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aware
that the noise in the tavern had died down. He was also aware that two
well-built men had moved from their position at the bar to the top stair
leading down to the fire-well. The only movement was from a sicklooking cat
padding through the ale toward the fire.
    "I wouldn't
be so sure that Melliandra was a virgin if I were you, Maybor," Baralis
said slowly. "She certainly showed me a few new tricks when I had
her."
    Baralis saw the knife
flash. By the time it raked against his cheek, a drawing was on his lips. He
let it build on his tongue while he pulled away from the table. The two men
behind had moved to the second stair. Maybor remained seated; he seemed content
to have drawn blood.
    "Your lies
will not win in the end, Baralis," he said. "Melliandra's son will
have Bren to himself."
    Baralis didn't
even acknowledge the words. He stepped upon the first stair of the fire-well,
and then let the sorcery out. Beneath his palms the air shimmered. It crackled
with a blue light: a charged streak of lightning aimed straight at the
beer-covered floor. With his back to the room only Maybor, the two old men, and
the cat saw it flash. Baralis spun round as the ale began to sizzle.
    One of the old men
screamed first. Then everyone began to scream--one voice indistinguishable from
another. The smell of hops was carried on the warm ripple of air that hit
Baralis' back. The two men who had moved from the bar made no attempt to stop
him. Baralis felt the familiar wave of weakness. People rushed past him toward
the fire-well, shock on their faces, eyes cast downward to avoid his gaze. He
had to get away from here, to get back to the palace. There was one thing he
must do, however. Weary though he was, he formed a second drawing as he walked
across the room.
    A compulsion
weaved its way through the air, fine as sea spray yet wide enough to cover
thirty people. It settled like dust and was drawn into the lungs like a
fragrance. The very air itself became a message, and it was quickly translated
by the blood. After Baralis left, no one would remember his passing. He would
be a mysterious man in black, nothing more. Every person in the tavern would
give a different description of him and no two tellings would be the same. He
could not risk his identity becoming known.
    By the time he
reached the door, he could barely walk. Outside he stumbled, legs buckling
under him, heart racing ahead. A man with a mule loaded with cabbages stood in
the street watching him.
    "Take me to
the palace," he murmured. "And I will make you a rich man." Even
then, when nothing seemed left, he squeezed forth enough to put a compulsion
behind the words. It nearly killed him.
    The last thing
Baralis saw before he fell into darkness were two baskets full of cabbages
being thrown onto the road.
    Maybor wasn't
entirely sure what had just happened. In the small area of the fire-well all
hell had been let loose, yet he had remained untouched by it. The two old men
lay slumped against their table, hair on end, feet and ankles blackened as if
burned. The cat lay dead on the ale-washed floor. Its paws were still smoking.
All around him people were fussing and panicking and muttering about a man in
black. It was time to get out of here. Swinging his feet from the footstool to
the floor, Maybor stood up and pushed his way toward the door.
     

Two
    Jack was beginning
to hate herbs-particularly the smelly ones.
    He was waiting in
the darkened storeroom, barely moving, barely breathing, while Stillfox dealt
with his unexpected visitor on the other side of the door. Bunches of mint and
rosemary hung above Jack's head, tangling in his hair and tempting him to
sneeze. He'd been here for quite a while now, and his left leg was beginning to
cramp. He couldn't risk stretching it out, though, so with teeth firmly
gritted, his mind searched out diversions.
    Frallit used to
say that the best way to stop cramp was to strike the offending limb with a
good-sized plank of wood. Jack had