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business venture. This has become personal.”
    The archer blanched. He’d heard those words before, many times, and each time as a prelude to serious trouble. The first incident had been several years back, when he and Bunlap were soldiers stationed in the fortress of Darkhold. They’d been assigned to escort an envoy from Zhentil Keep through Yellow Snake Pass. One evening he, Bunlap, and one of their charges had entered into a discussion of the dark gods, one that quickly degenerated into a quarrel. Bunlap “took matters personally” and beat his opponent nearly to death. When they learned that the injured man was a high-ranking priest of Cyric, the new god of strife, they did not stay around to see how the situation played out. They’d headed south until Bunlap thought them beyond the reach of the Dark Network, settled down in Tethyr, and built a mercenary band of considerable strength. But though Bunlap might have left the Zhentilar behind, his goals and methods had not changed for the better. In truth, there were times when Vhenlar dearly wished he could be rid of the man. His own love of profit,
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The Harpers
    however, kept him at the side of the one person he feared and despised above all others.
    And profit there was! Vhenlar figured that in a few years, he would have enough coin stashed away to allow him to retire in splendor. If the cost of this was a few elven lives, he, for one, would have no regrets.
    Vhenlar fell into step beside his employer. As they walked, he dreamed of the wondrous things his share of the profit would buy him, and he stroked the smooth wood of his stolen elven bow with a lover’s touch.
    Leaving Zazesspur behind, Arilyn followed the trade route north into the sun-baked fiatlands that lay between the city and the Starspire Mountains. The mountains themselves were deeply forested, watered by numerous lakes and streams as well as an abundance of rain and even snow. And this was well, Arilyn thought with a touch of dark humor, considering the number of magical conflagrations that had broken out in the area in recent months!
    The Harper veered off the path to follow the base of the southernmost mountain. She reigned her mare in at a thick stand of conifers and swung down from the saddle. After securing her horse, Arilyn pressed through the trees to the steep, sheer rock wall they concealed. A vertical crevice slashed through the moss-dappled rock.
    Arilyn slipped into the cave’s mouth and made her way down the labyrinth of passages that led to a deep and soaring cavern. Here, hidden from the eyes of the skeptical—and the vengeful—labored the alchemist known as Tinkersdam of Gond.
    It was an odd-looking lair, vast and open, yet cluttered enough to give the impression of bustling activity despite the fact that it had but one occupant. Several book-laden shelves were propped against the cave walls, and half-finished mechanical wonders littered a

Silver Shadows
    dozen or so long tables. Small cooking fires dotted the cave, and a muted symphony of hissing, crackling sounds rose from pots of bubbling, often luminous, substances.
    Arilyn lifted her eyes to the ceiling vent, taking note of the new layers of viscous black substances staining the rocks around the overhead opening. Explosions were to be expected when dealing with Tinkersdam. Even the residents of Zazesspur no longer commented on the brief but spectacular displays of fireworks which lit the eastern skies from time to time, except to take the occasional snide jab at newly rich merchants who apparently possessed more money than taste. Arilyn had counted three such explosions since her last visit, and in truth was relieved to see that the alchemist was still hale and whole.
    No one could mistake Tinkersdam for anything other than what he was. A native of Lantan, where Gond the Wondermaker, the god of inventors and artificers, was worshiped almost exclusively, Tinkersdam had the odd coloring typical for the Lantanna—only taken to