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From: [e-mail] (Jeff A. Simon)
Newsgroups: rec.games.frp.archives
Subject: Story:  The Outlander     Chapter 9:  Fool's Gambit
Followup-To: rec.games.frp.misc
Date: 3 Oct 1995 15:55:56 -0400
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*****************************************************************************
What has gone before:  A mysterious Outlander by the name of
Jake Shade has come to Generica from the war-torn world of
Aurauna bearing a curse and a sinister weapon he has thus
far seemed reluctant to use.  Shade's motives remain unclear,
but he has involved himself in the struggle which revolves
around the recovery of an enigmatic item known as the Aroch
Talisman.  After a brutal streetfight, he now lies wounded and
near death, under the protection of the Talisman's current
owner, a pretty young woman named Yvette Anastel.  She
has hidden him within the Fastness, an urban fortress that is
the home to a gang known as the Threadpenney Barons.
While all this takes place, Yvette's brother Winder - a member
of the Barons - is beginning to assemble an engine of personal
vengeance directed towards the man who has twice before
assaulted his sister, a corrupt officer in the City Watch known
only as Grace.
*****************************************************************************







                Chapter 9:   Fool's Gambit








     Curled on his cot, Winder watched as Jake Shade shook
violently, locked in the throes of fever and delirium.  His
sister had covered the outlander's sweating form with every
blanket they owned, but the man could not seem to shake the
chills which wracked his body.  In near desperation, Yvette
had climbed under the blankets herself; pressing herself
against the outlander in the hope that the heat from her own
body would be enough to turn the tide and break the fever.
At the moment she lay quietly across his chest, her eyes
closed.  A secretive smile seemed to curve her lips.

     Yvette's attentions to the outlander baffled and worried
Winder.  He had grown use to it being just the two of them,
clinging together for survival.  Their relationship had been
one of mutual dependance, uncomplicated and easy for him
to understand.  Now there was a third part to their equation,
and things were no longer quite so straightforward.

    The suddenness with which the outsider had entered their
lives had shaken Winder to the core.  He knew nothing about
the outlander, but already Yvette had risked her life to save him.
She seemed to trust him implicitly, but as far as Winder could
tell, she had never laid eyes on him before last week.  It was if
she had adopted him into their family.  Or worse . . . .  Winder
crushed the thought which sprang unbidden to his mind.

     Eventually the youth drifted into sleep, but even there he
found no peace.  In his dreams, their room in the Fastness was
haunted by a sinister black beast that burned with an insatiable
appetite.  It paced the tiny room restlessly; for some reason it
was unable to leave and slake its terrible hungers.

     In his dream, the beast shimmered, transforming itself into a
beautiful woman with hair of darkest black.  For a moment Winder
thought he was seeing some phantasm of his sister, but then the
woman turned to look at him.  Her eyes were like voids into the
abyss.  No whites, no irises, just a never-ending blackness that
threatened to swallow him whole.  The woman smiled, and Winder
opened his mouth in a desperate, silent scream.

     Shuddering, he bolted awake, his lungs still gasping for the
air to power that scream of terror.  Relief flooded him when he
realized he had been dreaming, but he could not shake the hold
of the night-terrors.  He looked around the room fearfully, lest
that dark lady still be standing in the shadows, watching him.

       Inevitably, his eyes drifted over to the cot which rested
near the other wall.  Beneath where his sister and the outlander
lay - sleeping at long last - the shadows under the cot were
moving.  Winder's breath caught in his throat as the blackness
seemed to swirl and deepen into a total, inky darkness from
which something - he was sure - watched him with ravenous
eyes.

     Winder did not realize that he was moving until the coldness
of the floor pressed against the soles of his feet.  As if in a
trance, he moved over to their cot, and kneeled down beside it.
Careful not to disturb them, he reached underneath the bed, where
an ancient evil waited patiently for him to release it once more
into the world.

       A sudden band of pain engulfed his arm and Winder gasped
in agony.  His gaze jerked down to where the outlander's scarred
hand had clamped around his forearm.  The youth's breath whistled
from between his teeth as that grip fairly ground the bones of his arm
together.  He looked up into the outlander's implacable features.
Panicked blue eyes met ancient green ones, and for an instant,
time stood still.  Then the warrior's eyes fell closed once more,
and that iron grip loosened.  Winder leapt to his feet and bolted
from the room.





        ******************************







     Kilborn swung slowly in his net hammock, happy to have
escaped the noise and stuffiness of the Fastness.  More and
more of the Barons had begun to move into the urban fortress.
While the sprawling complex was still far from crowded, he was
having trouble adjusting to the new level of habitation.  On
nights like tonight - when it became too much for him to stand -
Kilborn would climb up to the roof of the Fastness and string
up his hammock, sleeping under the open sky.

     Above him, the stars glittered cold and bright, like a
thousand diamonds set within black ice.  He had always
loved the stars.  Years ago, his mother had once remarked
that his vanished father had been a sailor.  Ever since then,
Kilborn would look up and study them, thinking of half
remembered stories he had heard, telling of how mariners
could use them to find their way across huge oceans and
then home again.

    One day, when he grew tired of his life with the Barons,
Kilborn planned to pack up his belongings in an old sea-bag
which he kept hidden beneath his bed.  Then he would walk
down to the harbor and sign on with whatever merchant ship
happened to be in port. He would sail away, leaving the Low
City behind forever.

     The stillness of his night was disturbed by the clang
of someone throwing open the roof hatch.  Kilborn watched in
silence as a lean figure climbed through the hatch and began
pacing the roof. He knew almost immediately that it was Winder.
His friend had a high-strung, jittery gait that was peculiar to
him and him alone.

     "So, what's happening tonight, padja?"  Kilborn asked
finally.

     Winder spun around, surprised to find that he was not
alone.  His relief at seeing that it was Kilborn on the roof
with him was obvious.  After a moment, Winder walked over
and sat down next to the hammock, saying nothing.

     "Family problems?" Kilborn pressed.  He knew that if you
didn't get the needle out of Winder's mind swiftly, it would
fester and become poisonous with a rapidity that was scary.

     "It's that fucking outlander," Winder griped miserably.
"Yvette is acting like he's some kind of hero, back from the
wars or something.  Everytime I walk into our room, she's in
there playing nursey-nurse with him.  She's always feeding
him, or bathing him. She even reads to him, if you can believe
that shit!  She acts like . . . ."  Winders litany of complaint
died out as his mind wrestled with an idea that was too complex
for him to completely grasp.

     Kilborn, somewhat wiser than his friend in the ways of
women, kept his own peace.  He suspected the nature of the
problem, but he knew that his friend wasn't up to any shocking
revelations.

    "Well, it's probably a good thing that she can stand to be
around any man at all, after what -"   Kilborn bit his tongue
and gave himself a mental smack upside his head.

     Fortunately, Winder was being more introspective and less
volatile than usual.  He did not explode into one of his sudden
rages.  Instead he slid over to the edge of the roof, dangling
his legs over the street below while he pondered the situation.

     "You mean after what Grace did to her?" Winder asked.

     Kilborn ventured a cautious nod.

     "That outlander distracted Grace long enough for Yvette
to get away, and now she thinks he's some kind of big hero."
Winder spit over the side of the roof, unimpressed.  "If he's
such a big hardcase, why's he lying in my room cut up like
yesterday's pot roast?"

     Kilborn let the question go by unanswered.  Although he
did not share Winder's irrational hostility towards the injured
swordsman, something about the outlander gave him the creeps.
The way the man never made a sound, despite the terrible nature
of his wounds.  The way his strange green eyes looked at you.
Looked INTO you.  And what about those scars on his hands?
Weird.

     "If only I'd been the one there," Winder raged quietly.

     Kilborn just watched his younger friend, knowing what was
going to come next.  'The Plan'.  Winder's wild and convoluted
scheme for vengeance against the Watch Lieutenant.  Kilborn
let out a sigh, his thoughts melancholy.

     "Who's the toughest guy you ever tried to kill?" Winder
wanted to know suddenly, turning his head to look at Kilborn.

     "Let's talk about something else tonight," Kilborn
suggested, his voice slightly weary.

    Strangely enough, Winder relented. Or at least, he stopped
talking.  He remained silent for so long that Kilborn thought
he had fallen asleep.  Then he heard his friend say something
in a low voice.

     "Fucking outlanders," Winder muttered bleakly.






        ******************************








     The straw-haired man's look of annoyance vanished as soon
as he recognized the dark man coming through his office door.

