THE LURE

Jureemo Pascadadle put his back against the wall just inside the door of the tavern and heaved a great sigh of relief. Out in the street, several of his companions lay dead or incapacitated, and several others had been dragged off by the thugs from Spysong.

Glad indeed was Jureemo that he had been given the rear guard position, watching the back of his Citadel crew as they had closed in on the dark elf and the assassin. "Spysong," he muttered under his breath, his throat filling with bile.

The door burst open beside him and the man fell back with a shriek. In stumbled Kiniquips the Short, a slender - by halfling standards - little rogue of great renown within the organization. Kiniquips was a master of disguise, actually serving as a trainer of such at the Citadel, and was often the point halfling on Citadel of Assassins operations in Heliogabalus. He had spent the better part of two years creating his waif alter-ego. Watching him stumble through the common room, though, Jureemo knew that the halfling's cover had been blown. His shirt was ripped and a bright line of blood showed across his left shoulder, and it looked like a substantial part of his dark brown hair had been torn away, as well.

He glanced at Jureemo and the man nearly fainted. But Kiniquips was too much the professional to betray an associate, even with a glance, and so the halfling looked away immediately and stumbled on.

The air erupted with a shrill whistling in Kiniquips's wake, though, and a most unusual missile, a trio of black iron balls spinning at the ends of short lengths of rope flew past the startled Jureemo and caught the fleeing halfling around the waist and legs. The balls wrapped around the poor fellow and came crunching together with devastating efficiency, cracking bones and thoroughly tangling him up.

Kiniquips hit the floor in a heap, ending up on his side, writhing in pain and whimpering pitifully. Tables skidded every which way as the patrons of the tavern scrambled to get as far from him as possible.

For in came a pair of dangerous-looking characters, an elf and a human woman, both dressed in dark leather. The elf had thrown the bolos, obviously, and moved steadily to retrieve them, his fine sword set comfortably on his hip. The woman wore a pair of bandoliers set full of gleaming throwing knives and moved with the same grace as her companion, betraying a lifetime of training.

With brutal efficiency, the elf unwound and yanked the bolos free, and the halfling shrieked again in pain.

Jureemo looked away and headed for the open door. The woman called after him, but he put his head down and hurried around the open door, turning fast for the street.

And there he was blocked by a man in plain, dirty robes. Jureemo tried to push by, but with a single hand, the man stopped him fully.

Jureemo offered a confused expression and looked down at the hand.

With a subtle shift and short thrust, the man in robes sent Jureemo stumbling back into the room, uncomfortably close to the dangerous woman.

"Wh-what attack is this?" he stammered, looking plaintively about. His continuing protests stuck in his throat, though, as he locked stares with the woman.

"This one?" she asked, turning to the elf behind her.

In response, the elf leaned on the fallen Kiniquips's broken hip, and the halfling yelped.

"That one?" the elf asked Kiniquips.

The halfling grimaced and looked away, and grunted again as the elf pressed down on his hip.

"What is the meaning of this?" Jureemo demanded, and he cautiously stepped back from the woman. Others in the tavern stirred at that display of brutality, and it occurred to Jureemo that he might garner some assistance after all.

The woman looked from him to the man in the robes. "This one, Master Kane?" she asked.

The stirring stopped immediately, and a palpable silence, almost a physical numbness, fell over the tavern.

Jureemo had to remind himself to breathe, then he gave up trying when Master Kane walked over to stand before him. The monk stared at him for a long time, and though Jureemo tried to look away, for some reason he could not. He felt naked in front of that legendary monk, as if Kane looked right through him, or right into his heart.

"You are of the Citadel of Assassins," Kane stated.

Jureemo babbled incoherently for a few moments, his head shaking and nodding all at once.

And Kane just stared.

The walls seemed to close in on the trembling assassin; he felt as if the floor was rushing up to swallow him, and he hoped it would! Panic bubbled through him. He knew that he had been discovered - Kane had stated the fact, not asked him. And those eyes! The monk didn't blink. The monk knew all of it!

