Suddenly, I recognized it all and knew where we were. «It's the Gatehouse,» I said to Wheezle.

The gnome nodded as if he'd been thinking the same thing, but Hezekiah asked, «What's the Gatehouse?»

«A place for those whose minds are bruised,» Wheezle told him. «It means we have truly returned to Sigil,» he added; but his tone of voice suggested he would prefer the blood-soaked streets of Plague-Mort to the Gatehouse Asylum.

Hezekiah's expression said he felt much the same as Wheezle. «We'd better leave,» he muttered.

«Your majesties, please!» the orc woman cried. «You must not…» Her agitated voice broke off, and eased once more into a tranquil smile. «But of course, you will take me with you.»

«Honored lady,» Wheezle began… but she placed a wrinkled hand to his lips and shushed him.

«I know,» she said. «Gossiping tongues will wag – a young and vulnerable lass traveling unchaperoned with three lusty princes. But I have waited… I have waited so long… and people have said so many cruel things already. They have tried to tell me… they have claimed I am… foolish.» Her hands were still folded in front of her, but the knuckles had turned white as they squeezed against each other. «Please, your majesties… I have waited… I have worn this dress… this dress… I saved every farthing for this dress because I knew you would come… and marry me…»

I couldn't meet her tear-filled gaze. As I lowered my eyes, I realized all my clothes were pristine white… as were Wheezle's robes and Hezekiah's foppishly-tailored outfit. No wonder she took us for princes, princes dressed for a wedding day. When this poor old woman had seen us, we must have fulfilled her every confused dream.

«What is your name, young miss?» I asked as gently as I could.

With another curtsy, she answered, «Irene, may it please your majesty.» It wasn't an orc name, but then, the white satin gown was not an orc wedding dress. Perhaps she fancied herself human… or perhaps, she had been raised by humans in a manner at odds with her orc heritage. Such things happen in Sigil.

«Irene,» I told her, «my fellow princes and I must go on a dangerous quest. It would not be safe for a delicate —»

Before I could finish the sentence, she seized my arm. «Please don't leave me here,» she whispered. «If you leave me after all this time, I fear I might… go mad… please, don't make me be a mad old woman…»

I turned to Hezekiah and Wheezle. Both of them were staring at the floor.

«All right,» I told her. «You can come with us a little way.»

Hezekiah offered Irene his arm. He didn't look comfortable about it – he held himself as rigid as a steel fencepost, and never let his eyes stray in her direction – but the boy was clearly making an effort to show her courtesy. Irene didn't seem to notice his tension; she settled in against him with the composure of an experienced courtesan taking a baron's hand.

The room had only one exit, the doorway that framed the portal to the Outlands. I threw away my sketch of the cobra before leaving – otherwise, I'd find myself back in the chapel. Wheezle led the way into the corridor, followed by Hezekiah and Irene, with me trailing as rear guard… which meant I was the last to confront the full squalor of the Gatehouse Asylum.

The place stank of desperation. Yes, the smells in my nostrils were more specific, mildew, slops, and a wispy tang of blood; but over everything hung an oppressive desolation, tangible enough to make my skin crawl. Half the rooms along this corridor had their doors closed, secured with cast-iron padlocks. The others had their doors wide open, letting out the whimpers and moans of their inhabitants. A few patients had emerged from their rooms, to lean against the walls and stare vacantly into the distance, or to stand with eyes closed, rocking and humming tunelessly in their throats. One wore an unbuckled straitjacket; the rest wore unwashed garments, some no better than rags.

Wheezle headed for a door at the end of the hall. Most of the patients took no notice of us as we passed; those who did covered their eyes with their hands and shivered until we were gone. Irene touched one of the shiverers on the shoulder and said in a gentle voice, «You may have my room, Mazey. I shall not need it again.»

Past the door, we came upon what passed for a nurse's station: a flimsy wooden table where a bulky young dwarf sat picking his teeth with a sliver of bone. He glanced up at us, and his eyes widened. «I told you they would come for me,» Irene said triumphantly. «I told you they would come.»

He stared for another second or two, then shrugged and went back to digging between his molars.

Irene's room had been on the third storey; and when we finally found a stairway, it only went down one floor. That meant we had to backtrack along the length of the whole wing before we could get down to ground level. I assumed this design made it harder for barmies to escape, forcing them to run all the way along one floor, then all the way back on the next floor down, keeping them inside the building that much longer… but that only worked if someone tried to stop them from leaving. As far as I could see, none of the staff showed the least concern as we passed. No one asked who we were or where we were going; no one even recognized our existence.

No one in an official capacity, that is – we got plenty of attention from the inmates. Many tried to hide from us; many more tried to talk to us, in languages that may or may not have been spoken by anyone else in the multiverse. A few followed us, gesticulating as they babbled, and pointing at odd objects: cracks in the wall, their own teeth, a single red shoe someone had left in the hallway. After a while, each lost interest and wandered off some other direction, still talking and waving incoherently.

Down more stairs and an exit door came in sight – its glass smudged by the noseprints, gawkers looking in and inmates gazing out. A pair of guards in badly scuffed armor leaned against the wall near the door, passing a flask between them; but they straightened an inch as they saw us approach.

«Yeah?» said the taller one, as if we had asked a question. She had a sleek crown of black feathers on her head instead of hair; I couldn't tell if it was a hat or actually part of her body.

«We are leaving, honored guard,» Wheezle replied. «May your death be everything you hope it to be.»

«Huh?» Feather-Woman asked. She must have shone in conversational skills at the job interview.

«Don't mind him,» Hezekiah said hurriedly. «He's a Dustman. They say things like that.»

«Dustmen wear gray,» observed the other guard. He had the head of a tortoise-shell cat, and by the looks of it, his fur went all the way down. Unlike most cats, this one hadn't done much in the way of licking himself clean for a long time.

«Alas,» Wheezle told the guard, «my gray robes were burned when a death knight directed me to walk through a pillar of sacred fire. These clothes were reconstructed for me by nagas.»

I cringed. If Wheezle blurted out everything from the past few days, these guards would heave us directly into padded cells. Magic salt-and-pepper grinders, camping out with fiends, getting chummy with wights on the Plane of Dust, then fighting them in Plague-Mort… this was not a story to convince people of our sanity. «We have to go now,» I said, stepping toward the door.

Feathers hiked up her foot and planted it against the opposite wall of the narrow corridor, neatly blocking my exit. «Pass?» she grunted.

«I beg your pardon?»

«She wants to see your pass,» the Tortoise-Shell said. «A paper what says you can leave.»

«We don't have a pass,» Hezekiah answered, too quickly for me to stop him.

«Gotta have a pass,» Tortoise-Shell replied. «Patients get a pass from their doc. Visitors get a pass when they come in.»