     "Kaell, it's great to see you!" Falchion exclaimed as he
stood up and walked around from behind his desk.  "It's been
a long time.  Are you looking for some work, or is this a social
call?"

     Kaell was a leanly muscular man, much like Falchion, but
with black hair that was thick on the sides and receding in the
front around one stubborn forelock.  His eyes were dark also,
under a thick brow that ran almost together.  He embraced his
former comrade affectionately, but there was a touch of reserve
there as well.

     "I wish I could say that it was social, Falchion," he said,
"but I can't."

     Kaell had refused Falchion's offer of employment on several
prior occasions.  If he was not here on a social visit, the Crime
Lord knew that he had probably come as a messenger.

     "You have news, then?" Falchion asked, somewhat warily.

     "Yeah, and it isn't the good kind either." Kaell walked over
to the wall, pressing on the cleverly designed panel behind which
lay Falchion's collection of liquors.  He scanned the assortment
with an appreciative eye, then lifted out a squarish bottle that
contained a light blue liquid.

     "Bombay Sapphire," he whistled appreciatively. "I'm not
even going to ask how you got your hands on some of this."

     Falchion kept no secrets from his friends.  Well, very few of
them anyway.  "There's a group of outlanders that travel back
and forth between the mundane planes and Generica on a regular
basis," he volunteered.  "They will bring back whatever I ask if
I'm willing to meet their price.  I may have use for them someday,
so I try and throw them as much business as possible."

    Kaell splashed the liquor into two rock crystal glasses, neat.
He brought them over to the large wooden structure that his straw-
haired friend used as a desk, setting one down and retaining his
grip on the other.  He took a seat in the comfortable chair that
was placed before that desk.

     "It's funny that you should mention outlanders," he began.
"I came here to talk to you about one of them."

     Falchion winced slightly as a throbbing pain slowly began to
materialize in his head. "Am I going to want this drink before you
tell me, or after?" he asked softly.

      Kaell did not smile.  "Better enjoy it now, while you still
have a taste for it."

      Falchion sighed and polished off half the contents of his
glass.  He set the short, wide glass down on a coaster carved
from the lower jawbone of one of his past enemies, and steepled
his hands before his face.  "Tell me."

     "Garman's woman told me that you had hired him to do a job
for you.  He went out one day, rounded up some old buddies from
the war, and then just disappeared.  She didn't start to worry
immediately. She thought maybe he was blowing some of his
money on a victory celebration.  You know, the way he always
does.  But when he didn't return after the second night, she
started to worry."

     Kaell took a deep drink from his glass.  His gaze drifted
away from that of his friend, his eyes becoming unfocused.
"You remember how it was, waiting for our comrades to come
back from patrol, Falchion?" he asked, almost dreamily.  "The
'Long Walk', we used to call it.  Remember listening to that wind
howl across the Marches?  It used to sound like a human voice,
almost like someone calling your name . . . ."

     "Finish your story, Kaell."  Falchion's voice was gentle, but
there was tension in it.

     "She came to my place because Garman never returned home.
She was hoping I might know where he was.  But she knew.  I could
see it in her eyes.  Garman must have mentioned something to her
about it being a more dangerous job than usual. Maybe it was just
woman's intuition, I don't know.  I gave her the song and dance
routine: 'Don't fret, he's probably just out laying low, just go home
and wait for him.  You'll probably be yelling at him for coming home
drunk tomorrow night,' I told her."

       Kaell took another swig from his glass, his eyes once more
far away.  "That dude in the Watch, Miracek.  He owes me a few
favors.  They took seven bodies down to the Watchtower the day
after you sent Garman to chop that outlander down for you.  Now
they're buried in pauper's graves out at Potter's Field, but one of
the guys who works in the Tower said one of the bodies matches
my description of Garman."

     "Damn!" Falchion screamed, exploding into sudden violence.
He threw his glass against one wall, where it shattered into a
million grains of shining crystal powder.  Falchion had known
in his heart that his friends were dead for some time now, but
he had been hoping against hope.  "Damn, Damn it all!" he said
again, his voice helpless and agonized.

     Hondrae popped his head in the door to check out the noise.
He took one look at his boss's expression and ducked out again.
The door closed almost inaudibly.

     "Ironbar's missing too, Falch," Kaell told him. "Do you
know if Garman brought him in on the job?"

     Falchion sank back into his chair, miserably. "He told me
he was going to.  Didn't the Tower ghoul identify his body?"

     "No body that size was there.  Garman was the only one there
with the mark."  Kaell indicated the tattoo that he and Falchion
shared, along with the rest of the survivors of the Third Platoon.

     "Maybe there's some hope, then," Falchion said quietly.

     "Maybe," Kaell conceded.  His eyes did not meet Falchion's.

     The two men sat in silence for a long time.  Both of them
were remembering another time, in a faraway place.  Thinking of
the friends that they had made there.  Remembering the comrades
that they had left behind.  So many of them.

     "Ironbar said he was going to get out of the business . . . ."
Kaell mentioned after a while.

     Falchion let the remark hang there.  He had no answers for his
friend. "Thanks for letting me know, Kaell," Falchion said finally.

     Kaell nodded as he stood up.  "I figured you'd want to hear
it from one of us," he said.  The dark man swirled the liquor left
in his glass for a moment, then set it down on Falchion's desk. "I
think you should stop using the guys from the Third for these Wet
jobs, Falchion.  There's not a whole lot of us left."

     The man's voice was filled with sadness, but it did not hold
rancor.  Falchion watched him as he moved to the door and
opened it.

     "Wait a minute, Kaell," he said suddenly.  The dark-haired man
turned and looked at him.  His eyes were still haunted by the old
memories they had resurrected.

    "I just . . . wanted to know how you've been," Falchion blurted
out awkwardly.

     Kaell cocked his head and stared at the ceiling thoughtfully,
just as if Falchion had asked him a profound question.

     "I haven't slept a full night in six years," he said finally.
He looked at Falchion as if he found that fact somewhat surprising.
"Not since the siege at Ragnarock."

     The door shut softly behind him.  Falchion shuddered and sank
deeper into his chair.  He pressed his hands against his eyes, as
if trying to hold in some terrible light that might spring forth from
his sockets and burn the world to ashes. He remained that way for a
long time.





        ******************************









     "It must be payday," Grace observed as he entered the room.

     Malfaedor glared at the Watch Lieutenant blackly, but said
nothing.  The bearded man stood with his hands on his hips, staring
at the crate sitting on the floor before him.  The lid had been
pried off, revealing a stack of gold bars inside.

     "I take it Falchion wants out?"  Grace asked.

     The Necromancer turned and stared at his accomplice with a
calculating gaze.  "Grace, just when I have written you off as a
vain, bloodthirsty, backstabbing, illiterate barbarian, you manage
to impress me.  What led you to this leap of deductive reasoning?"

     There was a light that shone at the back of the Lieutenant's
eyes, burning like a ball of swamp fire.  At times it was dim and
almost invisible.  At other times - especially when he killed -
it flared up, causing his eyes to glow with a light that was
almost insane. That light was full in them now as he digested
the words of the Necromancer.

     Malfaedor looked fully into that unholy light, and smiled.
Grace was his wardog; his iron fist in an iron glove.  He used
the tall Lieutenant like he would an invisible third arm; he
stretched out with it and snuffed out the lives of his enemies.
But the ponytailed swordsman worked best when his temper was
aroused.  Malfaedor was careful to keep the Lieutenant's fires
fully stoked.

     The Necromancer turned and walked over to a huge, throne-
like chair.  Seating himself upon it, he regarded Grace once
more.

     "You are, of course, correct.  Falchion has returned the
money I gave him as the fee for delivering the Aroch Talisman
to me.  He claims that he is unable to fulfill his end of the
bargain, and that the refund of my money and the services he
has already rendered me should be enough to mitigate any ire
I might feel at his failure."

     "I told you he was not to be trusted," Grace pointed out
with some satisfaction. "Captain Miracek had seven of Falchion's
buddies stretched out in the Watch Tower several days ago.  Not
that anybody's talking, but the word is that Falchion hired them
to whack that outlander for him.  Guess you and I weren't the
only people getting tired of him."

     "That outlander killed the Astral Hunter I sent after him,
and cut down a band of Middle Marches veterans," Malfaedor mused.
"I am not pleased that someone of such a formidable nature ended
up working at cross-purposes to us."

     "Who gives a shit?" Grace demanded impatiently.  "He is
currently acting the part of a two-hundred pound block of fish
bait.  Falchion is out of the play, his forces weakened.  Now
we won't have to worry about him trying a double-cross later.
Things are looking good for a change.  All we have to do is
locate the Talisman once more, and then we take it.  No one
will stop us."