Jureemo didn't reach for his own knife, set in his belt at the small of his back. He couldn't begin to imagine a fight with that monster. His sensibilities darted in every different direction, instincts replacing rational thought. He cried out suddenly and leaped for the door... or started to.

A white wooden walking stick flashed up before him, cracking him under the chin. He vaguely felt the sensation, the sweet and warm taste, of blood filling his mouth, and he sensed that walking stick sliding under his armpit. He didn't see Kane grab its free end, behind his shoulder-blade, but he did realize, briefly, that he was airborne, spinning head-over-heels, then falling free. He hit the floor flat on his back and immediately propped himself up on his elbows -

- right before the walking stick, that deadly jo stick, cracked him again across the forehead, dropping him flat to the floor.

"Take them both to the castle," Kane instructed his minions.

"This one will require the attention of a priest, perhaps even Friar Dugald," replied the elf standing over the halfling.

Kane shrugged as if it did not matter, which of course it did not. Certainly the priests would make the little one more comfortable.

Perhaps he would even be able to walk up the gallows steps under his own power.

* * * * *

The creature was well-dressed by the standards of Damaran nobles, let alone the expectations aroused by his obvious orc heritage. And he carried himself with an air of dignity and regal bearing, like a royal courier or a butler at one of the finer houses in Waterdeep. That fact was not lost on the half-orcs manning Palishchuk's northern wall as they watched the orc's graceful approach. He walked up as if without the slightest concern, though several arrows were trained upon him, and he dipped a polite bow as he stopped, swinging out one arm to reveal that he held a rolled scroll.

"Well met," he called in perfect Common, and with an accent very unlike anything the sentries might have expected. He seemed almost foppish, and his voice held a nasal quality, something quite uncommon in a race known for flat noses and wide nostrils. "I pray you grant me entrance to your fair city, or, if that is not to be, then I bid you to fetch your leadership."

"What business ye got here?" one of the sentries barked at him.

"Well, good sir, it is an announcement of course," the orc replied, holding forth his hand and the scroll. "And one I am instructed by my master to make once, and once only."

"Ye tell it to us and we might let ye in," the sentry replied. "Then again, we might not."

"Or we might be getting Wingham and the council," a second sentry explained.

"Then again, we might not," the first added.

The orc straightened and put one hand on his hip, standing with one foot flat and the other heel up. He made no move to unroll the scroll, or to do anything else.

"Well?" the first sentry prompted.

"I am instructed by my master to make the announcement once, and once only," the orc replied.

"Well then ye've got yerself some trouble," said the sentry. "For we aren't letting ye in, and aren't bothering our council until we know what ye're about."

"I will wait," the orc decided.

"Wait? Ack, fullblood, how long are ye to wait, then?"

The orc shrugged as if it did not matter.

"We'll leave ye to freeze dead on the path before the gate, ye fool."

"Better that than disobey my master," the orc replied without the slightest hesitation, and that made the sentries exchange curious, concerned looks. The orc pulled a rich, fur-lined cloak tightly around his shoulders and turned slightly to put his back to the wind.

"And who might yer master be, that ye're so willing to freeze?" the first sentry asked.

"King Artemis the First, of course," the orc replied.

The sentry mouthed the name silently, his eyes widening. He glanced at his companions, to see them similarly struggling to digest the words.

"Artemis Entreri sent ye?"

"Of course not, peasant," the orc replied. "I am not of sufficient significance to speak with King Artemis. I serve at the pleasure of First Citizen Jarlaxle."

The two lead sentries slipped back behind the wall. "Damned fools meant it," one said. "They built themselves a kingdom."

"There's a difference between building one and just saying ye built one," the first replied.

"Well, where'd they find the page?" the other asked. "And look at him, and listen to him. He isn't one to be found wandering about in a fullblood hunting party."

A third guard moved up to the huddled pair. "I'm going for Wingham and the councilors," he explained. "They'll be wanting to see this." He glanced out over the wall at their unexpected visitor. "And hear it."

In less than half an hour, Wingham, Arrayan, Olgerkhan, the leadership of Palishchuk, and most of the town's citizens were gathered at the northernmost square, watching the strange courier prance in through the gate.

