The victim broke free. About the size of a goat, it charged toward the doorway's freedom and collided with Druhallen, who was blocking it. He looked down: a battered and bleeding half-grown goblin clung to his leg.

"Kick it back over here," one of the batterers commanded.

An ugly, little face, made uglier by blood and bruises, peered up at him.

Point of fact: Druhallen didn't much like youngsters of any species. If he'd known that Rozt'a wasn't going to produce any, he might have agreed to marry her. Children, though, didn't sense his prejudice. They flocked to him like ants to honey. Smudge-faced, aromatic offspring would run away from their mothers for a chance to tug on his sleeve or ask him inarticulate questions. Every time it happened, he felt the urge to pick the little pest up by the neck and toss it into next week ... and every time he resisted the urge.

He resisted it again.

"You've made your point," he said in his sternest voice.

"We ain't yet," a different man complained. "It's still alive."

Goblins weren't unnatural creatures. They were male and female, like humans, elves, chickens or goats—though from what Dru could see, he didn't know if he was risking his life for a boy-goblin or a girl.

"I said, it's over. I'll take this one back to the charterhouse. Lord Amarandaris can investigate your charges."

Dru knew that Amarandaris would welcome that chore about as much as he'd welcome a punch in the groin, but the name, he hoped, would have a chilling effect on the bullies. It did, for about three heartbeats. Then the man who'd asked Dru to free himself with a kick, made a grab for the goblin's long, twisted ears. Druhallen had an instant to crush ash between his thumb and middle finger. Darkness like a foggy night in winter filled the coop, but the spell he'd cast was more than illusion of weather. Sadness and lethargy flowed with the fog. One of the men who'd been beating the goblin began sobbing and none of the others tried to stop Druhallen as he backed away.

Gloom continued to grow and thicken. It ate all the light in the alleys. One man ran away screaming. He was the lucky one; the rest were caught up in melancholy that might not dissipate before sundown—close quarters enhanced the spell, making it stronger and more enduring than it would be otherwise.

"Come along, little fellow," Dru said to the goblin still clinging to his leg. "Let's get out of here."

He reached down to pry the goblin free and lift it higher. The goblin trembled and hid its face in the crook of Dru's arm, more like a dog than a child. A naked, filthy, feral dog that reeked of rotted food. Druhallen had just about conquered the need to gag when he felt bony fingers fumbling with his belt.

"Behave!" he scolded, imprisoning its hands within his own.

It began to gnaw on his knuckles and he was tempted to let it go altogether. He should have known better. Goblins were incorrigible. But, having begun the rescue, he held on until they were out of his spells' influence.

"Run off with you," Dru suggested and gave the scrawny child a push toward the palisade.

Naturally, the goblin wouldn't let go of his hands. He didn't know what to do next when a goblin female shot out of the natural shadows. She grabbed the youngster. It shrieked as loudly as it had in the chicken coop then both it and—presumably—its mother were gone.

Dru was more than a little relieved, more than a little dirty, and in a fine mood to tell Rozt'a and Galimer about the day's misadventures.

30 Eleasias, the Year of the Banner (1368 DR)

Parnast

Druhallen found it harder to tell Rozt'a and Galimer that he suspected Tiep had betrayed them than it had been to listen to Amarandaris create those suspicions. They didn't want to believe the youth they loved as a son and brother would snuggle up to the Zhentarim. Galimer had gotten an unexpected cold shoulder from every merchant in the morning's caravan and couldn't guess why until Dru's tale offered an explanation.

"I warned that boy about making friends among the Zhentarim," Galimer muttered several times before sinking into a dark silence.

Rozt'a's faith in their foundling was not so easily shaken. "It could just as easily be our fault. We could have been overheard after we got here. How many times have I said—'Don't say anything; the walls have ears' only to have you tell me not to worry, that you've set wards? You depend too much on magic, Druhallen. Wards and locks only keep the honest people out and you're not the greatest wizard who ever walked. Maybe you're the equal of this Amarandaris, but who calls the tune for him? Sememmon in Darkhold? Gods spare us! The Network spies on itself—always has, always will. Do you think there's nothing in Darkhold to break your wards?"

"It doesn't take magic to break my wards," Druhallen shot back. "Anyone can break them. But no wizard—not all the Network wizards working together—could reconstruct them afterward, at least not in a way that would fool me for a heartbeat. You'd know if I tried to sharpen one of your knives, wouldn't you? Well, it's the same with my wards." Dru stretched his arms toward the walls. "They're mine, exactly as I set them. No one, not a mouse nor a mage, has put an ear to our walls."

"What about a priest," she persisted. "A priest and his god. You'd never know."

"A god wouldn't stop with the wards. If Amarandaris had been spying on us, he'd have known what the Candlekeep spell could and couldn't do. He thinks it's more potent than it is—that's Tiep. That's got to be Tiep."

"The boy's been through a lot," Galimer said from the corner. "And he's always had a taste for dice. I thought we'd gotten those lessons pounded into his head, but this time it's different. This time he's trying to impress that goose girl."

Before Dru thought through Galimer's implications, Rozt'a's eyes narrowed the way they did when she held her sword.

"That goose girl," she whispered coldly. "Manya. The Pit take her. She's your spy, Druhallen."

"She's still a child," Dru protested, but he wasn't that naive. More than one man had been separated from his secrets by a woman, even by a goose girl. "She's Parnaster. I don't know why or how, but I can't believe that a Parnaster would run to Amarandaris."

"Forget Parnast," Rozt'a advised. "I should have asked questions. I didn't like the look of her from the start—all shy and helpless smiles. They're the worst. You never see a helpless girl who isn't too pretty by half. Like as not, she caught Amarandaris's eye and now she's working for him, will she or nil she."

Dru shook his head. "The first thing we told Tiep was: never confide in a stranger—"

"There are no strangers in the grass!" Rozt'a shouted, and Dru realized he'd rasped a raw nerve. "Tiep's never had a girl his own age look him in the eye. He's got no defenses against that. She's had him eating out of her hand."

Dru didn't know how far things might have progressed between Tiep and Manya, but both he and Galimer knew for a fact that the goose girl wasn't the first girl to make cow-eyes at the youth. He was growing into a handsome man, and he'd always been charming.

Tiep and Manya had spent the past three dusty afternoons together ... and yesterday he hadn't shown up for supper in the commons. When they'd asked, he'd said that Manya's mother had set out a plate for him.

I couldn't very well say, 'No, I won't break bread with you,' could I? I not supposed to be rude, am I? And the food in that farmhouse was better than the swill we've been getting at the charterhouse. Dru hadn't said anything when Tiep had made the remark and didn't say anything now, as it echoed in memory. When it came to weaving truth and lies into seamless cloth, Tiep was a born master. The youth could charm strangers, but he was at his best with those who wanted to believe him. If they were smart, he, Galimer and Rozt'a would cut Tiep loose before he brought disaster down on their heads ...