     Malfaedor would not be cheered from his black mood. "You
have never been short on confidence, my friend.  But enemies are
always lurking were you never expect to find them.  You would do
well to learn this."

    Grace made an elaborate show of covering his mouth as he
yawned.  "You would do well to learn that brave men defeat their
opponents because they are able to shake the shackles of their
fears, and act."





        *******************************









     "You want a WHAT?" Thunder asked, his voice incredulous.

     "I want a shot at Grace," Winder replied in a level tone.

    Thunder stared at the youth standing before him with dis-
believing eyes.  He turned and looked at the ragged group of
street-punks and toughs that make up his council. They stared
back at him with the same expression of amazement.

     "He wants a shot at Grace," he told them, baffled.

     The muscular, knife-scarred leader of the gang known as
the Threadpenney Barons bit his lip, which had begun to tremble.
Finally he could not control his mirth, and his brawny shoulders
began to shake with silent laughter.  Titters and choking noises
began to drift from the area where his advisors sat, escalating
to full blown laughter once Thunder's control dissolved and he
burst into deafening chuckles.

    "Let me get this straight, kid.  You want me to give you an
O.K. to make a run at a Lieutenant in the Watch.  Not just any
Lieutenant either, but one who has killed thirty swordsmen in
legal duels.  What makes you think a little weebo like yourself
is going to survive something like that?"

     "I'm not planning on calling him out for a duel," Winder
explained in what for him was a respectful voice.  "I'm gonna
take a few friends with me, and then ambush his ass."

     "What, you don't think that's been tried before?  Do you
think that Grauna is going to wave her magic wand and make him
go waltzing into your trap?  ARE YOU STUPID?!?"

     "I've got something he wants, real bad," Winder explained
reluctantly.  "He'll go to anyplace I say for a chance to get
his hands on it."

     Thunder looked at his underling with disdain.  Winder's
gaze did not waver, and after a while the gangleader's look
softened into one of reluctant admiration.  "You may not have
much in the way of smarts, but you got balls as big as my head,"
Thunder conceded.  "But there's no way I'm gonna let some kid
with dewdrops on his lily go out and get himself killed. And
especially not if his plan involves other members of the Barons."

    Winder began to despair. "Look, boss. It's a personal matter
between me and Grace. Everyone who has offered to come along
with me did so voluntarily, for the chance at a little glory."
Winder did not mention the bribes necessary for everybody but
Kilborn.

     Thunder shook his head.  "Look kid, don't think that I'm not
impressed by your . . . bravery. But wait until you're old enough
to shave every day before you tangle with Grace.  He still be
around when you're ready for your shot."

     Winder knew that there was no appeal to the decision.  He
gave Thunder a salute and left the room. The door closed softly
behind him.

     "What could that kid possibly have that Grace wants?" Thunder
asked his advisors.  "And what the hell would make a sixteen year
old kid so reckless as to risk his life on a suicide run like that?"

    Snake, who was a Duke in the Threadpenney Baron hierarchy,
knew the answer.  "I heard on the streets that last year Grace
managed to 'apprehend' the kid's sister.  He's got a hell of a chip
on his shoulder where she's concerned. He stomped the shit out
of Splatter the other day when he got a little too exuberant on gate
duty."

     Thunder chuckled.  "That little shit stomped Splatter?  Maybe
we should give him a little more responsibility.  I like a Baron who
shows a little initiative."

     Another Baron, somewhat older than the others, shook his head.
"I think that kid's on the course for a major fuck-up," he said.  "He
charges full ahead with his eyes closed.  He's bound to run head-on
 into something too big for him."

     Thunder stroked his chin thoughtfully.  "There might be some
truth to what you say, Fastback.  But as long as he is going to
charge full ahead, we might as well make sure he's pointed at
the right targets."






        *****************************







     Winder came striding into the room with his usual manic
energy.  He took two steps and then froze, a strange expression
on his face.  He sniffed the air for a moment, looking around.

     "What's that funny smell?" he asked his sister.  "Like . . .
flowers or something."

    Yvette said nothing, but the tips of her ears reddened.  The
young woman continued bathing the forehead of the injured
swordsman who tossed fitfully on her cot.  Winder sneered,
but he let the matter go.  He threw himself bodily onto his cot
and rolled onto his back, looking up at the ceiling. He began
tossing a small pouch of leather towards it, letting it fall to within
inches of his face before catching it and throwing it upward
again.  It clinked with a metallic sound as he did so.

     "How's the outlander doing?" Winder asked, trying to hide
the bitterness he felt.

     "His temperature is still a little high," Yvette replied in
a worried voice, totally oblivious to her brother's pain.  "He's
been awake more often now that he has shaken those chills
His wounds have finally stopped bleeding.  I still think he might
have an infection of some sort."

     Her brother sighed. "I suppose you want me to dig up that
old Healer fossil and bring him here again," he guessed sadly.

    "No."  Yvette stood up. wringing the cloth she had been using
into a small clay bowl.  Winder noticed that the water within was
tinged pink.

     "The last time he regained consciousness, Jake told me where
to find a friend of his who might be able to help.  Now that you
are finally back and can watch him for me, I can go find this man."

     "Hey, wait a minute," Winder complained.  "Me and Kilborn
were gonna go-" his protests died in his throat as his sister's
gaze began to frost over.  "Ah . . . shit!" he finished.  It was
obvious that his plan was going to have to wait for a while.

     Winder watched curiously as Yvette changed into a blue dress
he had never seen before.  He almost going to ask her where she
had gotten it when he remembered seeing the outlander give her
the contents of his money pouch.  Winder decided that his sister
must be planning to head uptown. The dress was obviously intended
to allow her to blend in somewhat better.  One thing was for sure,
Winder thought happily, if the outlander didn't survive they were
going to be living on easy street for a while.

     The lean street-rat's expression grew even more baffled as his
sister walked over to one wall.  She had fastened a large piece of
mirrored glass to the wall with some sort of paste.  She gazed into
it and began fussing with her hair.  Then she began rubbing at a
small smudge that marred one cheek.

     "You sure have been worrying about your looks lately," Winder
observed darkly.  "And what's with that flowery perfume crap you're
wearing?  A guy can't even breath in here."

     "Maybe you should take a look in the mirror yourself, Winder.
You look like you just crawled out from under the slimiest pile of
junk in the city dump.  Just because we're down on our luck doesn't
mean that we have to live like pigs."

     Winder looked down at himself.  The bloodstains from where the
Nightcrawler had tagged him two weeks ago had faded into a dark
smudge.  The soot stains from when he had squirmed down the
chimney of a Moneychanger's shop had been mostly rinsed away.
Not by being laundered; he had been forced to dive into the cold
Ceruputhon river in order to escape the Watch after one of Kilborn's
schemes failed to pan out.  A few traces of axel grease could still
be seen on his breeches, the result of returning that stolen rubbish
wagon back uptown; but all in all, Winder thought he looked pretty
good.

     Yvette headed for the door, but she paused as she passed near
to him.  She sort of leaned in his direction, and breathed in deeply
through her nose.

     "A bath wouldn't hurt you much, either," she commented, before
walking out and banging the door shut behind her.

     Winder made a face at her back through the closed door.  That
made him feel better, so he added a few obscene gestures as well.
He turned and looked at the injured swordsman sleeping on Yvette's
cot.

    "This is all your fault," he informed the unconscious outlander.





        ********************





     "Any more business?" Falchion asked the men gathered
around the large table.  He scanned each face in turn.  In some,
he saw an unasked question.  The Crime Lord sighed.

     "Okay, here it is.  I contracted with an Archmage to recover
an artifact from the western continent.  He interfered with the
process, and screwed the deal completely.  I gave him a full
refund, and gave him the services already rendered for free.  But
it appears that he might not be willing to let things go at that.
He's got a couple of the Watch officers in his pocket, so expect
increased pressure from law enforcement."

     Several of his men looked at each other.  This was not good.
It would interfere with profits, and profit was the iron-clad law
of their business.

     "That explains some things, then," Porcbarul observed.  "I
have had that tall geek with the sword-fetish sniffing around my
club a lot in the last few days. I thought he was working himself
up to a little graft.  Now I know differently. This is not a good
thing, Falchion."

     Falchion's pale blue eyes locked on the portly underworld
figure, and Porcbarul flinched.  The straw-haired Crime Lord
permitted and even encouraged debate, but insubordination was
not tolerated.  The man who had last held Porcbarul's position
would testify to that, if he were still alive.

