The party was large, almost twenty traders in their finest long robes and brocaded sleeves and tall, gaudy hats. With them were eight bodyguards, mostly scarred and hearty warriors, both male and female, but there was also a craggy dwarf lugging a warhammer. A big-bellied man with a flowing white beard and blue and silver finery stepped forward to wheeze, "We represent the Beneficent-"

"Yes, yes, I know who you are." With the young, petulant disguise came a fussy, whiny voice. "Why are you here? Don't waste my time."

The trader blinked and looked to his fellow delegates, who looked in turn at the ceiling. The man then abandoned his speeches and platitudes and stuttered to the point. "Good sir, we know you represent the might of Lady Polaris and all the Neth above her." At Candlemas's glare, he began to speak faster. "Uh, sir, as you know, Dalekeva is one of the Low Cities that lie on the eastern outskirts of Netheril. As such, we enjoy the love and protection of the empire."

Candlemas doubted that. The Netherese were so contemptuous of groundlings that Low Cities or cesspools were all the same to them.

"We in Dalekeva work for the good of the empire, as do you, sir," the man continued nervously, "and are privileged to trade our meager goods to the High Ones, the Netherese themselves. No army, no despicable wyrm dares come to humble Dalekeva while the High Ones protect us."

That was not quite true, thought Candlemas. Most armies and dragons were just smart enough to steer clear of Netheril. Robbing, raping, or gulping down peasants and horses wasn't worth the grief the empire could muster.

"Yet now, good sir, we find an army threatens on the horizon."

"Eh?" Candlemas lifted his pinched nose. His thoughts had begun to drift as he pondered the wheat rust problem again. Rumors said the rust had spread to the spring barley crop. If so, it meant famine. "What army?"

A middle-aged woman stepped forward, cleared her throat, and caroled, "The army of the One King, sire. That's what he calls himself. No one knows much about him, but he's managed to pull together an army of both orcs and men. They're cooperating, master, something unheard of."

Just to butterfly-brained groundlings, Candlemas thought. In his long life, he'd heard everything at least twice. But it did explain the presence of the oddly well-organized orcs in the forests and mountains below. To startle the man, he asked a question to which he'd already guessed the answer. "He flies the banner of the red splayed hand?"

The traders gasped. The woman answered, "Y-yes, sire. This One King's horde has overrun the city of Tinnainen, killed or enslaved the populace, and made it its headquarters. Tinnainen is only at the fringe of the empire, sire, and is not even a Low City. But it lies not twenty leagues east of us, and we are the next city in its path. The One King has sworn to unite all the land, to the sea as well as the southern deserts. We fear…"

"Yes, of course you do. You fear your own shadows, I expect." Candlemas waved a hand for silence. What a crackbrained notion, sweeping to the sea, as if the empire would let him. And uniting the southern deserts? What for? To build sand castles and farm pit vipers? Poppycock. The Neth had seen hordes before, usually pushed out of the eastern steppes by other hordes pushed west by the growth of empires in distant Kara-Tur. Even the tribe of Sunbright's barbarians had been pushed to the wall of the Barren Mountains a few generations back. The Neth had endured forever, almost, and seen other empires come and go. Most times they didn't care. But any upstart foolish enough to gain the attention of the Netherese fizzled quickly.

"… please, milord?" The woman was still blathering. They say the most horrendous things about the One King. That he commands powerful magics of the most obscene kind. And that he's not even human, but a red dragon in disguise."

"Oh, balderdash!" Candlemas found himself actually divulging secret knowledge to a groundling. " 'Wyrm eats wyrm and so grows great!' Dragons consume only other dragons. No dragon walks out in the open in any guise!" His voice was a haughty squeak, because he himself was guised.

Disgusted with penny-ante clerks, Candlemas was ready to order them all out of the castle, out the nearest window if need be. What did he, and certainly Lady Polaris, care if their miserable city were overrun by a miserable army? It would be justice for their having skimped on building a defense and then squandering their money on lavish clothes. The wizard cared only to note the name of their potentially doomed city, that he might notify Lady Polaris in case one of her cronies owned the pisshole. Then…

"Wait." He pursed pouty lips. "What's the name of your pisshole? Uh, city?"

The sweating traders exchanged glances. "It's Dalekeva, your lordship."

"Dalekeva?" Candlemas unconsciously scratched his healing right arm, even though, guised, it looked fine. "That's not right. What was it formerly called?"

"Oh." One of the men had just recalled that wizards, human or not, lived a very long time. "Under the last dynasty, milord, it was called Oberon's Hold, after the great lord Ober-"

"Yes, yes. Hush. The blank region…" Candlemas talked to himself as his audience regarded him curiously. In the past, at various times, the wizard had tried to scry that area from afar, but could not. Perhaps there'd been a battle there-that was a safe guess for anyplace in the empire-and residual magic clouded scrying, ancient shields and glamours and hexes. There were several spots in Toril where Netherese magic could not penetrate, but this patch of blankness had moved! That was the intrigue. And lately, it had drifted. Where did these idiots say? East. Toward Tinnainen. A powerful lure that, to any real wizard interested in real study. If Candlemas had been a ferret, his nose would have twitched.

Very well then, he'd put these seeking fools to work. For only fools would run to wizards they hated to solve their piddling problems. He'd grant them wizardry, along with terror and mystery and great adventure. That would cure their bellyaching. And if they happened to waltz into the jaws of whatever monsters were moving magic blankets around, all the better.

"Very good. Remain here. And don't touch anything." Humans' hands were always sticky, and they'd mar the porcelain.

Striding from the room, favoring his right arm, Candlemas made the long trek to his workshop high in the center-most tower. Still disguised, he moved to the palantir and rapped it smartly. Instantly the black glass began to smoke; then a gray cloud at the top turned white and sank, revealing Lady Polaris.

The archmage took one look at the caller, curled her red lips, and spat, "Stellmalagra!"

Candlemas barely ducked his nobleman's head as a white-hot lightning bolt exploded from the palantir. Seeking iron and ground, it sizzled over his head and punished an iron hook hammered into a room beam. The force scorched the iron hook to a melted dollop, blackened and set fire to the wooden beam, and spattered hot metal over the cringing Candlemas. Red-hot drops pierced the guise, which included a head of curly black hair, so his bald pate was stung as if by hornets.

"Milady!" yelled the wizard. " 'Tis I, your faithful thrall, Candlemas! Please, cease!"

"Oh." The archmage framed in the black glass squinted. "I thought it was some servant playing with the palantir. Don't you know enough not to summon me while guised?"

Yes, Candlemas did know but, lost in thought, had forgotten. This wheat and corn rust thing was obsessing him. But he'd remember next time. "I beg forgiveness, your ladyship."

"Don't bother. It's nothing. What do you want?"

It occurred to Candlemas that these were the same imperious words he'd flung at the cowering delegates. Not that he felt any sympathy for them. The world was a hierarchy of lords ruling underlings. The trick was to ascend high and fast, and so have more underlings and fewer lords.