"Splendid," he hissed. He would miss those boots. Whirling, he hurried back to the bush and snatched up the sack and backpack, holding the small pouch in his free hand. The dwarves were still on the street. One of them was sitting stiffly, the other two were trying to tug their woozy friend to his feet.

Certain they were too full of spirits to notice him, Dhamon strolled nonchalantly toward the trio, the dry grass softly crackling beneath his feet. A moment later, he was beyond them, heading for the far end of town where he knew the stables sprawled. Walk normally, he told himself. Be calm. Arouse no suspicion.

He had nearly reached Ironspike's main thoroughfare when he heard a loud, shrill whistle from behind him. It was followed by the pounding of several pairs of feet.

"Hmm?"

"Rig, I think I heard something."

"Just got to sleep," he protested. "Didn't hear anything. I… wait…" The. mariner stifled a yawn, reluctantly slipped away from Fiona, and shook off a wonderful dream. He'd been captaining an impressive galley on the Blood Sea, and all his old friends were in the crew- Palin and his son Ulin, Groller and Jasper. Two women were draped on his arms-Shaon, an ebony-skinned beauty who dressed in tight, colorful garb, the other a fair-complected, red-haired Solamnic Knight in gleaming plate mail.

He stretched his legs and wrapped a long red curl around his thumb, inhaled its flowery scent and released it, then climbed out of the cramped bed.

There was a whistle, soft at first, repeating a pattern. It grew shriller and came from somewhere outside. Footsteps-someone running. Rig groggily gathered the sheet about his waist and shuffled to the window, brushing aside the canvas curtain and looking down onto the street below. The collection of century-old wood and stone buildings that stretched away beneath him was illuminated by the full, bright summer moon. Only a few lanterns burned outside a handful of taverns.

He worked a kink out of his neck and yawned wide as the whistle blew again. "Couple'a dwarves," he observed. "They're running down a side street. One of them's blowing a whistle. Nothing to… wait a minute. One of them's putting on a jacket. I think it's a town guard. And I see two more following them. Ah! There's a Legion of Steel Knight. And another one!"

Behind him, Fiona started to don her armor.

Dhamon was running now, ignoring the gravel that bit into the bottoms of his bare feet. A slight, gray-cloaked figure cut toward him from an alley, a large satchel slung over its shoulder.

"Pigs," came a breathy curse, as the figure closed the distance between them. A gust of warm summer wind caught the hood and threw it back, and a mass of long, curly white hair spilled out, sparkling like spun silver in the moonlight. "Pigs!" she repeated. "Damn you, Dhamon Grimwulf, for your clumsiness. Yours was supposed to be a quiet job, though the riskiest. Slip into the hospital as a patient. Then slip out with…"

Dhamon thrust the small pouch at her, freeing his hand so he could draw his new sword. "How many are following?"

"Five. Three dwarves. Two Knights. Knights! Truly wonderful, Dhamon," she said as she shook the pouch at him and continued to run at his side. "I visited the silversmith all nice and quiet." She jiggled the satchel over her shoulder so he could hear metal clinking inside. "I should've handled the hospital instead. I could've done it nice and quiet. I should've been the one to…"

"Rikali, you couldn't have carried all of this," came the reply.

I could've, she mouthed, as they ran. "But I wouldn't've liked the stink," she added aloud.

The whistle blew behind them again, and it was punctuated by shutters being flung open, questions flung into the darkness. The number of pounding feet grew, all the sounds eerily muted by the dwarven buildings.

Several blocks away, beyond Dhamon's vision, a small crowd was assembling on the street-a few members dressed in guard jackets and tabards. The majority of them were curious late-night revelers who'd come straggling out of the taverns to see what the to-do was about. These latter were marked by their staggering gaits and loud voices. "Did someone say Sanford's was robbed?" One of them hollered. "And the bakery?"

Among them were two distinct figures, strangers to Ironspike-one with a considerable collection of pouches and water skins hanging from his waist. He was dressed in deerhide breeches and a shirt, and he seemed overly large and imposing compared to the cloaked one at his side, who was barely taller than his knee.

"The bakery?" a few of the revelers repeated.

Meanwhile, Dhamon and Rikali raced along and turned onto the main street, outdistancing the dwarves and the armor-encumbered Knights chasing them.

"There they are-Mai and Fetch! I hope they did as well. Worthless, Fetch is," Rikali stated, spitting on the ground, her eyes on the small man. "Fetch is nothing but worthless."

"Maldred!" Dhamon shouted.

His back to Dhamon, the larger figure raised a hand, then reached behind him and pulled a two-handed sword from a latticed sheath that hung between his broad shoulders. He turned.

"Thief!" A cry cut through the air from behind Dhamon and Rikali. One of the Legion of Steel Knights had caught up and was rounding the corner. "They've robbed the hospital!"

"Pigs! They're comin' at us from both sides of town!" Rikali noticed the growing tavern crowd near Maldred and Fetch. "We should've ducked in an alley."

"Full moon," Dhamon shot back. "They'd have seen us."

"Should've been more careful." She sucked in a breath, increasing her pace.

"I really didn't think they'd discover my handiwork so soon," Dhamon offered.

"C'mon," Rikali urged him. "Move your big feet faster. We've got to get out of here before the whole stinkin' town wakes up." She closed on Maldred and Fetch, Dhamon following her with hobbled feet.

Rig was struggling into his pants and boots while gazing out the window. The mariner saw that other windows were opening, lanterns were being lit. Dwarves were sticking their heads out and trying, like himself, to figure out what was going on. Rig heard shouted questions and the faint cry of "Thieves!"

He hurriedly finished dressing as he glanced up and down the streets from his third-floor vantage point. There! His mouth dropped open. Rig spotted none other than Dhamon Grimwulf, running off to his right toward the main street. There were three others with him. "Dhamon! He's… he's out of the hospital!"

"You're sure it's him?" Fiona was strapping on her leg plates.

"Of course it's him! And it looks like he's being chased," the mariner said. He fumbled about behind him for his belt. "They're… no!"

Beneath his window a dwarf was readying a heavy crossbow, steadying it on a horsepost and aiming it in Dhamon's direction. Though it would be a long shot, Rig didn't want to take any chance that the dwarf might be successful. He muttered a string of curses, acting without thinking.

Rig dashed to the bed, reaching under it and grabbing the brass chamber pot. He slid to the window, quickly took aim, and hurled it down, soundly striking the dwarf and cracking the stock on the weapon. The mariner ducked his head back inside and reached for his sword. He glanced at his plethora of daggers all laid out neatly on his chair and bit his lip. He looked wishfully at his precious glaive propped up against the wall. "No time," he muttered, heading toward the door.

Fiona snatched her shield and was quick on his heels.

Four jacketed dwarves had reached the large man called Maldred. All three were brandishing short swords. The fourth was blowing away on a whistle, red cheeks puffing out almost farcically.