     "There is nothing to worry about," Falchion informed them.
"They are just trying to shake me up a little.  If everybody
exercises a little more caution than usual, nothing will happen.
I want all the bag-men to travel in pairs.  All money should be
escorted by a guard of no less than three men.  And if anyone
sees anything suspicious, I want to hear about it the day before
it happens.  Am I clear?"

      The men around the table nodded, but one of them stood
up. It was Mason.

     "Caution is good, Falchion.  But it won't ease the heat off
off us.  What we need to do is throw something in their direction,
brush them back a little bit.  Let them know that this can work
both ways."

     Mason was one of Falchion's friends from the wars, and he
approached crime as just one more form of combat.  Falchion
liked his aggressive mind-set, but his own subconscious mind
urged caution.

     "We don't have the swords enough to scare an Archmage,
Mason.  I don't see any advantage to taking a risk like that."

     "What about Vlad?" Mason pressed.  "He's taken out a Mage
or two in his time. If we laid enough money down, he's just crazy
enough to take the job."

     "Not a good idea," Porcbarul protested from the other side of
the table.  "If he fails, that Archmage might be able to drag the
sponsors of the job out of Vlad.  Then he'll really be looking to
burn our asses."

     "The Archmage is definitely off-limits," Falchion agreed.
"What we need to do is hurt him somewhere else.  Something that
is indirect, yet still gets the message across."

     "How about Grace?" Mason asked, fingering a scar that ran
along the side of his mouth.  "I've never liked that geek.  I
sure wouldn't mind seeing him go down."

     "Me neither," Falchion chuckled.  "But we need a way to take
a shot at him without any obvious connections to us.  They'll
know who it was, but they won't be able to prove anything."

     All eyes in the room turned towards the knife-scarred young
man sitting at the end of the table.  The muscular man sighed, and
rubbed his hands together, as if washing them clean of something.
The dirty jobs always came to the Threadpenney Barons, he mused.

     "It just so happens that I have a volunteer for the job."
Thunder admitted quietly.







        ******************************







     During the thrice a year hellish period referred to in grim
whispers as 'Exam Week', the Happy Mage was one of the quietest
places in the city of Generica.  At that time, footsteps would
echo hollowly in empty rooms that had once been packed with the
boisterous students from the Academy.  Where raucous and often
quite obscene songs once rang from the rafters overhead, there
would now be only silence, no voice raised above a whisper.

     Those students who still frequented the Tavern during this
period were a markedly transformed lot.  Once mischievous and
merry students were suddenly stricken as somber and noiseless
as members of a funeral procession. Their pallid faces would be
pressed between the pages of musty grimoires and volumous tomes
with the fervent intensity of aesthetics, as if salvation could
only be found somewhere between the bindings of these ancient
books.

     At these times, the bartender would roll the kegs of nut-
brown ale back into the cellar, and the excellent house wine
would be served no more.  During these periods, the requirement
was for draughts of a different sort.  Instead, the students
would plead for spirits that had a stimulating effect, drinks
that would allow them to cheat the realm of sleep for just a
few hours more.  These potions reeked with an aroma that was
more medicinal than recreational, but the Happy Mage adapted
to serve the needs of its clientele.

     For those who could afford them, there were beverages with
no names, only rumored to exist.  It was said by some that they
enhanced the intellect and the powers of concentration.  These
potions were only spoken of in dark whispers, far from the ears
of the Faculty members.  They were cryptically referred to as
'Smart Drinks'. The ingredients of these mystical potions were
unknown even to graduate students in the discipline of Alchemy.
It was probably just as well.

     But this was not one of those grim and cheerless times.  It
was just a week after the mark of the mid-term, and exam week
was still comfortably far away.  Thus the Happy Mage was its
usual loud and turbulent self, just the way that Tadmaster liked
it.

     The silver-haired Mage was sitting at his favorite corner
table, a table that was left vacant for him with more and more
frequency.  This was a result of the fact that he visited here
more and more often in the company of a certain outland warrior.
Tad had not yet made that connection.

     Tad watched as, two tables over, a band of undergraduates
attempted to animate a polyglot creature.  For construction
materials they used a pile of mismatched bones left over from
the various repasts of other diners.  Elsewhere, a rainbow
colored bullfrog hopped around from one table to another,
seeking to leap into the drinking vessel of any unwary patron.

     Whichever malicious student had summoned the creature
had also enchanted it so that it would instantly absorb the
entire contents of any tankard it managed to invade. That
unlucky patron would then have to purchase another, or else
go thirsty.  Tad suspected that the summoning spell for the
creature had been passed on by the owner of the tavern as a
way to stimulate drink sales.  He kept a watchful eye on the
sadistic little creature even as he laughed in the company of
his favorite waitress, Lyssa.

     The graduate student of the College of Dreamweavers had
been mystified and at the same time greatly excited when the
auburn-haired tavernwench had quit her job at the Red Lady
and started working at the Happy Mage.  Lyssa claimed that
it was because the dockworkers, fishermen and sailors who
frequented the Red Lady were stingy tippers, but Tad knew
that the often impoverished students of the University were
no more generous.  He suspected that the real motive behind
her defection had more to do with a desire to be close to him.
The events of the past week had more or less borne out that
hypothesis.

     Lyssa was a hard worker, and treated all the patrons well,
but there could be little doubt as to who her favorite customers
were.  This earned Tad a lot of envious glances and good-
natured ribbing back at the Academy.  It had also earned him
the ire of the bartender, who had groused about the unseemly
amount of attention Lyssa bestowed upon Tad and his outland
friend.  Shade had backed the man down with a single glare
from his ancient green eyes, and Lyssa heard nothing more on
the matter.

     Tad's relationship with Lyssa, which had been sparked
during an ill-fated attempt to defend her honor one night in
the Red Lady, was progressing nicely.  The young scholar
had never had much opportunity to enjoy the company of the
fair sex, and he was making up for lost time now.  Foremost
on his mind was losing that particular attribute which was
guarded by the female gender as closely as a Holy artifact,
but weighed like a millstone on the shoulders of young men
like Tad.

     The closer Tad came to attaining his goal, the more his
studies had begun to suffer.  He didn't really mind.  The last
few days his friend Shade had not been around.  In the out-
lander's absence Tad was charging full speed ahead. Things
were going all his way until the moment the woman with raven-
dark hair walked through the door of the Happy Mage.

     All conversation within the tavern ground to a halt.
Although the College of Magic at the University was open
to both sexes and all races, the truth of the matter was that
the study of Magic was dominated by men.  Thus it was that
the clientele of the Happy Mage was for the most part made
up of young men.   Lonely young men.  Other than the four
waitresses, few women ever set foot inside.  So it was not
much of an understatement to say that when a dark beauty
with eyes of crystal blue walked in the door, the patrons of
the Happy Mage went onto full alert.

     Stomachs were sucked in and unruly heads of hair were
frantically combed with fingers.  Students cursed the fact
that they had not bothered to put on matching socks that
morning, or wailed inwardly because they had not bothered to
clean the remains of yesterday's meal from their tunic.  At
one table, a smaller youth was sent flying as his compatriots
made hopeful room for the young woman to join them.

     Something about this gorgeous creature rang familiar in
Tad's mind, so when she made a bee-line for his table, he
was not altogether surprised.  He felt Lyssa's body  - sitting
on his lap -  tense as she noticed the other woman drawing
near.  The other young men grumbled good-naturedly over
his increasing fortunes, and Tad felt a guilty exhilaration at
the knowledge that his reputation had just leapt another
notch upwards.

     The woman looked to be about twenty.  She wore a simple
dress of cerulean cotton that accented the blue of her eyes
and the creaminess of her porcelain complexion.  Rather than
detracting from her beauty, the simple nature of the dress
accented it, drawing all eyes to the supple curves underneath.

     The woman took the seat across from him without asking,
looking at Lyssa with an odd expression before turning to
look at Tad.

     "Are you the Mage known as Tadmaster?" she asked him
in a voice that caressed his ears the way velvet would his skin.

     Tad's mind went into overdrive as he tried to recall where
he had met this vision before.  Part of his mind was wondering
how he could soothe Lyssa's emotions, which were obviously
beginning to boil over.

     "Yes, lady.  That is my name.  Have we met?"

     "We met the other night, Tad.  You and your friend Jake
rescued me from . . ." the woman paused and looked once
more at Lyssa.  "A bad situation." she finished.

    "Ah,"  Tad knew what he would be saying to this lovely
woman if Lyssa were not at this very moment glaring daggers
at him, but she was.  Therefore, his mind was completely
blank.  Lyssa was not so afflicted.

