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he should have known the wizard who had conjured them would not be far behind. He put a boot on the dead wizard’s chest and pulled the dagger free. Blood flowed forth, spreading its dark stain across the ground.
    “So who sent you, sorcerer?” Caledan spat, but the dead man could not reply. Caledan was about to search the body for some clues as to the wizard’s identity, but immediately the corpse began to steam and bubble. The wizard’s body burst into flame, and in moments there was nothing left but ashes. Caledan muttered an oath, turning his attention to the Harper.
    She was alive, but just barely. Her skin had a deathly pallor to it; her breathing was rapid and shallow. He could barely detect her pulse. He heard the clatter of hooves behind him and turned to see Mista trotting down the alley.
    “I don’t suppose I could just leave her,” he said hopefully.
    The mare snorted in agitation, laying her ears back. He sighed. “I didn’t think so.”
    He lifted the Harper as gently as he could onto the gray’s back and climbed into the saddle. She needed a healer, and there was only one place in the city he knew where he could take her. He spurred the mare into a brisk walk. “If I never have dealings with Harpers again, Mista,” he growled as he rode, “it’ll be much, much too soon.”
    Caledan took a deep breath of relief when he saw the old three-story inn at the end of the small lane. He had half expected to find it gone, what with the rest of the changes that had transformed the city. However, the half-timbered, gable-roofed inn still stood at the very western edge of the Tor. Half of the building actually jutted precariously out over the precipice, hanging in thin air where it was supported by a mazework of stout oaken beams anchored deep in the sheer rock of the cliff-face. A brightly painted sign hung above the intricately carved door, depicting an emerald green dragon dozing peacefully on a mountain of golden treasure. Caledan smiled despite himself. It was good to lay eyes on the Sign of the Dreaming Dragon again.
    He dismounted and carefully lifted the Harper from Mista’s back. The gray mare flared her nostrils and shifted nervously from hoof to hoof. Caledan bent his ear to the Harper’s chest, then grinned at the horse.
    “Fear not, friend. She still lives.” Caledan carried the Harper to the stout, iron-banded door. He pushed through the doorway and into the inn.
    His heart sank.
    Everything was different inside. In his memories, the common room of the Dreaming Dragon was a warm place filled with firelight and the clinking of mugs, reverberating with garrulous voices, laughter, and song. This dim, sullen room was just the opposite.
    The great fireplace was cold and dark, and only a few smoking oil lamps offered their wan illumination. The polished wooden bar that had once stood against one wall was now covered with dirty cloths. Lord Cutter’s Rules were posted in plain view.
    A handful of sour-faced cityfolk looked up from the bare tables, staring at Caledan with suspicious eyes. Grimly, he laid the limp form of the Harper down on a long bench and surveyed the scene. The longer he looked, the worse it seemed. This place had been his home once. Now it was almost as inviting as a dungeon, but not quite. “Listen, stranger, we don’t want any trouble here.” Caledan turned around and found himself looking down at a stout, curly-haired halfling. The halfling’s nut-brown eyes glittered warily, and his broad face was drawn down in a scowl. He stood firm, raised to his full four feet, gripping a cudgel in one hand. “This is a respectable establishment. At least as respectable as you can find these days. We post the city lord’s rules for all to see. You’d best be off, ruffian. Work your mischief elsewhere.”
    Caledan winced. Ruffian? He rubbed the dark stubble on his chin. He was going to have to do something about his appearance.
    “Friend,” he said wearily, “I have a lady here