On the other hand, maybe he was simply overexcited himself. He certainly didn’t see anything amiss on the night-darkened avenue the parade was traversing, a cobbled thoroughfare whose several gymnasiums, baths, and schools of fencing bespoke the Chessentan enthusiasm for physical culture and military arts.

He took another step, and the feeling of revulsion seized him again. But this time it was directional. Whatever it was that was so sickeningly wrong, it lay somewhere to the north.

Medrash told the woman, “I have to go.” He disentangled himself from her arm and-ignoring the several marchers who called out, imploring him to remain-jogged down a side street.

The boulevard he’d just forsaken was relatively straight, probably one reason the cultists had chosen it for their parade route. The cramped little streets, alleys, and dead ends in which he now found himself decidedly were not. From what he understood, the layout of Luthcheq was labyrinthine even by human standards. Maybe that was one reason people called the place the City of Madness, an old nickname its citizens employed with perverse and jocular pride.

In any case, the frequent turns, combined with the darkness and his relative ignorance of the city, disoriented him. One moment he was facing the towering black slab of a cliff that stood at one end of Luthcheq, and the next-or so it seemed-he was striding down the slope that ultimately ran to the River Adder. He might have despaired of finding his objective, except that pangs of loathing recurred periodically to guide him on.

They were becoming weaker and less frequent, though, as if a new talent was becoming fatigued. Or as if the spirit who’d decided to inspire him was losing interest.

Please, he prayed, if this isn’t just my imagination, take me the whole way. Whatever’s wrong, give me a chance to set it right.

Another stab of hatred made his muscles jump. This time the source was overhead.

He looked up. A shadow hurtled over him and the street in which he stood, springing from one rooftop to another. It was gone so quickly that he had no idea who or what it had been.

Lightning seething painlessly and uselessly in his throat, he wanted to give chase but knew it would be pointless. He had no hope of tracking his quarry over the rooftops. He was no acrobat-and even if he were, by the time he got up there, the leaper would have too long a lead.

Maybe he could at least glean some hint of what was going on. He scrutinized his surroundings.

The perceptions of ill had led him to one of the shabbier sections of the city, where tenements jammed to bursting with the poor leaned drunkenly, one against the next. The phantom he’d barely glimpsed had jumped from one such structure, a wooden building several stories tall, with layers of scrawled graffiti blemishing the base.

A pair of shutters on the top story swung open partway. There was a flicker of movement in the darkness beyond, then nothing. It was like someone had tried to open the shutters completely-to lean out and cry for help?-but something had prevented him.

Medrash ran to the tenement and opened the front door.

He’d never been inside this type of human habitation. But Tymanther had its own paupers, and in his limited experience, the places where they dwelled tended to be noisy.

In contrast, this building was silent-like the residents knew trouble had paid a call, and were keeping quiet for fear of attracting its attention.

Medrash found a shadowy stairwell and headed upward. The soft risers creaked and bowed alarmingly under his weight, but he didn’t let it slow him down.

The uppermost floor smelled of onions. All the doors were closed, and he couldn’t tell which corresponded to the half-opened shutters he’d observed outside.

He rapped on the nearest. “Are you in trouble?” he called. “Or are your neighbors? I’m here to help.”

No one answered.

He knocked and shouted at the next, and once again nobody answered. Then it occurred to him that if an intruder had broken into one of the apartments and then fled via the roof, the door to that room would likely be unlocked and unbarred.

So he worked his way down the hall, testing each handle in turn. Sure enough, one door was unsecured. Holding his sword ready, he swung it open.

The space on the other side smelled of charred flesh, spilled blood, and the overturned chamber pot. The wavering light of a single smoky oil lamp revealed several bodies strewn around the room. Two of the children had burned to death, and it was a wonder the flames hadn’t spread to consume the room as well. The other corpses were slashed and torn.

Except that one of them wasn’t a corpse after all. The skinny, dark-haired man sprawled beneath the window proved that by groaning and stirring feebly.

“Hang on,” Medrash said. “I can help you.” He kindled the warmth of a paladin’s healing touch in his empty hand, then started forward.

At the sound of his voice, the human oriented on him, and his eyes opened wide. Despite the deep gashes running down his torso, he somehow managed to flounder to his feet.

Medrash realized the wounded man had mistaken him for another assailant. It was a natural mistake, especially if-like many humans-he knew little or nothing about the dragonborn.

“I swear,” Medrash said, “I’m a friend. See?” He stooped and set his sword on the gory floor, then eased forward again.

For a moment, it seemed he’d succeeded in reassuring the man. Then the fellow wailed and flailed his arm, and Medrash belatedly noticed the knife in his hand. The blade was clean; he hadn’t succeeded in stabbing or cutting any of his real enemies.

Medrash jumped back, and the wild attack fell short. Then he lunged, hands poised to disarm and immobilize the wounded man. It seemed to be the only way to make the poor addled wretch submit to his ministrations.

The human recoiled, and the windowsill caught him across the back of his thighs. He pitched backward, knocking the shutters completely open.

Medrash snatched at him, but caught only air. The injured man tumbled out of sight. A thud announced his collision with the ground below. Barring extraordinary luck, that drop would have killed anyone. It had surely killed a man who was almost dead even before he fell.

Medrash clenched his fists so tightly that his talons sank into his palms. At that moment, he hated whoever had perpetrated this atrocity, and he hated himself as well for failing to prevent it.

Why hadn’t he run faster, or been more clever about finding the way here? And if he couldn’t arrive in time to stop the attack, why hadn’t he at least had the wit to use his preternatural powers of persuasion to calm the survivor?

He was still reproaching himself when he noticed the daub of fresh pigment on the wall.

11-16 CHES, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

Griffons hated the confinement of a sea voyage. You could make it a little more tolerable for them by flying them on a regular basis, but even that was no panacea. They were creatures of the mountains and the plains, and they felt ill at ease soaring over vast expanses of salt water.

Now that the cogs had finally docked, the winged mounts were frantic to get off, and their masters were having a difficult time controlling them. Their screeching spooked the horses, with the result that they too were difficult to manage. One chestnut gelding had already stumbled off a gangplank to splash down in the brown water below. It was a miracle the idiot beast hadn’t injured itself.

In short, the process of debarkation was a tedious, aggravating chaos, and Aoth Fezim regarded the muddy, rutted road that ran away from the docks with equal disfavor. “Before the sea retreated,” he said, “Luthcheq sat on the Bay of Chessenta. We wouldn’t have needed to march from the river to the city.”