     "Listen honey," she remarked somewhat coldly, "I suspect
that you mistakenly believe you were invited to sit here.  You
are interrupting a private conversation.  How about coming
back at some other time?"

     'Oh boy,' Tad thought unhappily.

     "This doesn't concern you, sweetie," the woman replied with
equal venom.  All traces of velvet in her voice had completely
vanished.  The two women glared at each other across the table.

     "Ahem," Tad put a restraining hand on Lyssa's leg.  "Lady,
this is my . . . friend Lyssa, who works at this establishment. I
am indeed the Mage Tadmaster, as you have suspected.  Is there
something that you need from me. Or are you looking for my friend
Jake?"

     "My name is Yvette Anastel,"  the woman replied.  "I am here
because of Jake Shade."

     Tad nodded.  "I am not sure where he is right now, but I will
tell him that you are looking for him."  'Lucky outlander,' he
thought to himself.

     Yvette shook her head.  "I know where Jake is Tad.  I find
it strange that you do not."

     Baffled, Tad shrugged.  "He hasn't been around for a couple
days.  He'll turn up, he always does."

     Yvette leaned forward.  "He turned up a couple days ago, Tad.
I found him hacked to pieces and near death, lying out on the
streets in the middle of the night.  I have been nursing him back to
health at the place I am staying."  She fixed a cold eye on him. "I
am here because he told me you are his friend, and can help him.
I myself wonder what kind of friend you could be, to abandon him
to a fate like that."

     Tad sat there quietly, in utter shock.  Jake near death?  What
could possibly have . . . and why was she blaming him?  Just
because he had been too busy for the last four or five days to
look his friend up . . . or was it six days?

     The young Mage pushed Lyssa gently off his lap.  "Take me
to Jake," he instructed Yvette.  He smiled at Lyssa.  "I'll be back
as soon as possible," he told her.

     The auburn-haired waitress nodded, while shooting the other
woman a look that was unmistakable in its meaning: 'Keep your
hands off my man.'  Yvette laughed silently to herself.  Tad was
not the one she was interested in.





        *******************************







     Jake was asleep when Tad entered the room.  A wiry teenager
of fifteen or sixteen was sitting next to him, looking bored.  As soon
as they opened the door, the youth stood up and sidled around Tad,
giving him a disdainful once over before stalking out the door. The
young Mage felt an immediate and strong sense of dislike.

     "My brother," Yvette said by way of explanation.

     "I'm sorry to hear that," Tad replied.

     "Why?"  Yvette's clear blue eyes betrayed no understanding.

     Instead of answering her question, Tad moved over to the cot
upon which he friend lay.  The outlander's bandages were mottled
with old, rust-colored bloodstains.  Tad noticed with a flash of
amusement that underneath the sheet, Jake was wearing nothing
but those bandages.  He turned towards Yvette, who was blushing.

     "I brought a Healer up here to see him," she told Tad.  "He
did what he could, but he said that Jake was . . . he said that
his healing spells would not work on Jake because . . . ."

     "Because of his curse," Tad finished for her. Yvette nodded,
happy that she had not had to speak of it.

     "I was hoping that you might know what the cause was, and
how it might be counteracted." she said hopefully.

     Tad sighed and settle into the seat that the girl's brother
had vacated.  He ran a hand through his disheveled silver
mane and stared distractedly at the floor.

     "Well, Jake is a private sort of man," the Mage started off.
"He never felt the need to burden me with the details of what is
in truth, a personal problem."

     "But you are a wizard," Yvette protested.  "Surely you can
do something that . . . ."

     "I am a Mage," Tad corrected her somewhat stiffly.  "And
yes, I could probably determine most of the pertinent facts about
the curse with a detailed scrying, or perhaps an augury spell of
some sort."  The young man's voice trailed off thoughtfully.

     "Then do it."  There was no trace of hesitation or doubt in
the young woman's voice.

     "Just . . . do it," Tad repeated, watching her face.  Yvette
nodded again.

     Tad sighed.  "Yvette, if Jake wanted me to know about his life
before he came to Generica, he would have told me about it him-
self.  One time, I accidentally turned the Prima- uh, a . . . 'spell of
seeing' on him.  He nearly bit my head off.  Not to mention the fact
that he might be a Mage of some sort himself.  He could be
defended from that sort of thing by protective magics.  If we try to
circumvent them, it could result in injury to us, or worse, weaken
him further.

     Yvette shook her head.  "Jake is not a Mage," she told him.

     Tad regarded her with amusement.  "What makes you say
that?"  he asked, slightly confused.

    "Jake is just a normal man, Tad, a regular person like me.
If he were a Mage, he wouldn't have been hurt in that swordfight.
He could have just turned invisible, or put the Evil Eye on them,
or . . . something."

     "The . . . Evil Eye?" Tad queried, hiding a smile.

     Yvette glared at him defensively, and Tad realized that for some
reason it was vitally important to the young woman that Jake NOT
be a Mage.  Unsure of what to do or say to her, Tad began to fully
appreciate the meaning of the phrase 'Damned if you do, damned
if you don't.'

     "Well, maybe he's not a Mage," Tad temporized, to make her
feel better.  "He does carry several items of power, and they may
have a field about them which confuses any sort of scrying magic."

     "You mean like this sword," Yvette said, bending over and
dragging the weapon out from under Jake's cot.

     Tad cringed as his heart began to pound harder.  "Put that
away!" he ordered sternly.

     Yvette gave him an odd look, but complied.  The Mage noticed
that as she did so, she took care to handle the weapon only by its
sheath, never touching the hilt.  Tad's heartbeat began to slow
down somewhat.

     "I don't think that it is a good idea for you to be handling that,"
Tad said, understating his feelings somewhat.

     "I had to handle it when I first brought Jake here," Yvette
replied.  "I've been careful not to touch the sword itself, and
Jake has instructed me how to handle it if I have to."

     "Why would he think you might have to handle it?" Tad mused,
not quite to himself.

     Yvette looked at him, her beautiful eyes clouded and somber.
"Jake told me that if he dies, I have to take the sword to someone
named Luthor Anside in the Elven Quarter. He said that Luthor
would know what to do about the sword."

     "Yeah, probably run for the hills," Tad said to himself, sotto voce.
Probability Mages were not at all happy to run into something that
was more real than themselves.  If Jake's sword was what Tad
thought it was . . . .

     "Yvette, there are some items, artifacts if you will, that are too
dangerous for mortals to interact with safely.  You can't take
chances with such things.  You can't handle them lightly."

     Yvette's eyes narrowed and her lips whitened as she pressed
them together thinly.  She walked over to the window and stood
there, looking out it.  After a moment, she turned and caught his
eyes.

     "I don't like it when people talk to me like I'm stupid, Tad."
she said quietly, her tone dangerous.

     The young Mage sighed.  Women had a logic all their own,
he thought grumpily.

     "What about Jake?" Yvette pressed, frowning. "He carries
it without fear, and nothing happens to him."

     'Yes, what about Jake?' Tad thought to himself.  "I think that
Jake carries that sword in order to keep it out of the hands of
those who might misuse it.  I suspect that it is part of the curse
placed upon him, or maybe the cause of it.  Whichever, I am
almost sure that if he used it, it would destroy him just as it
would you or me."

     A gravelly voice cut through the silence that followed Tad's
last observation.  "You talk too much about subjects you know
too little about, Tad."

     Tad and Yvette whirled to see Jake awake and alert.  He was
looking at the silver-maned Mage with an expression that was not
altogether pleasant.  Tad struggled to swallow the lump that had
suddenly appeared in his throat.

     Jake tried to sit up on the cot, weakly.  He immediately
noticed that something was missing.

     "Hey, where the hell are my clothes?" he asked, snatching
for the sheet.






        ************************






     "Where are you going Winder?" Kilborn inquired,  There was
an odd look on his face, one that Winder could not decipher.

     "I don't know," Winder sighed.  "Looks like nowhere in a
hurry, to tell you the truth."

     "I know where you should go," his friend said mysteriously.

     "You want to lay off with the goofy crap and tell me what's
going on?" Winder snarled, his temper frayed.

     Kilborn chuckled, raising his hands.  "Okay, if you don't
want to hear the good news, I guess I'll just let Splatter tell
you whenever he gets around to forgiving you."

     "Okay, Kilborn," Winder relented.  "I'm sorry for snapping
at you.  Now give!"

