The roof of the shop crashed through the second story to the ground. Now that it was down, the bucket brigade turned its attention to the ruined shop.

"Why did Finder choose this place as my home?" Alias wondered aloud.

"He didn't need a reason. Alias," the paladin said. "It was just a game to him, giving you memories. It never occurred to him that your feelings would be hurt when you learned those memories were false." It never occurred to Finder to worry about anyone's feelings, he added to himself.

Abas shook her head. "No. There was a reason. He had to have a reason."

Dragonbait remained silent as Alias stood staring into the flames of her memory home. Just as he was beginning to worry how long she would dwell on the unreasonable, she suddenly returned to the original task at hand. "Let's find this Mintassan and get him the staff," she said. "Then we need a room in an inn-preferably one made of stone."

Dragonbait nodded in agreement. "I hope you know where we are," he said, "because I lost my map in the flames."

Alias smiled grimly. "Yeah," she said. "It should be right around the corner here."

This time it was around four corners and about a half-mile away, through empty streets and past bustling bars, past groups of young toughs who gave the smoky warriors a few catcalls and older, more grizzled veterans who gave them a wide berth.

At the last corner, the appearance of the neighborhood improved markedly. The pavement stone was uniform and unvandalized. The buildings were constructed from more brick and stone than wood. The oil in the steetlamps burned more brightly and smoked less. The streets and thresholds of every building had been swept within the last week. There was no visible sewage.

Mintassan's townhouse was constructed of brick in the Sembian style-the first story was half underground, its door at the bottom of a narrow, descending stairway surrounded by a brick retaining wall, and the second story was raised several feet, its door atop a broad stone staircase. The lower quarters, usually reserved for servants, were where Mintassan had set up his shop. A sign mounted over the lower door displayed the sage's sigil, the Beastlands symbol topped by a waxing crescent moon and surrounded by a circle. The sign read, "Mintassan's Mysteries-^Curios from Very Faraway Places." The door itself was divided horizontally, and the top half stood wide open. They could see there wae a light blazing in the shop within.

Just as Alias and Dragonbait approached the stairs, a high-pitched shriek came from the room below. Alias and Dragonbait exchanged glances. There could be a completely innocuous reason for a scream to be coming from the sage's shop, but after all their other evening adventures, caution did not seem out of place. They crept down the staircase and hovered at the doorway, peering in and listening.

Magically glowing stones in glass globes hung from the ceiling, illuminating the shop. Shelves and tables within were covered with the curios from very faraway places. Most of the items were creatures that had once been alive but were now pelts, skeletons or stuffed trophies. Most were creatures Alias had never seen before, but a few she'd heard of in bards' tales. Mixed in among the trophies were a few sculptures of strange creatures and vases and bowls depicting mythic beasts.

In the center of the room, a big man sat on the arm of a red velvet sofa directly beneath a globe. He wore a billowing cotton Shirt and baggy pants, both white, and a powder-blue vest embroidered in gold thread. His long chestnut-brown hair was pulled back into a pony-tail with a leather thong. His back was turned to the door, so Alias could not see his face. In one large hand he held up the bare, shapely leg of someone lying on the sofa, and was currently rubbing something on the sole of the foot belonging to the leg. The high back of the sofa also blocked Alias's view of whoever was lying there, but whoever it was was no doubt the source of the first shriek, for a moment later a second shriek rose from the sofa, followed by a woman's voice crying, "Ow, ow, ow."

"The pain'll be good for you," the man said. "Remind you not to go fire-walking without both your slippers. Personally I prefer heavy boots when I run around burning buildings. Now don't fidget. It takes a moment for the salve to work."

"It wasn't my idea to go barefoot," a woman's voice argued from the sofa. "It was that witch. I told you, the slipper came off when she grabbed my leg. She nearly had me. I was lucky to escape with my skin still on." Even if Alias hadn't recognized the situation described, she would have recognized the voice. It was a little sharper and more nasal than her memory recalled, but it sounded like her mother, the phony mother Finder had given her.

"Jamal, be reasonable," the man requested. "She's dead. She's been dead for years."

"Since when's being dead slowed down a wizard?" the voice on the couch argued. "I'm telling you, Mintassan, Cassana's come after me. The Night Masks set the fire, of course, but she was there, too. She's trying to kill me for that rude skit we did about her and that lich-boytoy of hers."

Mintassan gave a long-suffering sigh and insisted, "Cassana's dead, Jamal."

No, she isn't," Jamal retorted, sitting up straight on the sofa and waving her finger in Mintassan's face.

"Well, actually, yes, she is," Alias said, turning the handle of the lower half of the door and letting herself into the shop. "I cut through her staff of power myself up on the Hill of Fangs ten years ago. I survived the blast that killed her only because I was half standing in another plane. Cassana was burned to ash. And if she came back by some fell sorcery, I'd know immediately, but she hasn't. She's still dead."

Jamal's complexion went as white as an underfed vampire's as she stared wordlessly at the newcomers, one a dead ringer for the sorceress Cassana, the other a lizard creature resembling a monster from a tale of darkest evil.

"Cassana was a distant relation," the swordswoman explained as she circled the sofa and stood before Jamal and Mintassan. "Alias the Sell-Sword, at your service," she introduced herself with a sweeping bow, "and this, I believe, is yours," she added, holding out the slipper she'd taken from the woman in the burning building.

Mintassan shook his look of surprise at Alias's self-announced entrance and smiled broadly. "There, Jamal, see. There was a perfectly rational explanation. Pleased to meet you, Alias. I'm Mintassan the Magnificent, though my friends call me Mintassan the Mad." Mintassail offered his hand, and Alias accepted it in her own.

Mintassan was tall with broad shoulders, but somewhat overweight-his gut parted the center of his vest. Nothing, Alias thought, that a few laps around the Sea of Fallen Stars couldn't take care of. Perched on the sage's nose was a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles made with glass as thin as soap bubbles. Alias wondered if the spectacles were magical or if Mintassan wore them to give himself a look of erudition. In his baggy white pants, billowing shirt, and bright-colored vest, he really looked more like a merchant than a sage. Aside from the glasses, the only other clues to his scholarly interests came from the sigils embroidered in his vest and a tiny ornament fastened to the vest's lapel-what appeared to be the skull of a tiny mammal.

As Alias shook hands with the sage she realized his eyes lingered over the azure tattoo emblazoned on her right arm. Alias pulled her hand away self-consciously and turned her attention back to Jamal.

Jamal remained frozen, staring at the swordswoman, trying, as she fought off her obvious terror of a long-dead sorceress, to take in all of Alias's and Mintassan's words.