"Yes." Ildirin tugged at his beard, then leaned back in his chair. "Creature, we gave you honey," he called at the ceiling. "Is your touch poisonous?"

"Sharp, oh so very sharp, but not poison," the hideous voice said. "A hand will heal cleanly." After a moment's pause, it added, "More honey?"

"Alas, we have no more," Ildirin said. "Thank you, though, for your cooperation."

"No honey?"

"No honey."

"Wring his neck as he sleeps." It tittered horribly.

Lar shuddered.

"I wouldn't think you'll find it easy to sleep any time soon," Ildirin remarked.

"But I must sleep eventually!" Lar shouted, his voice cracking.

A thought popped into Emmis's head, but he caught himself before speaking aloud. The creature was listening, after all.

"So we'll have to find a way to send this thing away before you do," Ildirin said.

Emmis could not restrain himself further. "What if he dies first?" he asked.

Both older men turned to stare at him.

"What?" Lar said.

"What if you die before you go to sleep?"

"I hardly see how that would be an improvement," Lord Ildirin remarked dryly.

"Creature, what would happen if the ambassador died without going to sleep?" Emmis asked the air.

"More honey?"

"I don't have any, but I can fetch some by tomorrow noon," Emmis said.

"You swear? Honey, for me, by noon?"

Emmis was uncomfortably aware of how many things might go wrong, how many ways he might be prevented from abiding by his promise, what horrible things the creature might do if he failed to deliver, but he said, "Yes, I swear. My oath on it."

"Then I tell you, one cannot kill the dead. When he is dead, whether by my hand or not, I am free," the monster's voice said. "Honey, by noon."

"Emmis, what are you doing?" Lar demanded. "What are you talking about?"

Emmis ignored him for the moment, and addressed the overlord's uncle. "Lord Ildirin, you said you had powerful magic available. Magic that can turn a man to stone?" He carefully did not add, "And back?"

Lord Ildirin stared at him for a moment, then smiled.

Lar, uncomprehending, looked back and forth between them.

Ithinia of the Isle, senior Guildmaster in Ethshar of the Spices, was startled by the knock at her window. She looked up to see a gargoyle's familiar face beyond the glass, peering in at her upside-down. "Fang?" she said. "What is it?" She rose and opened the casement, letting the lamplight from her study illuminate the creature's carved gray features. It was hanging down over the eaves, dangling from the roof.

"You have visitors," the gargoyle said, in a voice like stone grating on stone. "Half a dozen of them are standing in the street, outside your door."

"At this hour?"

"Three of them are soldiers."

Ithinia frowned. "Was the overlord there? Or anyone in wizard's robes?"

"No, mistress."

"I haven't heard the bell."

"They did not ring. I saw them standing there arguing, and I thought you should know."

"Thank you, Fang. Return to your post, now."

"Yes, mistress." The stony creature turned and pulled itself up into the darkness, on its way back to its perch on the southeastern corner of the roof.

Ithinia set aside the letter she had been reading, straightened her robe, and strode out into the corridor – and then the bell did ring. Whoever was at the front door had finally gotten up the nerve to announce themselves.

She swept down the front stairs, wishing that she had some sort of spell ready to make her entrance a little more impressive, but she hadn't been expecting anyone and hadn't prepared anything. She waved and spoke a certain word, and the front doors swung open.

As the gargoyle had said, there were half a dozen people standing on her little porch, all of them male – three guardsmen, two strangers, and one familiar face.

"Lord Ildirin," she said, as she reached the entry. "What brings you to my door at this hour?"

"Oh, it's not so late as all that, Guildmaster," the old man said. "We've come directly from our supper to ask your aid."

"I hadn't thought it was a social call," Ithinia said tartly. "Would you care to come in, and introduce your companions?" She stepped aside, and gestured for them to enter.

"Before I do, Guildmaster, might I ask how many you see in our company?"

Ithinia stopped and looked the little group over carefully. "I take it 'six' is not the correct answer?"

"While I cannot be entirely certain, I believe there is a seventh," Ildirin said. "Are there protective spells on your home that would prevent Fendel's Assassin from entering?"

"There aren't any such spells anywhere," Ithinia snapped. "Not any practical ones, anyway. Do you mean you have one of those things with you? Who is its target?"

"I am," the stranger in the fancy hat said.

"I trust you have put your affairs in order?"

"No," the man said. "I hope it won't be necessary." He spoke with the accent of the southern Small Kingdoms.

"I take it that's why you've come to see me? You've wasted your time; there's no sure defense against Fendel's Assassin, no simple countercharm."

"He thinks he has a way to stop it," Lord Ildirin said, nodding at the other stranger, a young man in ordinary Ethsharitic clothing.

"Does he? What method was it told to use? I assume you've determined that."

"It's been ordered to strangle him in his sleep," Ildirin said.

"And I suppose you want a potion to keep him from sleeping? Really, Lord Ildirin, you hardly needed to trouble me for that – and in any case, it won't work, not for long; most wakefulness potions wear off after a sixnight or so.

"My dear Ithinia, I am not so great a fool as that," Ildirin said, drawing himself up to his full height. "We came here because we need powerful magic quickly, and did not want to waste time asking around the Wizards' Quarter until we found someone capable of it, not when your home was so close at hand. There are also certain political matters that I wish to discuss with you, in your role as a leading representative of the Wizards' Guild in Ethshar of the Spices, once my friend's inconvenience has been dealt with."

Ithinia had to admit to herself that that sounded interesting. "And what is this magic you seek, then?"

"Petrifaction. We want you to turn Lar Samber's son to stone."

The wizard considered that, and a smile spread across her face. "I see," she said. "That's quite clever, really." She nodded at the young man in acknowledgment. "I take it that Bazil's Irreversible Petrifaction is out of the question, though, and you'd insist on Fendel's Superior Petrifaction?"

"In what way is it superior?" Ildirin asked.

"It's easily reversible," Ithinia explained.

"Yes, that would indeed be what we had in mind."

"The ingredients are simple, and I believe I have them all on hand, but it takes perhaps three hours to prepare," she said. "And the reversal will require me to smash a crystal goblet, so of course I must insist on compensation."

"Of course! The city's treasuries will cover all costs."

Ithinia stared at him for a moment, then looked at the foreigner. "Who is this person, then? Lar someone, you said?"

"Lar Samber's son," Lar said, with a bow and a tip of his hat. "Ambassador plenipotentiary from the Empire of Vond."

Ithinia frowned. "Vond?"

"The union of seventeen of the most southerly Small Kingdoms, my lady," Lar said.

"My title is Guildmaster," Ithinia told him. "And I know where Vond is, and how it came to be."

Lar bowed a silent reply.

"I'm not sure I should be preventing his assassination," Ithinia said. "The Wizards' Guild does not meddle in politics without good reason."