Hoxitl, high priest of Zaltec, lingered behind as if he in particular would challenge his ruler's wishes. The cleric suddenly thought better of the idea, starting down the long stairway to the plaza below, though not before he cast a vicious sidelong glare at Colon. The patriarch of Qotal did not acknowledge his colleague's look.

Naltecona ignored the discomfort of his clerics, waiting until all of them had descended beyond earshot. The pair stood alone, high above the city, on the flat summit of the pyramid. He fixed the white-haired Colon with an iron gaze, as if the force of his will could compel the patriarch to speak.

Then he whirled away, knowing that Colon was bound by his vow. "Why is it that the one cleric who might offer me comfort and wisdom has taken it upon himself not to speak?"

He turned back to the cleric. "All the others will instruct me for hours on end! They will all tell me that their gods are hungry, that they need more hearts, more bodies, to feed them! And we give them those hearts, and still they send these signs!" Naltecona's anguish twisted his voice as he looked skyward, earthward, anyplace away from those tormented, mocking lakes.

"What does this mean?" Naltecona's voice lost all control, ringing shrill and frantic. "You know, Colon. You see and understand! You must tell me!"

The cleric met the gaze of the Revered Counselor with his own eyes, compassionate and grim at the same time.

"The lake of Qotal shows no disturbance, while the olhers seem to boil away before our eyes!" Naltecona raged on. "How can I understand? I must know!"

Colon did not look away, but, of course, neither did he speak. In sudden frustralion, Ihe leader turned back to the unnatural vista surrounding his glorious cily.

"Is this the sign of Qotal's return?" Naltecona asked the question in a subdued tone, hoping and fearing at the same time. He continued, as if ultimately relieved to have a listener who would not speak in return.

"I remember your teaching, patriarch, before you assumed your grand office and look your bothersome vow! You told us of the god-king Qotal, the Plumed One, rightful ruler of the True World… how he sailed to the east in his grand canoe, promising to return when the people of Maztica had proven themselves worthy of his leadership!"

For the first time, the cleric moved his gaze from Naltecona, looking to the east as if he expected the image of the Plumed One to appear momentarily. Then Colon turned his age-wizened eyes back to Naltecona, and the counselor met his gaze with pathetic eagerness, seeking an answer in those eyes that was not to be found.

"This is the sign, I believe," said Naltecona, forcing himself to accept the evidence.

"Qotal returns to Maztica."

Cordell stroked the thin wisps of his beard, striving to contain his delight. He looked, he knew, resplendent in his green robe with its collar of emeralds and diamonds. Boots of blackest leather reached past his knees, and his ornamental steel breastplate and helm gave him a gleaming martial air.

Beside him stood Darien, her hood thrown back and her striking white hair glowing with its own iridescence. Her own gown of blood-red silk shone in stark contrast to her alabaster skin. A cluster of rubies gleamed in a lone hairpin, a shocking burst of color against the elf's snowy white hair.

"I tell you, one spell and we would have them all!" The elf spoke in an almost inaudible whisper, but the urgency of her argument was plain.

"No… it's too risky. The council is certain to have defenses against such an attempt!" Cordell spoke in a similar whisper.

"But do you think you can persuade them?"

"I am certain of it."

"The Council, Captain-General" A liveried guard opened the brass door with a flourish, bowing low and waving Cordell and his lady into the room.

Cordell strode casually through the door, Darien feather light on his arm. They walked on a carpet of snowy white, the elf woman's crystal slippers gliding through the woolen nap while the general's boots left faint smudges of mud.

"Captain-General Cordell, the Council of Six salutes you. You have struck a blow for Amn, and for the forces of order throughout the Realms." The speaker was a member of the council, one of the ruling merchant princes of Amn. He stood in anonymous darkness across the room. His voice was deep and resonant. The general could see several figures there, above him and behind a partition that looked like the front of a great bench.

Several small candles, shaded with stained-glass screens, cast a dim light through the chamber. The council held court at the great bench, while those who entered followed the carpet to a large, circular area before the six merchant princes of Amn.

Cordell noticed with satisfaction that all six members were present. All six stood to greet him. Each face, of course, was concealed by a black silken gauze of airy weight that provided total concealment. The six were the masters of the mighty trading nation of Amn, and their identities were the most closely guarded secrets in the land.

"The end of Akbet-Khrul's pirates is a historical moment for us all."

Cordell waved off the gratitude, raising his helmet and bowing deeply. Darien curtsied with elven grace, and the six members of the council took their seats as Cordell began to speak.

"Gentlemen – forgive me, and ladies, should you be present – it is an honor to attend you. I must point out in all humility that there may be small pirate outposts still thriving in the depths of the isles. But passage through Asavir's Channel should be uninterrupted for the foreseeable future."

"Indeed!" This speaker, a man with a rather high-pitched voice, sat on the far left of the council. Cordell pictured a fat merchant rubbing his palms together in glee, though of course the mask and voluminous robe made any estimate as to the merchant's appearance purely conjectural. "You will find your payment in the chest before you, together with a bonus we trust you will find satisfactory."

"Your generosity, as always, overwhelms me." With a supreme effort of will, Cordell forced himself to avoid looking at the chest. He paused, allowing them to note and wonder at his restraint. When he sensed their growing curiosity, he resumed.

"I wish to present you an alternate proposition, however – a chance to keep your treasure, and gain more. Tenfold, fiftyfold what you have here!"

He paused for another moment to let the seed take root. All six of the merchant princes sat unmoving, waiting for him to continue.

"The trade routes to Waterdeep and all the coast are open to you now, but what of the great land trail to Kara-Tur?" The image of vast Kara-Tur, he knew, could not help but conjure images of tea, spices, rubies, and silk among the merchants.

Cordell quickly launched his arguments. "These routes are closed now by the hordes of the steppes! The spices, the arts – treasures such as this very rug beneath my feet – all the goods of the East are lost."

This reminder, painful to all profit-motivated folk, was not really necessary. Everyone knew that all land routes through the center of the continent, the trade paths for all the goods of Kara-Tur, were currently useless. A vast migratory horde of barbarian horsemen had closed all these lands to civilized pursuits.

"Lost not just to Amn, remember, but lost to the entire Realms! Hundreds of cities thirst for goods that are not to be had!

"Think, O Princes, what rewards await the one who opens trade with the East… and the ones who support him!" They listen well… they will be mine.

"Surely you don't suggest that your legion open a route through the steppeland?" the squeaky merchant asked incredulously. The horde reputedly numbered more than a million savage fighters.