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knocking, someone brushed past the heavy wooden door and stepped into the room. Cyric stood and brandished his short sword. Dalzhel grabbed his own weapon. Both men turned to face the intruder.
    “I beg your pardon, my commanders!” It was Fane again, still dripping wet. His eyes were locked on the naked blades in the hands of Dalzhel and Cyric, and his eyebrows were arched in fright. “I’ve merely come to report,” he gasped.
    “Then do it!” Dalzhel ordered.
    “Edan’s post is also empty.” Fane winced as he said the words, half-expecting Dalzhel to strike him.
    The Zhentish lieutenant merely frowned. “He could be hiding with Alrik.”
    “Edan is unreliable,” the sergeant admitted.
    “If two men have abandoned their posts,” Cyric interrupted, addressing Dalzhel, “your discipline is not half as strict as you claim.”
    “I’ll fix that come morning,” Dalzhel growled. “Still… have you doubled the guard?”
    “No,” Fane replied, blanching. “I didn’t think you meant that as an order.”
    “Do it now,” Dalzhel snapped. “Then find Alrik and Edan. Your punishment for disobeying my order will depend on how quickly you find them.”
    Fane gulped, but did not reply.
    “Dismissed,” Dalzhel said.
    The sergeant turned and scrambled out the door.
    Dalzhel turned to Cyric. “This is bad. The men are unruly, and unruly men fight poorly. Perhaps their spirits would be lifted if they saw a reward in sight - that halfling village we raided provided little enough loot.”
    “I can’t help how the men feel. We have our orders,” Cyric lied. If he could keep the men in line a week or two longer, the tablets would be his.
    Dalzhel didn’t put his sword back in its scabbard. “Sir, the men know better. We followed you from Tantras because you had brains enough not to get us killed there. But we’ve never believed your orders come from Zhentil Keep. You’re no more a Zhentilar officer than you are the High Lady of Silverymoon, and we’ve known it for a long time. Our loyalty is to you and you alone.”
    Dalzhel paused, looking squarely into Cyric’s eyes. “A few answers would go a long way toward holding that loyalty.”
    Cyric glared at Dalzhel, angered by his lieutenant’s half-spoken threat. Still, he recognized the truth in the words. The men had grown resentful and rebellious. Without the promise of reward, they would soon desert or mutiny.
    “I suppose I should be flattered that the men chose me over their homeland,” Cyric said, then paused and pondered what he should reveal to Dalzhel.
    He might tell him about the Tablets of Fate or the fall of the gods. Cyric could even tell his bodyguard that he suspected that one of the trio they were chasing held the power of the dead goddess Mystra. The hawk-nosed thief shook his head. If he was hearing that story for the first time, he might not believe it.
    “What are you after?” Dalzhel asked, his curiosity aroused by Cyric’s long pause.
    “I’ll tell you this much,” the thief said, looking at Dalzhel. “The stone I want is half of a key to great power. The other half lies in Waterdeep, where the woman and her friends are going. The woman, Midnight, has the power needed to turn that key. We’ll capture her and the stone, then go to Waterdeep and find the stone’s twin. When that’s done, Midnight will put the key in the lock - and I’ll turn it! I’ll be more powerful than any man in the Realms, and I’ll reward you and the men with gold or whatever you desire.”
    Cyric turned back to the fire. “That’s all I’ll say. I don’t want anyone to make the mistake of believing he can take my place.” Dalzhel stared at Cyric for a full minute, considering the story. The promises were grand, but they were also vague. Cyric sounded as though he expected to make himself an emperor without a battle. Dalzhel had once fought for a petty Sembian noble, Duke Luthvar Garig, whose delusions of grandeur had resulted in the destruction of