"What do you hear?" shouted Malocchio Aderre, but his servant could not answer. The droning of the voice had become a song, a dirge of shattered faith and forsaken love. It was the tale of Lord Soth, sung by the thrice-cursed knight himself.

The words of that dire song gathered along the border, but would not pass beyond. They coalesced into thorny stems that reached high into the sky. With each new verse of Soth's lament, the stems stretched upward, swelling at the tops with tightly dosed buds. Then the song grew discordant, the story confused. The orderly row of stems tangled. The thorns tore at each other, and the wounds they left wept thick, viscous tears.

Gesmas felt the song take root in his mind. The melody sent tendrils deep into his thoughts, seeking out memories the spy had carefully walled off. They tapped into his most ghastly deeds, the morbid and horrific reflections that surrounded them, and drank of their vileness.

The urge to expel that poison overwhelmed Gesmas, and he himself began to sing. His crimes-and those of every other soul within the spectre-haunted land-created a dreadful harmony that swelled the buds atop the tangled stems. Finally, when no more voices could be added to the chorus, the flowers opened.

Black roses. Their petals blotted out the sky and filled the world with the fragrance of corruption.

Countless pairs of hungry, hunting eyes followed the passage of Azrael's open-air carriage as it careened along the road to Nedragaard Keep. Nothing sprang from the night-cloaked forest or slithered up from the noxious mires that bordered the way. The creatures that stalked the Sithican wilds knew the distinctive sound of the dwarfs trap. The two-wheeled carriage was armored in the teeth of Azrael's fallen enemies. Tusks and fangs and molars chattered nervously at every bump in the road, warning away anyone or anything that might mistake Azrael for a common wayfarer.

Not that many travelers frequented the byways of Sithicus. The land's three main cities-Mal-Erek, Hroth, and Har-Thelen-were largely self-sufficient. The elves who inhabited those gray, joyless places shunned trade, even with their own kind. A plague known as the White Fever, which had swept back and forth across the land like a reaper's scythe for more than two decades, only made the cities more insular. That didn't slow the sickness. It ravaged town and farm alike, sometimes carrying off a single soul, sometimes an entire village.

As Azrael's trap hurtled through a crossroads, it encountered one of the more visible signs of the White Fever's presence in Sithicus. The horse's I hooves and the studded wheels shattered bones and sent up a cloud of pale, choking dust. The crossroads were white with the sun-bleached remains of plague victims. Even isolated intersections such as this held the scavenger-picked leftovers from a dozen or more corpses. During major outbreaks, so many bodies choked the larger crossroads that their moaning, writhing mass halted all but the heaviest wagons. The ways remained blocked until scrounging animals picked the carcasses down to more easily trampled heaps.

Not long after the plague's arrival in Sithicus, superstitious farmers had initiated the practice of tying the sick and dying at the meeting of two roads. The bodies were staked out with each of their four limbs pointing down a different path, in hopes of confusing the plague spirits that supposedly carried the disease. The more sophisticated townsfolk labeled this practice sheer foolishness. They believed that the White Fever spread by sight, since the victim's eyes bulged grotesquely in the hours before death. The townsfolk, too, left bodies at the crossroads, but they didn't stake them out. They beheaded the afflicted, then bundled the head in a burlap sack and placed it atop the corpse's chest. In recent months, the two groups had adopted each others' safeguards, so that now the dying were beheaded and their remains splayed in four directions.

"I'm the only one to survive it," Azrael said as the trap lurched over a skull. He turned back to grin triumphantly at his captive. Over the grim chattering of the trap, he added, "I fought the White Fever for three years. It finally gave up back in 'thirty-six. The plague has slaughtered hundreds, thousands, but it couldn't kill me."

Gesmas only nodded. Scars on the dwarfs face matched those left by the pustules characteristic of the Fever's second stage. A prolonged battle with the Fever might also explain why Azrael had been described as stooped with age in some of the older stories Gesmas had heard. The disease leeched the color from the flesh and the hair, making the victim look ancient before his time. Two decades ago, when the plague was still obscure, its effects might have been confused with old age.

But Azrael had not told Gesmas about his triumph over the White Fever to clarify his understanding of Sithican history. The story was intended to underscore the hopelessness of his situation. The dwarf was really saying: If Death itself couldn't best me, what chance does a spy with a twisted leg have?

The reminder was unnecessary. From the moment Gesmas had come to his senses, he'd recognized the dire nature of his plight. Rust-rime iron shackles clamped his hands behind his back. A rope looped through a metal ring on the carriage floor bound his feet. He could not stand, could maintain his balance enough to sit up only when Azrael slowed the horse-which had occurred only twice in their dash along the lonely road. When Gesmas managed to survey his surroundings, he found the two dead riders trailing at just the right distance to intercept him should he manage to get free of his shackles and the carriage.

The spy's instincts offered no clever vision of escape. The place had blinded his extra-sight, veiled it like the black moon Nuitari veiled certain stars as it made its way across the night sky. The utterly corrupt could view Nuitari's face. For the rest, the only way to "see" the ebon orb was to seek out what it concealed.

Gesmas stared hard into the velvet dome of the night. The constellations were all strange to him, but after a time he perceived a void where it seemed there should be stars. "Is the moon full tonight?" he asked, knowing that his captor would offer some sort of answer, even if it had nothing to do with his question. Azrael seemed to dislike silence.

"From the things you confessed in the song," the dwarf replied, "you should be able to see for yourself."

Gesmas could still taste the dirge's poison in his mouth, though he couldn't recall anything clearly from the time the song started to the moment he realized he was a prisoner, already miles from the border. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said. "I told you before, I'm no one. Just a bard collecting local stories."

Azrael whipped the horse furiously, though the beast could not have traveled any faster had it been graced with wings. "You'd be better served by a different tale than that," he said. "No bard I've ever met believed himself to be 'no one.' Besides, what storyteller is important enough to make Malocchio Aderre appear with a single shriek for help? I don't really care about that. But what I can't tolerate -" Without warning, the dwarf kicked backward with one foot. The iron-soled boot struck Gesmas in the chest. "I can't tolerate modesty."

Azrael's voice lacked the faintest trace of anger, which unsettled his prisoner even more than the attack. "You confessed to some pretty gruesome deeds," the dwarf continued, as if the conversation were occurring across a cozy dinner table. "There aren't many with your tolerance for bloodshed. I could have used you. Why, I'll wager you've never lost a night's sleep over any of it-the assassinations, the torture…"