"I almost expect to see flowers dropping in his wake," Wingham whispered to Arrayan, and the mage giggled despite the obvious gravity of the situation.

Taking no apparent notice of any of the many titters filtering about the crowd, the fullblood orc moved to the center of the gathering, and with great dramatic flourish, an exaggerated flip of his wrist, he unrolled the scroll before him, holding it up in both hands.

"Hear ye! Hear ye!" he called. "And hear ye well, O good citizens of Palishchuk, in the land formerly known as Vaasa."

That started some stirring.

"Formerly?" Wingham whispered.

"Never trust a drow," Olgerkhan added, leaning past Arrayan, who was no longer giggling, to address Wingham.

"King Artemis the First doth proclaim full and unfettered rights to Palishchuk and the people therein," the orc went on. "His Greatness makes no claim over your fair city, nor a demand of tithing, nor does he deny any of you any passage over any road, bridge, or open land in the entirety of D'aerthe."

"D'aerthe?" Wingham echoed with a shake of his head. "Drow name."

"Excepting, of course, those roads, bridges, and open land within Castle D'aerthe itself," the orc added. "And even in there, Palishchukians are welcome... by specific grant of entrance, of course.

"King Artemis sees no enemy when he looks your way, and it is his fondest wish that his reign will be marked with fair trade and prosperity for D'aerthian and Palishchukian alike."

"What is he talking about?" Olgerkhan whispered to Wingham.

"War, I expect," the wizened and worldly old half-orc replied.

"This is insanity," Arrayan said.

"Never trust a drow," Olgerkhan lectured.

Arrayan looked to Wingham, who merely shrugged as the fullblood finished his reading, mostly reciting titles and adjectives - excellence, magnificent, wondrous - to accompany the name of King Artemis the First of D'aerthe.

As he finished, the orc flicked his wrist and let go with his bottom hand, and the formed parchment rolled up tight. With a swift and graceful movement, the orc tucked it under one arm, and stood again, hand on hip.

Wingham glanced across the way to a group of three of the town's leading councilors, and waited for them to nod deferentially for him to lead the response - a not surprising invitation, for the half-orcs of Palishchuk often looked to the worldly Wingham for guidance in matters outside of their secluded gates. At least, for matters that did not entail the immediate threat of battle, as was usually the case.

"And what is your name, good sir?" Wingham addressed the courier.

"I am of no consequence," came the reply.

"Would you have me speak to you as fullblood, orc, or D'aerthian Courier, perhaps?" Wingham asked as he stepped out from the gathering, trying to get a better take on the odd creature.

"Speak to me as you would to King Artemis the First," said the orc. "For I am but the ears and mouth of His Greatness."

Wingham looked to the town councilors, who had no insight to offer other than smirks and shrugs.

"We beg you look past our obvious surprise... King Artemis," Wingham said. "Such an announcement is hardly expected, of course."

"You were told as much less than two tendays ago, when King Artemis and the first citizen rode through your fair city."

"But still..."

"You did not accept his word?"

Wingham paused, not wanting to cross any unseen lines. He remembered well the battle Palishchuk had fought with the castle construct's gargoyles, and neither he nor any of the others wanted to replay that deadly night.

"You must admit that the claim of Vaasa - "

"D'aerthe," the orc interrupted. "Vaasa is to be used only when speaking of what was, not of what is."

"The claim of a kingdom here, by a king and a first citizen until recently unknown to all in the Bloodstone Lands, is unprecedented, you must agree," Wingham said, avoiding any overt concurrence or disagreement. "And yes, we are surprised, for there is another king who has claimed this land."

"King Gareth rules in Damara," the orc replied. "He has made no formal claim on the land once known as Vaasa, excepting his insistence that the land be 'cleansed' of vermin, including one race that you claim as half your heritage, good sir, in case you had not noticed."

That ruffled some feathers among the gathered half-orcs, and more than a few harsh whispers filtered about the uneasy crowd.