     "Looks like you're moving up in the ranks, padja.  Thunder
and the Dukes want to see you in the Lord's Room.  Word is, the
'Man' is going to give his blessing on that little job you were
talking to him about.  I even heard a rumor he's going to assign
a couple of guys to help out.  They're even going to lay out some
equipment for us."

     Winder's knees began to tremble, and he clutched at the wall
to keep from falling.  The hallway seemed to spin for a moment.
The young gang-member straightened up, afraid to believe the news.

     "Kilborn, if you are pulling my leg, I swear that -"

     Kilborn was suddenly serious.  "Listen, Winder.  You know
me better than that.  Don't forget who got you into this gang in
the first place."

     Winder nodded, suddenly ashamed.  "Yeah, you're right.  I
just can't believe this.  Do you have any idea why they changed
their minds?"

     Kilborn shook his head.  "My guess is that the 'powers above'
must have decided Grace has become too large a pain in the ass.
Things are looking up for you, padja.  Who are you going to send
to tell Grace you have the Talisman?"

     "I was thinking about Dust," Winder replied.  "He's too small
for Grace to consider really hurting, and he's too dumb to under-
stand anything that might give our attentions away."

     "I don't know," Kilborn said doubtfully, "He's kinda young. He
might crack if Grace puts any pressure on him."

     "Grace can't do anything in a public place," Winder answered.
"I'll have him take the message to Grace when he's in a tavern or
some place crowded."

      Kilborn nodded.  "Yeah, that'll probably work."

     "What about you, Kilborn?  It's was one thing when this idea
was just a scheme.  Now it's for real.  Do you still want in on it?"

     Kilborn clasped Winder's forearm in one hand.  "Listen.
What we said still applies, until the day we die.  Friends for
life.  I am with you 'til the bitter end."





        *********************







     Grace gave the boy another vicious shake, but no further
information was forthcoming.  He growled a curse and planted
his boot squarely into the seat of the youth's pants.  The youth
went stumbling out the door, barely missing a painful collision
with Panarchus as Grace's shorter partner entered the tavern.

     "What the hell was that about?" Panarchus asked, watching
the ragged street-rat scuttle away.

     "That little maggot brought me a message from a person who
allegedly has possession of the Aroch Talisman," Grace told him.
The tall Lieutenant raised two fingers in the general direction
of the bar. A serving maid hustled over with two foaming tankards
of ale.

     Panarchus took a seat at Grace's table, shifting his sword out
of the way before he sat down.  He took a deep drink from his
tankard, wiping foam from his lip with the back of one forearm.
"That doesn't make sense," he said. "You told me that you saw
it around the neck of that girl you tried to arrest.  The one the
outlander helped escape."  Panarchus snickered as he brought
up that particular sore point.

     Grace's lip curled in disdain.  "A decision I am sure he is
regretting.  If anyone can regret anything from the bottom of the
Ceruputhon."  The pony-tailed swordsman lifted his tankard in a
toast.  "Here's to the Ceruputhon.  Final resting place of many
former problems."

     Panarchus raised his tankard with a chuckle, clinking it
against the rim of his partner's.  "I can drink to that," the
shorter Watch officer allowed.

     Several tankards of ale and several toasts later, Panarchus
returned the topic to their ongoing business.  "So what do you
think," he asked. "Does that street-rat know something about the
Talisman?"

     Grace sighed. "I don't know. He gave me a perfect description
of the thing, so he's either seen it or talked to someone who has.
Maybe the outlander took it from the girl and sold it to someone
else.  I should have asked him about it, but I didn't, and now he's
not around for questioning.  The person who sent that kid says
that he is willing to exchange the Talisman for one hundred gold
pieces."

     "So little?" Panarchus asked incredulously. "That's all he's
asking for it?"

     Grace's voice growled with irritation at what he thought was
a stupid question.  "Just because you and I know what the Talis-
man is doesn't mean anybody else does. Even Falchion doesn't
know, and he's the one who stole it in the first place.  Whoever's
got it probably has no idea what it is worth.  All they know is that
we want it.  They don't know how much we'd pay for it."

     "So you think there IS something to this?" Panarchus inquired.

     "I suppose it won't hurt to look into the matter," Grace said.
"Better safe than sorry.  You want to ride along as backup?"

     "Wouldn't miss it for the world, pal.  Do you have the gold
together yet?"

     "Right here," Grace smiled, passing over a heavy pouch made
of stiffened leather.  It rustled metallically as the other Lieutenant
took it.  Panarchus opened it and peeked inside.

     "These coins are copper," he said in confusion.

     "Right you are chum," Grace's voice held gleeful amusement.
"You didn't think I was going to pay for something I can just take,
did you?"

     Panarchus chuckled, tapping himself on the temple.  "What was
I thinking of?" he asked himself in amazement, shaking his head in
mock sadness.

    The two Lieutenants grinned at each other, exchanging satisfied
looks.  "Where and when?" Panarchus asked, finally.

     "As for when, an hour before sundown, tonight.  As to where,
get this:  They want to meet at Bharageous' old warehouse."

     Panarchus looked at this partner with surprised eyes.  "Things
sure have a way of coming back around, don't they?" he said in
a strange tone of voice.

     Grace leaned back in his chair and admired his reflection in the
silvery side of his pewter tankard.  "Everything has been coming up
roses lately, Pan," he said.  "We are painted with magic, bound for
success.  Don't question it, just enjoy it.  All of our former problems
are about to be laid to rest."

      Despite the confidence of his partner, Panarchus remained
uncertain.  "Listen, Grace.  Things can just as easily go sour on
us.  I hear that Falchion has cut his coven out of the deal. Maybe
he knows something that we don't."

     Grace leaned forward, his expression disdainful.  "The only
thing that Falchion knows is that his boys aren't up to playing in
a game with stakes this high.  That's no secret.  He and his pals
might have been tough once, but the Middle Marches knocked
the fire right out of their asses."

     "He sent Malfaedor's entire payment back to him," Panarchus
told him in wonder.  "Fifty bars of gold bullion.  I've never even
seen that much money in one place before."

     "Falchion thinks he can give Malfaedor an apology and refund
his fee, and all will be forgiven.  I think that boy's in for a big
surprise."

     "What's Malfaedor going to do?" Panarchus asked.

     Grace lifted his tankard and clinked it against his partner's.
"Here's to former problems, chum.  Here's to former problems."





        ***************************








     Falchion was busy comparing the entries from one ledger to
 the data that had been entered upon the pages of a second
book when he noticed the change. His exhaled breath coalesced
into a visible plume before his eyes. It was a sight not that
uncommon during winter, to be sure, but it was now the height
of summer, and temperatures were at near record highs.  He
looked up at the glass of wine he had poured and noticed the
faint sheen of frost that glistened on the crystal goblet.  His
skin informed him that the temperature in the room had taken a
sudden, sharp drop.

     "What is it, Malfaedor?" he asked, dropping his eyes back
to the ledger open before him.

     The Necromancer stepped forward from the shadows, his
form becoming visible only as it entered the light shed by the
lamp on Falchion's desk.  His beard fell in a tangle of matted
gray curls across the front of a coarsely woven robe of earthen
brown.  His left eye, sightless, gleamed milkily in the dim light.
The other glared with black accusation at the straw-haired man
sitting before him.

     "You have failed me, O' Prince of Thieves."

     Falchion sighed and closed his ledger. He twisted slightly
sideways in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose with
the fingers of one hand.  His spread fingers concealed his
eyes from the gaze of the Archmage.

    "State the facts upon which you have based this assessment."

     "Facts?!?" Malfaedor practically spat the word as he stepped
forward angrily.  "The fact is that I hired you to bring me the Aroch
Talisman from the Great Land to the West.  The fact is I paid you
a veritable fortune in good Generican gold to do this thing.  The
fact is that your man botched the transfer and as a consequence,
lost the Talisman.  The fact is that although I have told you exactly
where the Talisman can be found, you have not been able to
recover it.  The fact is, Falchion, that I am getting extremely pissed
about this entire matter!"

    "You were born pissed," Falchion muttered to himself.

    "What did you say?" Malfaedor demanded, stepping nearer.

    "I said, 'Where's my list?'?

     Falchion opened a desk drawer and put his hand inside.
Malfaedor hissed a warning and raised his hands.  Bolts of
magical energy began to flicker through the air between them,
writhing snakes of arcane death.  Falchion looked up with
impatient eyes, removing his hand from the drawer carefully.
In his fist, he held a piece of rolled up parchment.

    "Save the little light display for the kids at the country fair,
Wiz," the Crime Lord said as he spread the parchment out on his
desk.  "Displays like that don't impress me."

