He entered by choice. We all do. Whether we are mapping the heavens or skulking the lanes of the underworld, whether we are hunting the imprisoned fiend or have ourselves become the monster, whether we are searching for what is lost or hiding what must never be found, we all round that first comer by choice-and by then, we are lost.

You too. You must decide what is false and what is true, and what is tme for me but not for you. We are wandering the mazes, all of us, and we cannot hope to escape until we learn to tell between what is real and what is real for someone else. There lies the madness, and the truth as well.

But now the dream is done. It ended back in the cavern, when the Amnesian Hero slammed down on a bed of hard cobblestones and awoke to find himself crumpled at the base of a squalid hut of unmortared stones. His body was still covered by his bronze armor, and he felt remarkably refreshed, as though he had just awakened from a long and profound sleep. For a moment, the unexpected vigor confused him. He thought that perhaps his whole miserable trip to Sigil – better yet, his life since awakening on the shores of Thrassos – had been an unpleasant dream.

The horrid stench of decay quickly dashed his hopes, however, as did the fading ramble of the death wagon. The Thrasson pushed himself upright and saw that he was in a district of shabby gray huts similar to the one at his back. A few stooped forms were scurrying along from one shadow to the next, bare blades flashing in their hands. Otherwise, the street was largely deserted. Jayk the Snake stood a few steps away, cracking the long driver's whip over the heads of the stumbling dray horses.

"Wait!" The Amnesian Hero leapt to his feet and started after the wagon. "The amphora!"

Jayk caught his arm. "I have it, Zoombeel"

The tiefling gestured toward the squalid hut's entryway, where the shadows were too deep to reveal what might be leaning against the wall. As she turned, the Amnesian Hero glimpsed the familiar pearly flash of an abalone comb in her hair. He dropped a hand to his belt and discovered that his coin purse was gone.

"And my coin sack?"

"That, too."

If the tiefling was disappointed that he had noticed, her tone did not betray it. She reached under her cape and produced the purse, now heavily soiled by blood and ichor. He snatched it from her and opened it to peer inside. He still saw plenty of gold, but three other items were missing.

"You are such a berk, Zoombee! The sack, it fell off in the wagon. I do not covet your gold. It is nothing but an illusion."

Jayk turned toward the entryway, but the Amnesian Hero caught her by the arm. He gestured at the comb in her hair.

"Give it back."

The tiefling rolled her eyes, but reluctantly removed the comb and returned it.

"The thread and the mirror, too," he said.

"These are women's things, yes?" Despite her objection, Jayk reached into her robe, producing the silver palm mirror and the spool of golden thread she had taken from his purse. "Why does a man like you cany them?"

"I don't know." The Amnesian Hero returned the objects to his purse and drew it closed. "They were all I had when I awoke on the shores of Thrassos."

Jayk considered this a moment, then said, "So they have no meaning to you. It would have been better to let me keep them."

With that, she stepped through the entrance and instantly disappeared into the shadows. The Amnesian Hero paused long enough to tie his purse onto his belt with a double knot.

"Are you coming, Zoombee? Or do you wait for Tessali and his sleepcaster? You like that mindrest, yes?"

Before he could reply, a door creaked open, spilling a sliver of dark purple light into the doorway, barely illuminating the amphora leaning against the wall. The Thrasson grabbed the jar and followed the tiefling into a windowless chamber that was lit-barely-by three damson-flamed tapers. Unable to see anything except the flickering candles, the Amnesian Hero stood in the doorway, listening as the clatter of a slovenly feast rattled to a stop. The room reeked of charred meat, sulfur-burning pipes, and some rancid swill that smelled like moldy copper.

"What you got there, Jayk?"

The speaker seemed to be somewhere ahead and to one side of the doorway, though it was impossible to be certain. The fellow's voice was so deep and raspy that it croaked out of the darkness from all directions.

"Two silver's the best I'll go," the speaker croaked. "Maybe one more, if you throw in all his goods."

"You think me clueless?" Jayk started forward, vanishing into the purple darkness like a ghost. "Even without his goods, this one goes two gold at least!"

Cursing the tiefling's treachery, the Amnesian Hero reached for his sword, at the same time stooping down to put the amphora on the floor. From the darkness ahead came the sound of chair legs scraping across wet wood.

"Sit, my friends." Jayk's tone was amused. "This one, he would be more trouble than he is worth. I keep him for myself."

The Amnesian Hero felt more than heard the sigh that rustled through the room. A few chairs clattered, and, growing more accustomed to the darkness, he glimpsed a dozen dark shapes returning to their seats. They had high, pointy heads and humped backs, and several seemed to be holding large bone clubs in their gnarled hands. Although many of them sat facing each other at the same tables, not a word passed among the entire group.

The voice that had welcomed Jayk chuckled merrily, then asked, "You got jink?"

"But of course, Brill."

From the darkness ahead came the chime of a thumbnail striking metal, then the Thrasson saw a flash of gold arcing through the darkness. There was a sharp crack, and the coin disappeared in midair. The Amnesian Hero saw a black tendril curling back toward the wall, where a hulking, round-headed silhouette stood behind a chest-high curtain of darkness that was probably a serving counter.

The round-headed figure, presumably Brill, spat the gold into a small spindly-fingered hand. He stowed the coin – the Thrasson's, no doubt – somewhere under his counter.

"Your friend got a name?"

"Zoombee. And we have trouble close behind."

" 'Course," Brill grumbled. "Why else come around when you got jink?"

With a great groan, the silhouette heaved his bulk up and lumbered along to one of the purple tapers. He fumbled beneath his counter a moment, then held a second candle to the damson flame. The wick caught fire, flooding the chamber with a flickering yellow light that gave the Amnesian Hero his first good look at Brill and the room's other occupants. He nearly dropped the amphora.

Brill was a slaad, one of the massive, froglike beings reputed to scavenge the battlefields of the Lower Planes. The Amnesian Hero had never before seen one in the flesh – at least that he could recall-but he had heard many accounts of their taste for blood. This one was a Green, with a flat pate, scalloped brows jutting over wide-set eyes, and a mouth large enough to swallow a swine.

The Amnesian Hero could not identify the race of Brill's customers, but they were uglier than the tavern keeper himself.

They did not bother to cover their leathery nakedness, perhaps because of their sparse covering of wiry bristles, which would have torn most garments to shreds. The shape of their bodies bore a remote semblance to that of a human, though too skeletal, somehow twisted. They had waspish waists showing ugly grates of ribs, knobby-jointed limbs much too long for their bodies, and gnarled, yellow-taloned fingers that looked as though they could dig a bear from its cave. The tables before them were piled high with charred haunches and shoulders, many of which looked human.

As one, the customers swung their gray eyes toward the Amnesian Hero and burst into fits of hissing, as though laughing at some joke he had not heard.