"But yes, of course, and your surprise was not unforeseen," the orc went on. "And it is a minor reaction compared to that which the first citizen expects will greet your courier when he travels to the D'aerthian, formerly the Vaasan, Gate and through Bloodstone Pass to the village of the same name." He snapped his arm out, handing Wingham a second scroll, sealed with a wax mark.

"All that King Artemis the First bids you, and of course it is in your own interest as well, is that you send a courier forthwith to King Gareth to deliver news of the birth of D'aerthe. It would do well for King Gareth to cease his murderous activities within the borders of D'aerthe at once, for the sake of peace between our lands.

"And truly," the orc finished with a great and sweeping bow, "such harmony is all that King Artemis the First desires."

Wingham hardly had an answer to that; how could he? He took the rolled parchment, glanced again at the strange seal, which was formed of some green wax that he did not recognize, and glanced again at the puzzled councilors.

By the time he looked back, the orc was already swaggering well on his way to the city's northern gate.

And no one made a move to intercept him.

* * * * *

"You enjoyed that," Jarlaxle said with a wry grin that was not matched by his psionicist counterpart.

"I will itch for a tenday from wearing the shell of an orc," Kimmuriel replied.

"You wore it well."

Kimmuriel scowled at him, a most unusual show of emotion from the intellectually-locked dark elf.

"News will travel fast to Damara," Jarlaxle predicted. "Likely Wingham will send Arrayan or some other magic-user to deliver the announcement before the way is sealed by deep snows."

"Then why did you not wait until the snows began?" asked Kimmuriel. "You will grant Gareth the time to facilitate passage."

"Grant him?" Jarlaxle asked, leaning forward on his castle parapet. "My friend, I am counting on it. I do not desire to have the fool Knellict here uncontested, and I expect that King Gareth will be more reasonable than the betrayed wizard of the Citadel of Assassins. With Gareth, it will be politics. With Knellict, it is already personal."

"Because you travel with a fool."

"I would not expect patience from a human," said Jarlaxle. "They do not live long enough. Entreri has moved the situation along, nothing more. Whether now before winter's onslaught, or in the cold rain of spring, Gareth will demand his answers. Better to pit him against Knellict outside our gates than to deal with each separately."

* * * * *

Athrogate's misery at being jailed was mitigated somewhat by the generous amounts of mead and ale his gaolers provided. And Athrogate never let it be said that he couldn't sublimate - well, he used the words, 'wash down, since 'sublimate' was a bit beyond him - his misery with a few pounds of food and a few gallons of ale.

So he sat on his hard bed in his small but not totally uncomfortable cell, filling his mouth with bread and cake and washing it down with fast-overturned flagons of liquid, golden and brown alternately. And to pass the time, between bites and gulps and burps and farts, he sang his favorite dwarven ditties, like "Skipping Threesies with an Orc's Entrails" and "Grow Your Beard Long, Woman, or Winter'll Freeze yer Nipples."

He saved the latter for those times when a female elf or a human woman was set as guard outside his door, and he took special care to raise his voice to a thunderous level whenever he happened upon the refrain about "shakin' them by the ankles, so ye're seein' up their skirts."

For all of his bluster and belch-filled outward joviality, though, Athrogate could not truly ignore the continual hammering outside of his cell's small, high window. Late one moonlit night, when the lone guard outside his cell door breathed in the smooth rhythms of sleep, the dwarf had propped his angled cot against the wall and managed to get up high enough to peek out.

They were building a gallows, with a long trap door and no less than seven noose-arms.

Athrogate had been told his crime against King Gareth, and he knew well the penalty for treason. And though he was cooperating, and had surrendered several of Knellict's spies placed in Heliogabalus - men he had never really liked anyway - none of Gareth's representatives had given him any hint that his sentence might be put aside or even reduced.

But he had ale and mead and plenty of food. He figured he might as well be fat if the door dropped out beneath him so that his neck would get a clean break and he wouldn't be flailing about and peeing himself in front of all the spectators. He had seen that a few times, and decided it would not be a fitting end for one of so many accomplishments as he.

Perhaps he could even bargain to have his name kept on the plaque at the Vaasan Gate....

