook his head. “That’s a lot to hope for. It’s a ways to Akanul, even on griffons, and it wasn’t an easy chore they had to tackle once they got there.”

“And what if the wyrmkeeper starts asking questions,” said Meralaine, “and some of the other sellswords say they haven’t seen Aoth or Gaedynn in days? What if they say their officers have marched them this way and that, but they haven’t seen a trace of renegade necromancers or any other leftover enemies?”

“Right,” Oraxes said. The tipsiness that had seemed so exhilarating in the tavern was like a blanket smothering his ability to think. He took a deep breath in an effort to clear it away. “We can’t just let him hang around. We need to send him on his way, and that means we need either Captain Fezim or someone who can pass for him. Ramed, I’m going to shroud you in his appearance.”

The sellsword goggled at him. “Me?”