The first was a short, sinewy fellow with long, stringy hair, while the second was large and burly and wore a full beard. Both were filthy. The third was much cleaner, with brown curly hair, and skin weathered as though he had spent many days in the sun. While the first two glared at the priest, the third appeared more pensive than angry.

For a moment, Pilos trembled, expecting the trio to jump at him as soon as they realized he was aware of their presence. None of the three advanced into the chamber, though, instead content to stand in the doorway and listen to the priest's rambling. It took the young Abreeant a moment to remember that his divine magic would affect newcomers as easily as his initial victim. Shaking with relief, he gathered his wits, refocusing his concentration on his spell and trying to steady his breathing. He reached down for the dagger once more.

"That's not going to do you much good," a feminine voice said from the corridor.

As Pilos jerked upright once more, he saw a flash of movement, then three glowing points of light swarmed through a gap between the three men, darting directly toward him. He recognized the dangerous magic, but no lucky evasion could save him a second time. The three glowing points smacked into his chest in rapid succession, sending jolts of fiery pain through his entire body.

Gasping in anguish, Pilos tumbled to the floor, doubled over in abject agony. As he writhed about, trying to soothe the molten wounds he sported across his torso, a shadow darkened above him. When the priest looked up, Junce Roundface was glaring. Pilos's spell was broken and the assassin looked furious. Pilos flinched and tried to roll away, but one quick punch to his midsection took his breath away.

It was all too easy for the newcomers to subdue the Waukeenar. In moments, Pilos sat against a wall, sullen, with his arms and legs locked tightly in shackles taken from the supplies within the prison. The two grubby men had done the heavy work, the big one sitting on him while the other snapped the restraints in place. The female arrival, with short blond hair and a scantily-cut magenta and purple outfit, shoved a wad of sour cloth into his mouth and tied it in place with a strip of fabric that kept him from speaking. He reckoned her for the wizard from Emriana's story earlier that day, which meant the others-or at least two of them-were the thugs aiding her.

I guess she didn't like my speech so much, the priest lamented.

As the trio finished their work binding the prisoner, the other man, the pensive one with the brown curly hair, argued with Junce.

"You said it wouldn't be much longer," the fellow pleaded. "Once their House was wiped out, you said I could see her, take her away. How much longer is this going to take?"

"As long as it takes," Junce snapped, glaring at Pilos. "Now I've got this one to contend with, too," he added, pointing at his prisoner. "There's no telling what his family is likely to do. And Vambran is still out there, and he may come hunting for them. Until I know he's dead, it's not over."

"Look," the man continued, "I'll take her far away. North to Cormyr, or south, to the coast. Somewhere that she won't be a problem for you. But let me take her now. Please."

"I said no!" Junce spat. "Now stop asking." He turned to paw through Emriana's personal belongings, which he had gathered onto the table next to Xaphira's, ignoring the man and signaling that the discussion was at an end.

But the man wouldn't accept such an answer and crossed the distance between them, grabbing at Junce's shoulder, spinning the assassin around. "That's not what we agreed on," he said, his voice insistent. Junce's glare was ice, but the other man didn't back down. "I willingly worked with you, remember? I came to you when I found out Xaphira was trying to sniff you out. I gave her to you, on the condition that I would get her back, unharmed, when you got what you wanted. I held up my end of the bargain, now you-"

The man, whom Pilos just then recognized from Emriana's description to be Xaphira's old companion Quill, crumpled in a heap as the larger of the two thugs smacked him hard in the back of the head with a sap. As Quill sagged into unconsciousness, Junce sighed.

"Thank you, Borth. His whining was detestable, wasn't it?" the assassin said, clapping the large man on the shoulder. "I've really heard enough out of him," Junce finished. He turned back to rummaging through Emriana's belongings, but then he stopped again, turning back to the wizard and her two grimy companions.

"I almost forgot to ask," he said, looking amused. "What are you three doing down here, anyway?"

The woman laughed, her voice clear and rather pleasant. "With all of this nonsense going on," and she gestured casually toward Pilos, "I almost forgot, too. Lavant wants to see you," she explained, rolling her eyes. " 'Immediately,' " she intoned, trying to sound like the fat priest.

Despite the gag shoved in his mouth, Pilos gasped, drawing a curious stare from everyone except Junce, who sighed in exasperation.

"You know," the assassin said, clearly disgruntled, "if you keep talking about things where our enemies can hear us, they'll know too much."

The woman smirked. "Who, him?" she replied, gesturing toward Pilos. "What's he going to do about it?"

"Nothing," Junce answered, turning to depart from the chamber. "Because you're going to take care of him for me." He paused and glanced down at the still form of Quill. "Both of them. And get it right this time," he finished, jabbing a finger in the air toward the woman. "No more mistakes."

"Whatever you say," the woman replied. "Lak, Borth-I guess we're making another trip down to the docks tonight."

"Isn't that the ridiculous little House mage that Talricci employs?" Lobra Mestel asked, her mouth full of pastry. Falagh glanced in the direction his wife was pointing. The figure she indicated was scurrying through a doorway on the far side of the chamber, but even through the crowd of dancing guests, the spectacles, graying head of hair, and frumpy robes were unmistakable. It was Bartimus.

"What in the Nine Hells is he doing here?" the man wondered aloud.

"It's Sammardach at the Generon," Lobra said, her mouth filled with food, dismissing the wizard with a wave. "Everyone who is anyone in Arrabar is here. I'm sure he's toadying with Talricci."

"Yes, but Talricci is still a wanted man," Falagh replied, frowning and absently stroking his black moustache. "I would have thought he was smarter than to show his face in this crowd."

Lobra shrugged and reached out to snatch up another miniature custard pastry from the table before her, which stretched from one end of the great chamber to the other and was filled with all manner of sweet confections. The couple had covered perhaps a third of the table's length, but already Lobra's flimsy paper cone was filled to overflowing.

"I do hope you're not planning to consume all of that yourself," Falagh commented, eyeing the cone of sweets. "You'll be pacing the bedroom for half the night clutching your bowels if you do." At his sour tone, Lobra's eyes grew wide with hurt, and Falagh knew a few tears were imminent.

Exasperated, the man attempted to smooth his features and give the woman an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, my dear," he said, patting her arm and trying to sound more pleasant. "I did not mean to snap at you. Sammardach only comes once a year. You should enjoy yourself," he added. He was relieved to see Lobra sniff once and regain her composure. "I'm going to go see what he's up to," Falagh said once he was certain his wife would not make a scene. He turned and strode across the large room before she could protest. He was only mildly surprised when she fell into step beside him.