     Malfaedor's blind eye shone glassily in the dim light as
his good one blinked in surprise.  The Necromancer was silent
for a moment, then he displayed large, uneven teeth.

     "I had heard that you are a hard man to rattle, Falchion."

     Falchion looked up from the parchment, his blue eyes direct.

     "I'm an even harder man to cheat, Malfaedor."

     Malfaedor's smile vanished.  "You have a most unusual grasp
on the circumstances," he snarled. "You are the one who refused
to do what he was contracted to do.  I am the injured party here."

     "That's where you're wrong, Malfaedor.  The terms of the
contract called for me to have the Talisman removed from the
Ghost Tower, which I did.  The contract also called for me to
arrange for transport of said Talisman to Generica, which I also
did.  The contract then calls for me to deliver the Talisman to
one of your agents-"

     "Which you did NOT do!" Malfaedor shouted triumphantly.

     "Because of you," Falchion replied blandly.

     "What!?!"

     The contract called for one of your representatives to meet
the ship at the harbor and take possession of the Talisman there.
At the last minute, you altered the deal, deciding that you wanted
the Talisman delivered to you at your fortress.  The key words
here are: 'You altered the deal'.  It was YOUR change of plans
without sufficient notice that led to the loss of the Talisman."

     "That is preposterous, you little cut-purse!  It was your
incompetence that caused the talisman to be lost!"

     Falchion's pale blue eyes narrowed momentarily before he
replied.

     "Secondly, you concealed facts from me relevant to this
enterprise, facts which further contributed to this fiasco."

    The Necromancer was standing directly in front of Falchion's
desk now.  The lamp's flame sputtered fitfully and seemed to
somehow dwindle in his presence.  Suddenly, the room seemed
much darker, the shadows much fuller.

     "I would be so grateful if you could explain THAT particular
observation to me." Malfaedor's voice had dropped to a lower
tone, but it was no less dangerous than before.

     Falchion picked up his wine glass and tossed back the liquor
remaining within.  He stretched his legs out and put them on his
desk, crossing them at the ankles while he laced his fingers
behind his head.

     "I don't know what kind of Cha-heads you're used to dealing
with Malfaedor, but I'm no mook that you can bamboozle with a
few flashy tricks and a disappearing shower of gold.  As soon
as things started getting sticky on this little job, I started doing a
little research."

     Now it was Malfaedor who's eyes narrowed.  If Falchion saw
it, he gave no sign.  He continued speaking as if he were giving
a lecture to a group of students at the Academy.

    "You neglected to tell me that the Aroch Talisman is composed
of two parts; the memory crystal and the silver Aegis.  You also
neglected to mention that the Aegis was constructed for the sole
purpose of keeping the crystal from falling into the hands of
someone like yourself.  You neglected to inform me as well that
the Aegis has the power to alter probabilities in order to fulfill
this function.  It is my belief that your concealment of these
facts is at least partially to blame for the subsequent loss of
the Talisman, as well as the deaths of some of my men."

     Falchion suddenly bounced to his feet, shifting from a
position of complete rest to a stance of coiled readiness in
the blink of an eye.  Involuntarily, Malfaedor stepped back and
raised his hands protectively before him.  Falchion grinned,
his face wolf-like.

     "I believe that the Aegis caused itself to be stolen.  I
believe that when the people working for you began to draw
near to the Talisman once again, the Aegis manipulated
events so that a man with enough power to thwart all your
designs took possession of it."

     "The outlander . . . ." Malfaedor muttered under his breath.

     Falchion's eyes narrowed again.

     "Just so Malfaedor, just so."  Falchion brandished the piece
of unrolled parchment.

     "When you add to all of that the fact that you have apparently
forgotten that this contract calls for me to be the SOLE provider
of all services pertaining to the acquisition of the Talisman; I
think that you will agree that I was more than justified in voiding
the contract and refunding your money to you.  I will pretend that
I don't believe you intended to void it yourself if your own men
found the Talisman before mine did."

     Malfaedor took another step backward and looked the Crime Lord
over with new appreciation. When he spoke, his voice resembled the
sound of two rocks being ground together.

     "Some of what you say is true, Footpad.  And regardless of
anything else, the Talisman IS on this side of the ocean now. And
seeing as you have returned my gold to me, I am that much closer
to my goal at no cost to myself."  The Necromancer looked at the
floor as if considering what to do.

     Falchion watched him, his eyes never moving from the Necro-
mancer's face.

     "I'm glad you see things the same way I do," he said.

     Malfaedor looked up, his full attention now once again on
the Crime Lord.  His face broke out into a smile once more.  It
was not a pretty thing to see.

     "Don't mistake my meaning, Attic-Creeper.  You're not off
the hook yet.  It occurs to me that your little bit of investigation
has revealed to you more of my plans than I ever intended
you to learn.  I am not so sure that I am pleased with your
knowledge of such things, especially now that you are no
longer in my employ."

     Falchion leaned back in his chair, taking up the same pose
of indolent relaxation he had adapted previously.

     "Why Malfaedor, you disappoint me.  You're not thinking of
covering a few trails, maybe burying a potential witness?"

     The Necromancer's smile widened.  His hands began to
glow once more with malevolent energy.

     "Don't be upset, Falchion.  You would do the same if you
were in my place."

     "You are absolutely right, Malfaedor.  That's why I took
the liberty of preparing for this moment.  I took a few pre-
cautions."

     Malfaedor froze, his outstretched hands lowering slightly.

     "What precautions?" he asked.

     Falchion smiled at the Necromancer, his blue eyes dancing like
a sprite's.  "One of the things I found out about when I was
researching the Aroch Talisman is what it is on that memory
crystal you are so interested in.  I wonder what Melwis would
think about some Necromancer trying to summon a certain band of
entities into the Nexus?  I wonder what the High Priest of Issek
would think about it?  You see, I have made arrangements for
them to be made aware of your plans in the event of my . . .
untimely death."

     "They are worms!" Malfaedor laughed.  "I will dispose of
them as easily as I dispose of you."  He raised his hands once
more.

     "That's possible, I suppose, but I doubt you can deal with
them AND the Mage's Guild."

     "The . . . Mage's . . . Guild." Malfaedor repeated slowly,
his face darkening with disbelief.

     "Yeah, that'd be the other party on the list.  And don't
bother laying any weebo-shit on me about how you're gonna
blow out their candles, too.  You might be able to off two or three
of them, but their combined might will bring even the mighty
Malfaedor down."

     Malfaedor was silent, staring at the Crime Lord in a state of
amazed shock.  The sinister glow surrounding his hands faded
and died out entirely.

     "You are bluffing," he said finally.

     "I suppose that's possible," Falchion conceded, "But there
is no way for you to be certain, is there?  My mind was shielded
when I was recruited for the Middle Marches, so the only way you
can test your theory is to kill me and wait for the Mage's Guild
to come take you into custody."

     Maybe it had something to do with the death of his friends,
but Falchion felt an almost insane desire to kill the Necromancer.
To make the attempt would probably mean certain death, but the
Crime-Lord suddenly realized that he didn't give a shit. In some
strange way Malfaedor must have sensed that, because he
backed off.

     "You are right, Falchion.  I have many things to occupy my
mind with, and far more important things to deal with than the
sly excuses of a petty Crime-Lord.  You have served me well
in the past; the reward for one failure should not be death."

     "Stop with the hand-job, already," Falchion said angrily.
"The best choice to protect your own interests is the one that
is also mutually beneficial for both of us.  So stop playing the
generous and forgiving patriarch with me, and bugger off."

     Malfaedor had sent men to Hell for far less, but his mind
was already moving through a new series of serpentine plots
and counter-plots.  He stepped back, and prepared to take
his leave.

    "I am surprised you want out of this affair, Falchion," he
growled.  "That outlander dropped the trapdoor out from under
two of your closest friends. I would think you'd be looking for
a bit of payback."

     The straw-haired Crime Lord smiled thinly.  "All things in
good time, Malfaedor.  All things in good time."

     There was another brief period of intense cold, and then
the Necromancer was gone.  Falchion took a deep breath, rubbing
his temples again gently.  He was getting too old to be dealing
with these levels of stress, he thought.

     "Hondrae, get in here!" he shouted.  The large, bald black
man popped into the office with his usual efficiency.  Falchion
took a blank piece of parchment out from his desk and began writing
on it.  As he scrawled, he spoke to his henchman through the side
of his mouth.  "I want you to take this message to Urcohea, the
Mage in charge of internal security at the Mages' Guild.






