"How can there be two of me?" Eclavdra asked with a carefully neutral tone. "Surely a simulacrum will be detected."

There you are correct, High Priestess of Graz'zt. When you are well away, safely within your home-world's deep Cavern, we will bring forth a clone."

"But… a clone will-"

"Be done away with before difficulty befalls you, drow priestess. When the enemy fails, I will see to it that your duplicate does not remain to dispute with you which has the right to exist."

The plan is accepted, lord steward," said the ebon demon prince. "We are pleased!"

Vuron smiled a small, careful smile. Thank you, majesty. There is just a bit more. To make certain none recognize her, your servant and champion Eclavdra will be given an oil of special dweomer. It will lighten her skin so as to make it no darker than that of the nomads of the steppes. The splendid armor and weapons of her people betray no aura, but in the radiation of the open sky, and without the rays of the Cavern, the metal becomes less. Another solution I have alchemically prepared will serve to stop the decaying process for weeks, if not months. She will make her journey armed with un-detectable protections. The elixir will even protect cloth, so she may utilize draw clothing as well."

"Now I am truly delighted with you, Lord Vuron, My faithful advisor."

Again a small smile played across the white features of the demon's narrow visage, a small expression of satisfaction that Eclavdra alone saw as he bowed humbly to Graz'zt at the compliment. "Also, my lord, there are a few trantles which I have gathered for the use of your champion. A decanter which spills forth water when needed, a magical mask to allow your high priestess to breathe and move freely as if dust or water were air to the lungs, and an assortment of other items which might prove useful to her in fulfilling your command."

"What perils and hazards do you envision, Vuron?" the demon king asked, pulling his steward down to sit beside him on his royal couch. Vuron answered at length, with interjections coming frequently from Graz'zt. After some time, the black-skinned demon glanced up and noted Eclavdra sitting petulantly, barely concealing her annoyance.

"You will depart tomorrow, Eclavdra. You will return to your chambers now and rest. I will see you on the morrow. There is much I would yet discuss this night with Vuron, and there is nothing you can contribute to this discourse."

Eclavdra was clever to hide her shame and fury. Bowing, she quickly obeyed King Graz'zt's command and departed. Her triumph would come, and then Vuron would be cursing.

"SALAAM, STRANGER. May I have permission to enter your camp?"

Gord had been aware of the nomad's approach for some time. He was but one of three riders who had walked their horses to a bowshot's distance, dropped the reins, and split into three. There was a warrior on either flank even now, just beyond the range of the firelight. The third was just inside the circle of illumination from the small blaze the young adventurer had kindled to cook the grouse he had brought down with his sling at twilight. Gord called back casually, "Of course you may come closer, and so can the two who lurk to either hand."

The nomad laughed at that, for the Ourmi, as he surely was from his accent, had not even bothered to look up from the fowl he was eating. "You must have the eyes and ears of a cat, stranger! Come, my brothers," he called to those beyond the light. "We have the hospitality of this one's fire!"

"I do not like those who creep up on lone wayfarers," Gord said as the fellow approached.

"One must be cautious on the plains," the man replied with no hint of apology in his voice.

"That is true, Okmani," the young thief said as he eyed the swarthy-featured man in the firelight. His striped robe of green and gray, the leatherwork of girdle and boots, and the big sword across his back identified the man as from the Okman tribes, which held the area north of the Yolspur Tors.

The nomad seemed surprised that Gord knew his people. "Does the fame of the Okmanl stretch all the way to the Ourmi kingdoms, then?"

"Robbers and muggers are recognized throughout the whole of Oerth," Gord noted dryly. "And tell your… brothers… to stop skulking out there and come openly into my camp, or I'll have no choice but to kill you all here and now."

"You are either a great warrior, gray-eyes, or a stupid braggart," the Okmani said. He looked Gord over, noting the sword and dagger he wore, and the lance that lay nearby. The small man's movements were smooth and precise. He used economy in all he did, and his bearing was that of one who had no fear at all. "Come now, as I told you," he said to his comrades. "Our host is a paragon of warriors, and we will be safe camping here tonight."

Gord stared at the nomad. The fellow seemed to admire Gord's casual demeanor and self-assurance in the face of three potential foemen. "I am called Gord," he said to the Okmani.

"Hail, Gord-the-Ourmi. I am Eflam. These are my fellow warriors, Hukkasin and Ushtwer," he added as two similarly garbed and armed men came hesitantly into the circle of soft firelight.

"Be not shy, boys," Gord said without smiling. "Sit, all of you. There is but half the bird I roasted left, but you may have it if you hunger. With it, you will eat of this bread and flavor it with my salt."

The other two hesitated to accept the offering, but Eflam grinned and took a piece of the flat loaf Gord had produced. The Okmani smiled, sprinkled a pinch of salt atop it and swallowed the piece in a gulp. "You too!" he managed to say through a mouth crammed with bread. As Hukkasin and Ushtwer did the same, gobbling the stuff hungrily, the Okmani warrior swallowed, then grinned again and said admiringly to Gord, "So you know that my people honor the customs of those who dwell in the dry lands. You are indeed a most unusual man, even if you are an outlander. I like not calling you Gord, though. It has too foreign a sound for one so well versed in the ways of true folk. I will call you Pharzool, our name for the gray-striped cats who hunt the hills of Okmanistan."

Gord shrugged indifferently. The two other nomads clapped their hands and cried agreement, however. "He sees and hears like a pharzool!" said Ushtwer. That one is as fierce as such hunters – Eflam, you name him well!"

Then the four men settled down to conversation and a bit of bragging. When Gord mentioned the Al-babur, all the Okmani scowled. These were hereditary enemies of their tribe. Then Eflam, the brightest of the three and their natural leader, laughed. "We Okmani are very perceptive, too," he said. "You are adopted by the Al-babur – the Tribes of the Tiger, do you see?" Gord shook his head.

"We have named you as a cat!" Eflam exclaimed. "The tiger-folk have no merit in their adoption. I now make you a brother warrior of the Okmani, Pharzool!" All three then jumped up and pounded the young adventurer on the back. Gord, although he did not wish to belittle the privilege just bestowed upon him, could not help wondering why these tribes were so free with their pronouncements of brotherhood – first the Al-babur, and now these Okmani. He was just about to say something to this effect, when he found out what "brotherhood" meant in the Okmani sense of the word.

"You have nothing much to give us as presents for this honor," Ushtwer said as he eyed Gord's fine stallion. The horse laid back its ears at the approach of the nomad, and then it snorted and bared its teeth. Ushtwer took a cautious step backward.

"Don't worry, brother," Hukkasin said to Ushtwer. "Tomorrow we will find a caravan to plunder or wild horses to capture. Then will our new brother, Pharzool the Generous, bestow his gifts of appreciation upon us."