The other necromancer made a furtive hand sign. The speaker abruptly fell silent and glanced in Q'arlynd's direction. Q'arlynd was puzzled-but only for a moment. Looking down, he saw violet sparks dancing around the finger he'd used to direct his spell. He curled his hand into a fist, cursing softly.

No matter. He'd heard enough. He strode briskly past the pair, toward the slave house. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the necromancers hurry up the street. The other lingered outside the slave house, watching the entrance.

Q'arlynd stepped into a display room lined with shelves holding hundreds of hollowed-out chunks of clearstone, each of a size that would fit neatly in a cupped hand. Each clearstone contained a slave, temporarily reduced in size and bound inside the stone. Some sat on the floor of their clearstones, shoulders slumped in resignation. Others raged and pounded on the walls of their prisons with fists or feet, or butted with their horns, making tiny tinking noises. A few of them had their mouths open as if shouting, but since none of the slaves needed to breathe while magically bound, no sounds were escaping their mouths. Nor did they need to eat or drink, ensuring that they wouldn't foul the inside of the containers.

About a dozen customers eyed the merchandise. Q'arlynd immediately picked out the priestess by her posture. She stood with her back to him, staring intently at a chunk of clearstone on the shelf in front of her, her body rigid with disapproval.

Q'arlynd wondered what she was doing there.

Eilistraee's faithful opposed slavery, and often put themselves at risk to set slaves free. If that was what this priestess was plotting, she wasn't being very sly about it. She wasn't wearing her armor or carrying a hunting horn, and her holy symbol was tucked inside her shirt, with only the silver chain around her neck showing, but her body language all but shouted her faith to anyone familiar with Eilistraee's creed.

Q'arlynd sidled up behind her and glanced at the clearstone she stared at. In Sshamath, only "primitive" races could be kept as slaves, but Eilistraee's faith included a number of worshipers of the lesser races. Perhaps one of them had been captured and put up for sale. That would explain the priestess's lack of discretion.

The clearstone, however, held only a goblin: a scrawny little yellow-skinned creature that stared dully out through the clearstone like a mace-hammered lizard. Goblins were vicious, self-centered little beasts that scavenged in packs; it was doubtful they understood what a deity was, let alone were capable of worshiping one.

The priestess, Q'arlynd decided, must be in Sshamath for some other reason.

He cleared his throat. "Greetings, Lady."

As the priestess turned, he briefly touched his forefingers and thumbs together-in front of his body, where the other customers wouldn't see his gesture-to form the sign of Eilistraee's moon.

The priestess's eyes widened slightly. Then a hint of suspicion clouded them. "Who took your sword oath, and where?"

"Lady Karizra, at the shrine in the Misty Forest." Q'arlynd turned his right palm up, revealing the tiny, crescent-shaped scar the sword had left in his hand.

The priestess smiled, satisfied. She tipped her head in the direction of the shelves. "Slaves," she said in a low voice, the corners of her mouth curling in disapproval.

Q'arlynd gave a somber nod. He sighed, as though he agreed with her but was powerless to change such an institution. "What brings you to Sshamath, Lady? Can I be of assistance?"

"Not unless you can persuade the Conclave to hear me today, instead of keeping me waiting,"

Q'arlynd smiled. She was there to speak to the Conclave, was she? "Do they know who you represent?" He stared pointedly at the chain around her neck.

"I told the Speaker I had been sent by the Promenade," she said. Her gaze drifted to the door. Her eyes hardened as a priestess of Lolth was carried in on a palanquin borne by two minotaurs. "I didn't think it wise, however, to let who I am be generally known."

"Good idea," Q'arlynd agreed. Meanwhile, his mind was brimming with curiosity. Eilistraee's priestesses normally came below ground only to woo new converts and lead them to the surface-something that was normally done in secret. He wondered what might compel a priestess to announce herself to the rulers of an Underdark city. He decided to find out.

"The Conclave can be slow as a millstone, at times," he told her. "Here in the Underdark, we don't have night and day to remind us of the passage of time. Things tend to seem less… urgent than they might."

"So I've noticed."

"Would you like some company while you wait for your petition to be heard?"

She nodded. "I could use the company of someone who's more in tune with the customs of the World Above. The parts of Sshamath I've seen so far aren't exactly to my taste."

Q'arlynd smiled. The net had been cast. Time to haul in the blindfish.

He took stock. The priestess was far from beautiful. Acne had left her skin porous as limestone. Her braided hair was a dirty mushroom-white and lacking in luster. She was probably double Q'arlynd's age, well into her second century of life. Still, her body was firmly muscled, and her breasts generously endowed-her one redeeming feature. Q'arlynd let his eyes linger on them and smiled.

"I'd be delighted to give you a taste of Sshamath that's more to your liking," he murmured. "Lady…?"

The color of her broad cheeks deepened in a blush as she noticed where he was staring. "Miverra."

"Lady Miverra," Q'arlynd repeated, as if savoring the taste of the name. He ran a hand through his hair and gave her his best "take-me" look.

Her blush deepened.

Q'arlynd gave a mental sigh. Miverra was from the Surface Realms, all right. She expected Q'arlynd to take the lead in this little dance.

So be it.

He bowed. "I'm Q'arlynd."

She showed no sign of recognizing his name. A pity, since this was one instance where he might have capitalized on it. Yet in many ways it was a relief. A handful of Nightshadows still skulked about Sshamath, despite the wave of assassinations that had left the halls of the Tower of the Masked Mage awash in blood. Those assassinations, part of a coup by Nightshadows who had shifted their allegiance to Shar, had taken out the few who insisted on worshiping what remained of Vhaeraun: that strange blend of deities they called the "Masked Lady." There weren't many of the latter left, but Q'arlynd didn't want them learning of his role in Vhaeraun's death. Even one dagger in the back would be too many.

Fortunately, Q'arlynd's part in Vhaeraun's downfall had been overshadowed by Selvetarm's death at the hands of a mortal. Bards had composed a score of odes to the Darksong Knight who had slain a demigod, but not a single stanza had been written about the conjuring of a gate between Vhaeraun's and Eilistraee's domains.

Miverra glanced at the adamantine amulet that hung against Q'arlynd's chest. "You're with the College of Divination?"

"Currently, yes, but I'm in the process of founding my own school. One day, my School of Ancient Arcana will be recognized as a College in its own right." He gave a rueful look, and added, "Assuming, that is, the Conclave ever finds the time to listen to my petition."

A lie, that. When Q'arlynd did eventually appear before the Conclave, it would be with the backing of a master.

Miverra nodded in obvious sympathy.

Over her shoulder, Q'arlynd saw the proprietor of the slave house making his way across the display room toward them. Klizik's double chin wobbled as he walked. He held up a clearstone and waved to catch Q'arlynd's eye. "Something new has just come in," he called out. "A chitine. Would you like to-"

Not now, Q'arlynd signed. At his side, where Miverra wouldn't notice.