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to both Garth and the Forgotten King.
    And finally, there was the King himself. He was an old man wrapped tightly in his tattered yellow cloak and cowl, sitting at a small table in the back corner beneath the stairs. He might once have been tall, by human standards, but was now ancient, bent, and withered. The cowl hid much of his face, so that all that could be seen was the tip of his bony nose and the wispy white beard that trailed from his chin.
    Garth pointed him out to Frima; she stared in open astonishment. “ That’s the king you want to deliver me to?”
    â€œYes,” Garth replied. He fought down annoyance at the girl’s surprise; he was very much aware of the sword he held in his right hand and the faintly glowing red gem set in its pommel.
    The innkeeper and the other four patrons watched silently as the pair made their way to the corner table. The innkeeper stood still, not daring to move, lest he block their path accidentally, until they had passed him; then he hurried to deliver the ale he carried, before his customers had a chance to react to the overman’s presence by leaving without paying.
    The pair of civilians muttered quietly to one another. The guardsman, with no pretense of stealth, told Saram, “I think I had better go and tell the captain.”
    â€œYou do that,” Saram answered. “I’ll stay here and watch.” His eyes followed Frima across the room.
    The soldier nodded, rose, and departed, as Garth seated himself across from the yellow-garbed figure. Frima nervously sat at the nearest unoccupied table; there was something about the old man she found disturbing. She realized that even when she looked directly at him—or as nearly as she could—she could not see his eyes, but only darkness. His face was dry and wrinkled, drawn tight across the bone, and no matter how much she adjusted her position or her gaze, she could not make out his forehead or his eyes through the shadows of the overhanging cowl. They must, she decided, be sunken back into his head; he did not seem to be blind. There must be more there than empty sockets.
    Garth paid no attention to the shadows; he had seen the old man before and knew that he always appeared thus. He was not certain why the King’s eyes could not be seen or how the trick was managed, but it had become familiar. He knew that the old man could see, and that sometimes a glint of light could be seen, as if reflected from an eye, so he was sure it was just a trick of some kind.
    â€œI have brought you what I found upon six of the altars in Dûsarra,” he said without preamble.
    The old man shifted slightly and placed his thin mummylike hand atop the table. “Show me,” he said.
    His voice was a dry, croaking whisper. Frima shuddered. The voice sounded of age and imminent death. It reminded her of the stories she had heard of P’hul, the goddess of decay. It was said that where the goddess walked, the ground turned to dust, plants fell to powder, pools dried up, and trees withered and died; the Forgotten King’s voice would have fitted such a deity to perfection.
    Garth dropped the sack he still held to the floor beside him and gripped the sword with both hands. “First,” he said, “there are matters to be settled.”
    â€œWhat matters?”
    The voice was the same; somehow Frima had thought that it would change, that the old man’s throat would moisten.
    â€œI want to know why you want these things. I want to know why you have refused to tell me what you plan to do. I want you to explain who and what you are and what you are doing in this run-down tavern in a stinking, half-deserted border town.”
    â€œWhy?”
    Garth made an inarticulate noise of surprise and frustration. “Why?” he said, “You ask why? I have reasons, old man. If you want these things you sent me after, you will have to answer me.”
    The yellow-draped shoulders lifted