        ********************






     Yvette did not immediately notice when Jake's eyes began
to close.  As soon as she did, she stopped reading aloud and
closed the cover to her tattered book. The injured man's eyes
immediately reopened and he looked over with a sleepy smile.

     "I wasn't sleeping," he told her.  "I was just resting
my eyes."

     "Don't you lie to me, Jake Shade," she told him primly.
"I heard you starting to snore."

     The injured swordsman chuckled.  He winced a bit as his
knitting ribs gave him a painful twinge.

     "Well, maybe I nodded off a little bit," he admitted.

     "If my reading bores you that completely," she teased
him, "I could always just leave you alone up here with my
brother Winder."

     "Please Lady," Jake implored, "do not abandon me to
such a horrible fate."  He clasped his hands together in
mock earnestness and batted his eyes together in a manner
that would have been fetching . . . if he were a damsel in
distress.  When the muscular swordsman did it, he looked
completely ridiculous.

     Yvette clapped her hands with glee, peals of laughter
rocking her body back and forth. "Oh, Jake," she said, wiping
a tear from her eye, "It's nice to see you in such a good
mood.  You are always so . . . 'serious."  She spoke the last
word in as deep a voice as she could manage, faking a black
scowl as she did so.

     "Well, that's definitely a step up," Jake declared. "I
knew a woman once by the name of Khelijae. She told me that
I was too pompous.  She said I should act my age and show
more patience."

     "People have strange names where you come from, Jake,"
Yvette told the outlander.

     "Well, some of them don't translate very well," Jake
admitted after a moment's thought.

    "Who is Wyneeve?" Yvette asked him suddenly.

   Jake turned pale, and for a fearful moment Yvette thought
he was suffering a relapse.  Then she realized that it was
a reaction to the name she had mentioned. Her hands clenched
together in her lap, knuckles white, wondering if she had
overstepped her bounds.

     "Where did you hear that name?" Jake asked her finally.

     "When I found you lying on the Street of Unforgotten
Heroes, you whispered her name just before you blacked out.
I thought maybe you might have mistaken me for her."

     Jake smiled slightly.  "Well, maybe I did. The two of
you aren't very much alike, though.  Maybe I was thinking
about her before I lost consciousness."

    "Who is she, Jake?" Yvette pressed. "Is she your wife?"

     Jake smile gently at her, but for a moment Yvette saw
the ghost of some remembered pain in his eyes.  "No," Jake
told her.  "She was never that.  She was just someone who
was very important to me back in Aurauna."

    "Would you marry her if you could go back to Aurauna?"
Yvette was careful to keep her voice neutral, as if she
were just making conversation.

     Jake sighed. "She was already married, Yvette.  To
someone else.  A King, if you can believe that."

     "She was a Queen!" Yvette said, eyes shining with a
wondering light.  She was impressed in spite of herself.  She
had known that Jake was no common man, but to know a woman who
had been a Queen!"

     "It doesn't matter anyway," Jake said in a sad voice.
"Everyone I knew is dead now, probably.  And I couldn't
get back, even if I wanted to.  The way is closed."

     Jake Shade's sadness plucked at Yvette's heartstrings.
She took his hand and gave it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
Even though she wanted Jake to remain in Generica more
than anything else, she hoped for his sake that he would
be able to find a way home.  She realized in that moment
just how important his happiness was to her.

    Jake squeezed her hand back.  "Well, that's neither
here nor there," he said.  "Aurauna has been at war for
so long, I doubt that there is anything left to go back
to.  And this world is very beautiful.  I will be happy
here."

     "So you don't wish that you could go back?" she
asked him, her voice doubtful.

     "And be torn away from you, my valorous protector?"
Jake scoffed.  "Where would I find another Lady-Knight
to protect me from the night-terrors?"

     "You HAVE been listening to my stories!" Yvette
laughed.

     "You have a beautiful voice, Yvette.  I like to
listen to it."

     Yvette blushed.  She was suddenly very aware that
Jake was still holding her hand.  He gave no signs of
being about to let go, either.  Still, she had always
been one to press her luck.

    "So, you don't want me to go get Winder?" she asked
in a teasing voice.

     "God, no!" he laughed. "I can't believe him.  He's
like a young stallion, pawing the earth.  He acts as if
everyone is his enemy, and I am his arch-foe."

     "He thinks that you are going to take me away from
him," Yvette said sadly.

     Jake said nothing.  Yvette realized that he had let
go of her hand.  She looked in his eyes, but he avoided
her gaze.  The silence grew uncomfortable.

     "Read me another story, please." Jake said finally.
He laced his fingers behind his head and stared at the
ceiling.  "One with a happy ending."






        ********************









    Fingers raw, nails broken, his hands scrabbled for purchase
against the rough-hewn boards that made up the warehouse floor.
Straining, he dragged himself a few precious inches nearer the
foot of the stairs.  A thought came to him, visible for a brief
instant against the background of pain and fear: 'How did it go
wrong so fast?'

      He could feel Kilborn's blood and brains splattered across
his face and chest, drying in his hair, caked in his eyebrows.  A
strangled sob escaped him as he remembered his best friend's final
screams of agony.  The look in Grace's eyes as the butchery had
commenced . . . and the shorter one was just as bad.  Gods!  How
could two men tear through the entire pack of them in so short of
a time?

     Painfully, Winder slid another few inches forward.  If he
could just make it as far as the stairs.  The crossbolt in his
side made every breath a searing agony, but the worst part of it
was the incessant urge to cough it caused.  If the two men heard
him . . . .

     A pair of boots suddenly materialized before him.

     "Well, well, well.  What we got heh?" Panarchus chuckled,
mimicking the uneducated accents found in the Low City.  Winder
choked back a sob of frustration.

     "And I thought we hadn't left anyone alive to question!"
Panarchus observed, shaking his head with mock sadness. "I am
so relieved to discover otherwise."

     The Lieutenant looked up from the injured gang member.
"Hey Grace!  We've got a live one over here!"

     Winder's fearful gaze suddenly focused.  Barely eighteen
inches away from his eyes, a dagger was sheathed on the inside
of Panarchus' left boot.  Gritting his teeth, he strained
forward, reaching for it.

     The sound of the sword rasping from its sheath registered
in Winder's mind an eyeblink before his arm exploded into a
fiery agony unlike anything he had ever known.  Panarchus had
rammed the three-foot length of razor-sharp steel downward,
impaling Winder's outstretched arm and pinning it to the floor.
Blood spurted from the wound as Winder's disbelieving eyes beheld
the sight with horror.

     Panarchus bent over, bringing his face nearer to Winder's
upturned one.  "Don't tempt me kid.  Your lease on life might
expire before you know it."

    Grace suddenly appeared at his partner's side.  He knelt
next to the prone youth; who was thrashing about in silent
agony.  "If it isn't my old pal Winder," Grace observed in
sarcastic surprise.  "Did your sister put you up to this?"

     Winder sucked in a shuddering breath. "Fuck you, Grace!"

     The tall Lieutenant chuckled.  "That's your sister's job,
kid."  He reached over and grasped the hilt of Panarchus' sword.
"So Winder," he continued in a pleasant tone, "Where is the
Talisman?  Does that wildcat sister of yours still have it?"

     When the bleeding teenager did not reply, Grace began to
rotate the sword's pommel within his grip.  The blade began to
flex, twisting in Winder's flesh. The youth could not restrain
a scream of agony.  He writhed there helplessly, his feet
drumming against the floor, his left hand clawing at the floor
until blood ran from beneath his fingernails.

     Grace sighed, and planted his boot down on Winder's arm.
Keeping his foot pressed there, he drew the blade from the boy's
quivering flesh.  He handed the sword to Panarchus, then bent
over and knotted his hand in Winder's hair.

    With impressive strength, Grace lifted the youth up into
the air by his hair.  Winder dangled from the Lieutenant's
straightened arm, afraid even to twitch.  Grace looked into
the young man's eye.

    "Better talk, kid.  This one is not negotiable."

    "I'll never tell you anything, Grace!" Winder whispered
defiantly.

     Grace leaned forward, a strange light dancing in his eyes.

     "Sure you will, Winder.  Sure you will."






**************************************************************************
Jake Shade, A.K.A. The Outlander, is a copyright of Jeff A.
Simon, 1995.  All rights reserved.  The reprinting of this
or any other Jake Shade story for the purpose of profit are
prohibited without the express permission of the author. The
Outlander will return in the concluding chapter of Volume I
of the series, Chapter 10:  The Exchange.  Editing on _Fool's
Gambit_ was contributed by Kent Peterson.
***************************************************************************