Azriim sat three tables away, his dusky skin gray in the light of the oil lamps, his long pale hair held off his face with a jeweled fillet. Only in Selgaunt's Foreign District could a half-drow like Azriim go unremarked. Sembians were notoriously prejudiced against elves of any type, but in Selgaunt coin spoke before race. And Azriim's taste in finery suggested great wealth. Had they been in the Dalelands, Azriim would have been arrested on sight, probably hanged.

Dolgan shared Azriim's table. The weight of the large Cormyrean, heavy-laden with axes, ring mail, and a round gut, bowed the thick legs of the wooden chair.

Vraggen brought his gaze back to Norel, though the Zhent made only occasional eye contact. "I thought you were dead," Norel said.

Vraggen smiled and replied, "You can see that I am not. I was merely away from the city for a time."

Norel gave a quick nod, and took a long pull on his ale. The Zhent operative was struggling to look calm, but Vraggen saw through the facade: the furrowed brow, the white-knuckled grip on his tankard. Norel was nervous.

Norel put back another long gulp of his ale, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and set the tankard down on the table with a smack.

"You wanted me here, mage, and here I am. What you got? A side job?"

A side job—work beneath the attention of the Zhent leadership that an operative might do on his own time to fill his own pockets rather than the coffers of the organization.

"Of a sort," Vraggen replied, being deliberately vague.

That was mundane enough that it seemed to relax Norel. He leaned forward, an eager gleam in his dark eyes.

"Let's hear it then."

Vraggen folded his hands on the table and looked Norel in the face. The Zhent's initial response to Vraggen's next words would be important.

"There's a war brewing in the Network, Norel. It's time each of us picked a side and fought. Do you see that?"

Norel's eyes narrowed. He probably was still stuck on the idea of an ordinary side job. It took a moment for him to redirect his thoughts.

"War? You mean—" His eyes went to Vraggen's brass cloak pin, in the shape of a jawless skull in a sunburst, and his expression showed understanding. "You mean what I think you mean?"

Vraggen nodded but added nothing. He wanted to let Norel's thoughts run their course.

Norel's gaze returned to the pin, returned to Vraggen. The Zhent's thoughts were writ plain on his face. Bane, the god of tyranny, had returned to Faerun and the resurgent Banites were in the process of retaking their historic place amongst the Zhent leadership. The Cyricists, who had murdered many Banites while seizing power in the Network, found themselves the target of the Banites' vengeance. An internal schism had rent the organization. Mostly it was fought in the shadows with poison, assassinations, and the like, but of late, the Banites had grown confident, and the murders of Cyricists had become public and ritualized. Message-killings, really. Vraggen had heard that message and heeded it. That was why he'd left Selgaunt in search of the globe.

But Norel knew none of that, or little anyway. Like most Zhents who were not in positions of leadership, Norel wanted to stay neutral and weather the religious storm. But that day was past. Either he would side with Vraggen or he would die.

Ultimately, Vraggen planned to retake the Network with his own private war on the Banite leadership. For that, he needed soldiers—Zhents without loyalty to the Banites, Zhents like Norel—and power. He was in the process of gathering both. The risks were high, but if he were successful he would have taken the first step in eliminating the Banites from the Zhentarim. Surely Cyric would reward such a coup.

He returned his thoughts to Norel and asked, "Well?"

"Well? Dark and empty, man! Are you mad? It hasn't been a war. It's been a slaughter."

Vraggen could not deny it, though hearing Norel say it aloud brought a flash of rage. It had been a slaughter, at least so far. Cyric was culling his flock of the weak, Vraggen supposed. Unfortunate, but necessary.

Norel, warming to the subject, went on, "I mean, I haven't seen a priest of Cyric on a job for over a month. Not one that was alive at the end of it, at least."

Vraggen bit back the impulse to smack the smugness from Norel's face, and said, "I'm not a priest, Norel."

Norel's eyes flashed fear. He looked into Vraggen's face, only for an instant, and looked away.

"No. I guess you're not. But you're still a mad bastard. Seeking a fight with the Banites is ... is ..." He stuttered, obviously struggling for the right word, and finally settling on the rather unimpressive and repetitive, "... is madness."

Vraggen sighed and decided to give Norel one more chance.

"Consider the rewards, Norel. If I'm—if we're—successful, imagine the power, the wealth. What's your take per job, now? A twentieth?"

Norel nodded slowly.

"I'm prepared to double that. Think about it. A tenth."

Vraggen could be free with promises of coin because wealth meant nothing to him. This was to be a religious war, not the pursuit of lucre. But he knew coin would mean something to Norel.

"But the Banites ..." Norel said, shaking his head. "I mean, do you want to die?"

Vraggen knew then that Norel was lost. He stared daggers into the Zhent's face.

"No. Do you?"

Norel's gaze went hard, though Vraggen could see the fear behind the bravado.

"You threatening me, mage? You think that shadow shite will keep you safe from this?"

His hand went to the hilt of his short sword.

Calm as a windless sea, Vraggen leaned back in his chair and took a slow drink of his ale—using his left hand, the signal to alert Azriim and Dolgan.

"I find your attitude regrettable," he said softly.

Norel scoffed, but kept one hand on his sword hilt.

"Regrettable? You know what I find? I find you're a friggin' fool. Did you think I'd buy into this tripe? That I wouldn't go straight to Malix? There's the real coin, selling you out. I don't give a damn if Cyricists or Banites or the High Prince of the Ninth Hell is running the show, as long as I get my cut." He smirked derisively and added, "And I'll keep my twentieth. A dead man can't spend a tenth."

Azriim and Dolgan were cutting through the crowd, closing on the table.

Vraggen smiled softly and held Norel's gaze, so as not to alert him.

"I can't say I'm entirely surprised by your reaction," he said, "but I'd hoped you'd agree with my vision. I'd hoped that you'd see the potential in it for you. Of course, if you didn't, I realized you'd threaten to take it to Malix."

Malix was the highest ranking Zhent in Selgaunt, and a Banite. He'd pay well to know Vraggen's whereabouts and plans.

"Then you know I'm looking at a dead man, Cyricist. Unless—" Norel's eyes grew cunning—"you care to give me a reason why I shouldn't take it up the chain."

A play for coin. How common.

Dolgan loomed behind Norel's chair. Azriim, standing beside his big comrade, could not keep the smile off his face.

"I'll give you two," Vraggen said, and he nodded to his agents.

Norel sensed his peril a heartbeat too late. Before he could stand, before he could pull his steel, Dolgan planted a ham hand on each of the Zhent's shoulders, a hold that might appear innocuously friendly to observers, but that held Norel in his seat as effectively as a vise. In the same instant, Azriim slid gracefully into the empty chair beside the Zhent and put a dagger to his ribs.

"Mind your manners, now," Azriim ordered with a smile and a wink. His perfect teeth shone in the lamplight.

"One and two," Vraggen said, and he let Norel digest his situation for a few heartbeats.

The Zhent obviously understood his danger. His breath came fast, and he started to sweat. Flush, he spoke through gritted teeth.