He had that very thought in mind late one afternoon when his cell door swung open and a familiar figure strode into the room.

"Ah, Athrogate, it will take more than a Bloodstone winter to make you lean for the spring," said Celedon Kierney.

"Lean's for elfs," the dwarf grunted at the charming rogue who had more than a bit of elf blood in him. "For them who're needin' to twist and turn to get out o' the hammer's way."

"You don't think that wise?"

"Bah!" Athrogate blustered and puffed out his chest, smacking his balled fist against it.

"And what if that hammer was instead a fine elven sword?"

"I'd grab it and snap it, then take yer hand and pull ye close for a fine Athrogate hug."

Celedon grinned widely.

"Ye're not for believin' me, then? Well go and get yer fine elven blade. And bring a bow, and not the shooting kind, when ye do. I'll bend yer sword over and play ye a tune that'll put ye in a dancing mood afore I give ye the big hug."

"I do not doubt that you could do just that, Athrogate," Celedon replied, and the dwarf looked at him with complete puzzlement. "Your exploits in Vaasa have been sung across all the Bloodstone Lands. A pity it is, as I'm sure King Gareth will agree when he arrives this very night, that one so accomplished as Athrogate chose to collude with the likes of Timoshenko."

"The Grandpappy? Bah, never met him."

"Knellict then, and voice no denials."

"Bah!" Athrogate snorted again. "Ye got no course to hang me."

"Hang you?" Celedon Kierney replied with exaggerated incredulity - the animated rogue was good at that particular ploy, Athrogate recognized. "Why, good dwarf, we would never deign to do such a thing. Nay, we intend to celebrate you, in public, to honor you for your aid in capturing so many criminals of the dreaded Citadel of Assassins."

Athrogate stared hatefully at the man, at the threat that made hanging seem quite pleasant by comparison. The mere thought of an angry Knellict in that moment sent a shiver coursing up the dwarf's sturdy spine.

"There may even be a knighthood in it for Athrogate, hero of Vaasa, and now hero of the crown in Heliogabalus."

The dwarf spat on the floor. "Ye're a wretched one, ain't ye."

Celedon laughed at him, and walked out of the small cell. He paused at the door and turned back to the dwarf. "I will have a ladder brought with your breakfast," he said, glancing at the window. "Better than a leaning cot. We have prepared a ceremony for King Gareth, of course, as is right and just."

"Pleasure for ye, elf?"

"Practicality, good dwarf, and grim resolve. We've not enough cells, nor are they really called for on this occasion." He gave a wink and half-turned, before adding, "They attacked a knight of the order - an apprentice knight, to be honest. The case is clear enough, is it not?"

"Ye know it's more muddled than that," said Athrogate. "Ye know what happened at that castle, and what allegiances yer own king's niece struck on her own."

"I know of no such thing," Celedon replied. "I know only that order must be maintained, and that the Citadel of Assassins has brought this fate upon itself."

"And yer Lady Ellery's still dead."

"And Gareth is still the king."

On that definitive note, Celedon Kierney exited the room, banging the door closed behind him.

True to his word, Celedon had a ladder delivered to Athrogate that morning, along with his voluminous breakfast. The dwarf munched his food loudly, trying to drown out the ceremony playing outside his window, trying to ignore the reading of charges and the demands for confession, many of which were offered in pathetic, whining tones.

"Bah, just go with yer dignity, ye dolts," Athrogate muttered more than once, and he chomped down all the harder on his crusty cake.

Like a moth to the flame, though, the dwarf could not deny his curiosity, and he managed to set and climb the ladder just in time to see seven of the Citadel's men drop from the platform and sway at the end of a rope. Most died right away, Jureemo Pascadadle among them, and two, including a halfling Athrogate knew as Kiniquips the Short - Master Kiniquips - struggled and kicked for some time before finally going still.

Master Kiniquips, Athrogate thought as he climbed back down to his remaining portions.

Master of the Citadel.

Athrogate winced as he considered Celedon's threats.

Suddenly, and for perhaps the first time in his life, the dwarf didn't feel the desire to eat.