"Well, thank the gods for such grand favors," Durnan muttered aloud at that grim thought as he ducked away from a part of the worm-thing that had suddenly grown bony spurs and was flailing at him.

He took one numbing gash high on his arm, near his left shoulder-and then he and his foe both staggered. Someone in the crowd had hurled at them both a blasting spell strong enough to rock the ruins around them-and the dragon rune's dome had flung it straight back at its source.

The packed throng of spectators was suddenly a screaming, fleeing mob generously sprayed with blood, pulped, boneless things struggled weakly on the slick stones around a ring of cleared space at the center of the lane.

Durnan lunged under his foe's bony, flailing arm and caught hold of the wormlike coils, lifting them with a sudden grunt of effort. There was a horrible shifting and wriggling in his hands as slashing teeth and talons struggled to be born, and then the tavernmaster set his teeth and heaved, the muscles in his shoulders rippled once, and the shapeshifting thing was flung away through the air.

It landed with a heavy, wet smack, and flopped spasmodically once or twice-but could not lift itself off the row of iron spikes that stuck up through its flowing flesh like a line of blades. It sagged, burbled forth a whistling sigh, and hung limp. Dark gore dripped slowly onto the stones beneath it. Useful things, sword-blade fences.

A deep blue glow flickered and faded around the corpse as it melted back into the ungainly limbs and bare-brained, fanged head of a doppleganger.

Durnan's eyes narrowed as a small white flare marked the passing of his own dragon rune defenses. Someone-in the crowd?-had been feeding that beast spells, and probably controlling it, too.

"I am Xuzoun," a deep voice rolled out from close behind him, heavy with confident menace, "and you, Durnan of Waterdeep, have just slain my most loyal servant."

Durnan spun around to find-as he'd expected-the beholder looming over him, great and terrible. Its huge, lone central eye gloated coldly as the stones all around him erupted into conjured, questing black tentacles.

"The teleport that brought me here was yours, then?"

Durnan asked. "And this… duel staged for my benefit?" His face and voice showed no fear as his sword and knife came up smoothly to face the eye tyrant-and the tentacles grew around him like swaying, upright eels.

"Of course," the beholder told him silkily. "I've gone to much trouble to take you."

Durnan cast a quick look around at the slowly and carefully closing ring of tentacles. "And why would that be?" he asked softly.

"I desire to wear the body of a Lord of Waterdeep for a time," the fell monster said with a smile that showed him a row of jagged fangs, some of which outstripped his sword for length. "And-unfortunately for the sometimes-famous and often beloved-of-the-gods man called Durnan-I've chosen you."

Strange sights in plenty are seen in Skullport, and folk who survive there long have learned not to stare overmuch, nor linger long in one place, lest they be marked for dealing with later. So it was that no lizard-man or scurrying halfling moved more than a wary eyeball as a little line of drifting, dancing sparks of radiance came out of the darkness, heading down a certain alley that was narrow and noisome even for the Source of Slaves. A sorceress out ahunting from the great city above, perhaps, or a fetch sent by a noble's pet wizard… or a brood of will o' wisp younglings? It was better not to speculate, but merely to observe without being seen to look, and mark where the lights went.

More than a few of those watchful eyes widened as they recognized the shuffling, wheezing bulk that trudged along in the lights' wake, worn leather boots flopping. A Lord of Waterdeep, now…

Many folk skulking the streets of Skullport would fain be seeing the sun over Waterdeep above, were it not for the lords' decrees. Mirt specifically had made rather more than a hand-count of personal foes down the years, too. Some of them had offered much coin for his delivery to their feet, alive and more or less whole, or failing that, just his head, goggling on a platter.

So it was that the distinctive rolling walk and bristling mustache was noticed by many in the circumspect crowd, and excited whispers and hurryings followed those recognitions. It was not long before a dagger spun out of the night, thrown hard and unerringly, coming fast at the old Harper's left eyeball. Mirt ignored it, keeping his gaze instead on the stones underfoot, bodies that might move to block his path, and the guiding trail of motes.

The dagger struck his invisible shields and spun away with the faintest of singing sounds, heading back at the hand that had flung it. So, too, did a stone that leapt out of the darkness at the back of Mirt's head- and another, the band of slayers-for-hire hight Hoelorton's Hands were known to be deft hands with a sling.

Or a cudgel. Mirt heard the faint scraping sound of a rushing boot on stone, and spun around like a wary barrel, his belt dagger gleaming in one fat fist. Two rogues were almost upon him, running fast. One swung his stout club in a deadly arc as he came.

The fat moneylender's hairy fingers plucked at the battered wood as it whistled past, and pulled. Overbalanced, the startled man had barely time for an apprehensive grunt as the pommel of Mirt's dagger came up under his chin. The blow sent him swiftly into the arms of the ladies who whisper softly to warriors in slumber: he crashed over like a felled tree, spitting teeth from his shattered jaw, eyes already dark.

The second man had to dance around the falling body, and met Mirt's roundhouse left while still trying to raise his cudgel. Mirt let his knuckles take the man's head into the nearest wall, hard, and felt something break under them before he spun away to follow the drifting lights again, wheezing along patiently as if nothing had befallen. The two slumped forms in the alley did not rise to follow.

Another dagger flashed out of the darkness, and a bucketful of stones plummetted from the air as Mirt trudged under one of the many catwalks that crisscrossed the emptiness above most streets and passages of Skullport. His shields sent both offerings back whence they'd come, journeys marked by strangled, gurgling cries.

Mirt sighed in reply-Faerun certainly seemed to breed no pressing shortage of fools these days-and hunched his shoulders to pass under a particularly low catwalk.

A garotte slipped down and around his throat as he emerged into the torchlight beyond-but the fat old lord paid it no apparent heed, striding deliberately on. Only the corded muscles rising into view on his thick neck betrayed the effort it took to walk on without slowing, as the waxed cord skittered over the hard, smooth steel of the gorget that covered his grizzled throat.

It took less than a breath before the wheezing merchant reached the full stretch of the deadly cord and the skilled arms that wielded it. With a startled oath, their leather-clad owner pitched forward out of the darkness above, hauled down into the street like a grain-sack from a loft. A casual swing of one thick arm brought a belt dagger solidly into the masked man's temple, and the garotte fell to the cobbles alongside its limp and crumpled owner. Mirt did not even bother to look down, this was Skullport, after all. Moreover, business awaited him ahead… and if he knew Durnan, 'twould be hasty business.

Three masked figures stepped out of a side alley, down the passage ahead of him, but Mirt showed no sign of slowing or drawing the stout sword at his belt. He forged on steadily into waiting death, and after a tense moment one of the three stepped back and waved at his fellows to do likewise.

"Your pardon, Mirt," he growled. "You're looking so well, I almost didn't know you."