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Cale. The faithful had a religion with which to anchor their lives. Tamlin’s sorcery offered nothing of the kind. He had no anchor, and the waters were growing rougher each day.
    A breeze off the bay carried the tang of salt and fish. Ships filled the harbor, some laden with timber and quarried stone for building, others with much needed food purchased by Selgauntan agents in the markets of Westgate, Teziir, and Star-mantle, Countless torches, lanterns, and glowballs made the docks the brightest lit area of the city. An army of dock workers and sailors unloaded crates, sacks, barrels, and weapons. Far out into the bay, bobbing pinpoints of light marked the locations of the handful of under-equipped caravels that constituted Selgaunt’s navy. It would not be long before Saerloon’s warships would try to close the sea lanes.
    Tamlin looked north, out over the river, past the High Bridge. He could see little. Darkness swallowed the plains. He imagined enemies out in the black. Each morning he awakened with the fear that he would see Ordulin’s banners flying on the horizon at the head of an advancing army. Or perhaps Saerloonian pennons from the east would presage the beginning of the siege.
    He could not remember how he had ended up standing where he stood. Events had moved so fast he scarcely had time to comprehend them, much less react to them. Dread ate at him. He knew it, but could do nothing to help himself. He slept little.
    His hopes, such as they were, lay with the Shadovar. He had nothing else. The Shadovar alliance would save the city, or Selgaunt would fall and Tamlin would die.
    He took a deep breath, smelled a distant fire on the air. He turned and called back into his chambers, where Thriistin, his chamberlain, awaited his command.
    “Send for Lord Rivalen. I think the populace should see us together.”
    He did not say that he, too, found reassurance in the Shadovar ambassador’s presence.
    ŚŠŚŚŠ•ŚŠŚ ŚŠŚ
    Cloaked in more than a dozen protective wards, Mirabeta sat alone at a small table in The Rouged Cheek, an expensive festhall in the Trade District of Ordulin. A magical hat of disguise masked her identity, giving her the appearance of Rynon, her house mage. As such, she tried to look interested in the surroundings. Her contact had requested that she meet him here. She had been instructed to pick any table, have a goblet of wine, and wait. She had done just that.
    Paintings of men and women engaged in sex play—sometimes in pairs, sometimes in groups—covered the walls. Provocative, well-proportioned statuary stood on pedestals and in wall niches. A bearded minstrel sat on a stool on a corner stage, strumming a mandolin. Shirtless young men and scantily-clad young women lounged languidly on overstuffed divans, couches, and benches. The sweet smell of perfume and the pungent aroma of incense and sex filled the air. Laughter tinkled. Conversation hummed.
    Men and women of wealth, most of them holding masks before their features, moved through the courtesans, evaluating, flirting, partaking of narcotics and spiced wine. From time to time, a pair or group would retire upstairs for a private encounter. The looming civil war and the food shortage had done nothing to curb the appetites of Ordulin’s wealthy. Perhaps it had even increased their desires, as they sought escape in purchased pleasures.
    A slim, dark-haired woman in a form-fitting gown of violet silk approached Mirabeta’s table. She held before her face a pale, ceramic mask of a nymph with laughing eyes and a bright smile. Mirabeta could see only her strikingly green eyes.
    “You have not touched your wine,” the woman said.
    “I am waiting for someone.”
    “Indeed.”
    The woman pulled back a chair with her foot and sat down.
    Mirabeta looked at the slight woman, puzzled. She looked as fragile as glass, hardly what Mirabeta anticipated in a follower of The Scaly Way.
    “Morthan?” Mirabeta asked, mentioning the name—or at least