Cwalno appeared vaguely uncomfortable, but chuckled grimly. "Who else would they be?" He shoved aside a babbling madman whose handler had dropped the leash. "You can't think a sane man would – er, sony. That must be why Poseidon sent you."

The Amnesian Hero locked gazes with the Mercykiller. "I hope you are not trying to say that I am demented."

Cwalno sneered, while at the same time hastening to shake his head as though he had been terribly misunderstood. "A cutter like yourself? 'Course not!" There was a mocking tone to his voice. "I'm only talking about your condition. Poseidon wouldn't send no blood with a memory to deliver his present. Any berk who can remember half what he's heard about the Lady of Pain would sooner jump into the Abyss than stand face-to-face with her."

The Amnesian Hero sat back and nodded thoughtfully. Despite Cwalno's condescending manner, there was truth in what he said. The King of Seas was by nature a selfish god, hardly the type to restore a mortal's lost memories in return for a simple errand like delivering a gift. Since accepting the amphora, the Thrasson had been expecting to run into some such trouble. Now that he finally had some idea of its nature, he was almost relieved.

"If the Lady is so terrible to face, why are all these people waiting to see her?" As the Amnesian Hero studied the throng of dismal supplicants, it occurred to him they all had an abundance of one thing. "Do the wretches not fear the Lady because of the gifts they bring her?"

Cwalno eyed the derelicts with a disdainful smirk. "And what could the Lady want from these sods?"

"Their suffering, of course! That's why she is called the Lady of Pain, is it not?"

Cwalno, sneered, but was careful to neither nod his head nor shake it. "You'll see soon enough, Thrasson."

The Mercykiller pointed forward, where his three crowd-breaking companions had just pushed through into a large open square. A dozen men in cloaks of bright, spangled colors were cavorting in the space, leaping and tumbling and springing off their hands both forward and backward, all the while voicing a dismal, deep-throated dirge with no words the Amnesian Hero could identify.

On the far side of the square stood the yawning mouth of the Gatehouse's central tower. There were no guards in the area other than the strange acrobats, yet the crowd made no effort to creep forward. They seemed entirely resigned to their wait. From them, even the frantic energy of the tumblers drew no more than gray, disinterested stares.

The scene kindled a feeling of sad inevitability in the Amnesian Hero. The sensation had a vague familiarity that he sometimes experienced in moments of empathy, as though sensing the emotions of others could trigger the sentimental dregs of his own lost history. The Thrasson made no effort to call forth the memory which stirred the emotion; a thousand times he had tried to fish his past from such residues, and never did he draw up more than frustration and biting despair.

The Mercykillers led the procession straight across the square, marching through the acrobats' performance without a word of apology. The intrusion bothered no one, least of all the tumblers, who incorporated it into their act by doing handsprings between the armored guards and somersaults under the chair box. One exceptionally lithe performer leaped high over the forward bearers to come down, light as a feather, on the support shafts before the chair box. He squatted there like a frog with red mad eyes, glaring at the Thrasson and singing in a high, jittery voice:

"O tower not of ivory, but builded

By hands that reach heaven from hell;

O mystical rose of the mire,

O house not of gold but of gain,

O house of unquenchable fire,

Our Lady of Pain!"

The Amnesian Hero leaned forward, carefully considering the words of the mad-eyed acrobat. In the Thrasson's experience, the accomplishment of any great feat required the solving of a riddle, and the fellow's strange words were nothing if not an enigma. He weighed each element of the song: a tower built by hands that stretched from the Lower Planes to the Upper, a magic rose growing in slime, a house of gain and unquenchable fire.

"Of course!" The Thrasson peered past the acrobat, noting the overall shape of the Gatehouse. The central tower was clearly a crowned head. The side wings could be taken for arms, while the comer towers bore a superficial resemblance to closed fists. "The Gatehouse is the Lady of Pain!" The acrobat cackled and bobbed his head, singing:

"I have passed from the outermost portal

To the shrine where a sin is a prayer;

What care though the service be mortal?

O our Lady of Torture, what care?

All thine the last wine that I pour is,

The last in the chalice we drain."

This riddle was even simpler than the last, divided as it was into two-line sections, and the Amnesian Hero was almost disappointed in the answer.

"Often have I been warned to abandon hope before entering some dank place. Many times has someone assured me I would find only anguish inside, or warned me the place's terrible occupant would pour my lifeblood upon the stones. Yet, it is always I that return to the light, and it is always my sword that is smeared with steaming black gore." The Thrasson glanced past the acrobat and saw that they had nearly reached the looming bars of the portcullis. "You must do better than that to frighten the Amnesian Hero."

The acrobat smiled grimly and opened his mouth to speak again-then the shaft of Cwalno's glaive caught him in the head and sent him flying.

"That's enough blather, addle-cove!" The Mercykiller rolled his eyes and turned to the Amnesian Hero. "Pay him no attention. They do that to every poor sod we bring down here. It means nothing."

Quietly seething at his guard for interrupting the third riddle, the Amnesian Hero watched the acrobat gather himself up. "Everything means something."

"Not down here it don't."

The Amnesian Hero looked forward and saw that they had reached the jaws of the great gate tower. He expected the Mercykillers to stop at the threshold and send him into the bleak place alone, but they did not hesitate to escort him inside. The Thrasson found himself in a circular courtyard surrounded by high, gloomy walls. An enormous mosaic of gray-shaded basalt covered the floor, so large that the Thrasson could determine only that the pattern represented some twisted conglomeration of bones. A handful of brightly-cloaked attendants and despairing supplicants stood scattered along the curving walls, their voices filling the area with a gentle murmur of sobbing and softly uttered words of comfort.

Halfway across the circle, the huge portcullis divided the courtyard in two. The bars looked more enormous than ever, descending from a vaulted half-ceiling high overhead to rest inside a set of immense lock wells. The Thrasson could not imagine the creature the gate was meant to keep out, but it seemed clear enough that the present occupants never raised the portcullis. The lock wells were so full of rust and corrosion that a halo of orange crust covered the floor around the base of each bar.

The Amnesian Hero's procession passed through the gate without having to tighten its formation. The back half of the courtyard, covered as it was by a second half-ceiling, was even gloomier than the front. The square eyes of dozens of candle-lit windows peered out from the depths of the citadel, barely illuminating dozens of brown stains that trailed down the walls from a leaky roof. The steady drone of solemn voices, frequently punctuated by an echoing scream from some place deeper in the building, filled the air with a grating hum.

As the eyes of the Amnesian Hero adjusted to the dim light, he saw that this area was far more crowded than the front half of the courtyard. To his left, a long line of petitioners waited before an iron door, patiently allowing a colorfully dressed attendant to sprinkle powder over their filthy heads. In the back of the enclave, a spangle-cloaked dwarf kneeled before another iron door. He was wailing madly and, despite the efforts of two escorts to restrain him, beating himself fiercely about the head. A short distance away, another pair of burly attendants had the arms of a lithe, black-caped woman stretched taut between them. She seemed to be glaring at a gentle-looking elf who stood a safe distance away, addressing her in a voice of honey and holding his palms spread open. Behind him, a third iron door led deeper into the palace.