Fate must favor her, she thought, to have brought Caldorien back to Iriaebor, practically to her doorstep. At first, when the reports of a troublesome stranger reached her, she had not thought of Caldorien. Then came the sudden, violent death of one of her captains on the Street of Jewels. Her lord steward was not without his uses, and by means of a magic created from the dead warrior's blood, Snake had conjured an image of the captain's killer. She had recognized the angular, wolfish face instantly. It was Caldorien. He was in the city-her city. But where?

She would find him. The intervening years had made her more powerful than she would have once dared to imagine. Caldorien would not defeat her again. No, this time he would become her slave.

"You are dismissed, my lord steward." She spoke harshly. "Do not forget your orders." The thin, almost skeletal man bowed deeply, then turned to leave the chamber, his green robes hissing against the marble floor. "And, Snake," Ravendas called after him, "send my son to me. I wish to hear him practice his music."

"Of course, my lord. I shall send for him immediately." The door shut, leaving Ravendas alone. She poured herself a goblet of crimson wine and gazed out the window, surveying the city that she had vanquished. Every building, every stone, every life down there was hers, hers to exploit or destroy as she saw fit. But even that was nothing to what was next Soon, very soon, the other lords among the Zhentarim would quail before her. It was Ravendas's destiny to rule them all.

She heard the door open softly behind her and set down her goblet, smiling with lips stained red by the wine. She turned to see a boy standing in the doorway, his skin as Pale as moonlight, his hair as dark as shadows. He regarded her with wide green eyes, clutching a set of reed pipes in his small hands.

“Come in, my son," Ravendas whispered. "Come in."

Dario rode through the pearly, predawn light. The dim silhouette of Iriaebor rose behind him in the misty air, like a spectral city. Cormik's plan had gone well. The little scene with Jad and Kevrek had caught the eye of a Zhentarim officer who had followed Dario until he rode out the city's north gate. After that, the guard had turned around and ridden back into the city. Dario had no doubt that a message would make its way to Lord Cutter's tower that Caledan Caldorien had been driven out of Iriaebor. Dario would ride a bit farther and lie low for a day or so before returning- without his disguise, of course. There was a small village a few leagues to the north. Dario had made the acquaintance of a certain farmer's daughter there a few years back, a fair-haired young woman named Adalae. Dario wondered if she would remember him.

"Caledan the Harper?" a voice spoke suddenly from the mist.

Dario's mare spooked, rearing. He fought with the reins, managing to bring the horse to a stop. Its hooves skittered nervously against the cobbles of the road.

"Who's there?" Dario called into the thick fog. His dagger was ready in his hand.

A tall figure, clad head to toe in a black, concealing robe, stepped out of the swirling mist.

"Caledan the Harper?" the stranger asked again, in a voice that was both cold and dry. It sent a shiver up Dario's spine.

"Who wishes to know?" Dario asked, confused at the fear he felt rising in his throat.

"I wish to know," the black-robed figure said. Dario began to lift his dagger in alarm, but with dizzying speed a long arm reached out and, with terrible strength, pulled Dario from his horse. The mare neighed in terror and galloped away. An icy, strangely smooth hand closed about Dario's throat. His eyes widened in terror, but he was unable to move.

Another hand pulled the hood of Dario's cloak away from his face. A cold finger traced a line down his cheek. Dario tried to scream, but no sound escaped his throat.

"No, you are not the one," the attacker hissed.

Cold fingers closed about Dario's neck. There was a wet, snapping sound, and the young man fell limply to the ground, dark eyes staring lifelessly into the silvery light.

The black-robed stranger hesitated a moment. This was odd. The man's cloak had smelled right, but there was no scent of the shadow magic.

Of course-there could be only one answer. This man was a decoy. Caldorien must still be within the city's walls.

This was troublesome. The stranger dared not enter the city. No, the stinking streets were too much. Their scents were too overpowering. They would cause torment, resulting in sure madness. There was nothing to do now but wait. Yes, wait. Eventually Caldorien would set foot beyond those walls, and when he did, the stranger would be there to greet him.

Silently the black-robed figure drifted back into the veils of mist from which it had emerged just as the first rays of sunlight set fire to the tops of the city's towers.

The crimson fire of sunset was fading to ash-gray behind the dark silhouette of the Tor when Mari heard the clatter of horses' hooves and the creak of wagon wheels. She waited in the shadows to the side of one of the New City's broad, tree-lined avenues, trying to slow the beating of her heart. She could only hope that Caldorien was ready. He had done little enough to inspire her trust these last days.

Mari had been elated when Belhuar Thantarth, the Master of Twilight Hall, had given her the task of finding Caldorien in Iriaebor. It was her first important mission as a true Harper, and she had been anxious to prove herself. Now she was having second thoughts. This cynical, ill-mannered, scruffy-looking scoundrel was not the legendary Harper she had been led to expect Old Master Andros, the Harper who had been her mentor, used to tell her stories of Caldorien's adventures: how he had destroyed the Cult of Bane's plan to seize the throne of the Empire of Amn; how he had freed an army enslaved by a bloodthirsty Calimshite sorcerer; how he had rescued hundreds of children who had been kidnapped from Water-deep and forced to work in a goblin prince's mines. As a child, such tales had enthralled Mari. But she was no longer a child, and Caldorien obviously was not the hero he once was.

A wagon appeared on the dusky avenue, drawn by a pair of dark horses. On it sat two men. One held the reins, the other rested a hand comfortably on the hilt of his short sword. Zhentarim soldiers. The wagon itself was a box-shaped rig, like a gypsy wagon, and Mari knew that within it was a valuable cargo. Mari and Caledan had met with one of Cormik's countless spies that morning. The woman had told them that a wagon entered the city's east gate every evening bearing stiff tariffs that Cutter's men had extracted from caravans that tried to bypass the city on their journey toward Cormyr.

Unfortunately, the information about Cutter's tax collectors wasn't the only news Mari and Caledan had learned at the Prince and Pauper. The body of Cormik's apprentice, Dario, had been discovered that morning on the north highway outside the city.

"I suppose it was brigands," Cormik had said, his round face haggard. "Gods know the roads are crawling with ruffians these days, what with no guards riding out on patrol. It's Ravendas's fault the highways aren't safe anymore."

Caledan felt responsible and tried to say something, but Cormik had waved his words away. "No, Caledan," he said wearily. "It was I who devised the little charade, not you. Besides, the culprit couldn't be Ravendas. You and I both know that Ravendas would prefer you alive, not dead. No, Dario has always been lucky-until now."

Despite his grief, Cormik had been ready to help plot this night's adventure. He was eager to help organize a resistance movement against Lord Ravendas. And for that they needed gold.