Heart thundering, blood roaring in his ears, Sir Hamnet exploded from his chair. The hawk-nosed man stepped aside as the aged explorer bolted past. "He usually prefers to chat with his own kind, so the message must've been important," he called to the retreating nobleman. "Say, old gent, does this mean you don't want to see the other side of the mirror?"

Sir Hamnet had just crossed the threshold into the alley, but the shouted question stopped him cold, just as surely, as completely, as the poisoned dagger had paralyzed Captain Truesilver. He forced himself to look up. As if following some unheard cue, the fog and the shadows parted, allowing the torchlight to shine fully on the sign hanging overhead. The weather-beaten circle of wood was colored by wedges of silver paint, a crude attempt at depicting a broken window-or a shattered mirror.

"Yes, Sir Hamnet," the hawk-nosed man said. "The Shattered Mirror. You came here for an audience. Now you have it."

The nobleman turned slowly, knowing it would be futile to flee. He found the taproom and its patrons transformed. Bones and grinning skulls had replaced the wooden walls and offal-smeared floor. Instead of gin-soaked toughs, denizens and fiends filled the hall. They stood in silent array, the court of Hades in all its terrible splendor. Some gripped razor-edged halberds. Others had only their horns and fangs and claws for weapons, though they were surely enough to rend any man's soul from his flesh.

And in the center of this ghastly host sat the hawk-nosed man. His myriad names flashed through Sir Hamnet's mind-the Lord of the Dead, the Dark Sun, Master of Strife, the Prince of Lies.

Cyric.

He was robed in darkness, the kind that shrouds the hearts of liars and infidels. The weasel curled affectionately around his neck, a living collar to that shirt of shadow. Pages of other gods' holy books soled his boots, and the remains of false martyrs formed his throne. Free of grime, free of scars, Cyric's countenance glowed with hideous glee. Even as Sir Hamnet watched, fingers sprouted to replace the missing digits on his left hand. He flexed the restored hand and caressed the pommel of the rose-red short sword lying across his lap.

"Well, old gent?" Cyric prompted. "Do you have something to ask?"

Sir Hamnet cast his gaze down. "As a son of House Hawklin and a member in good standing of the Society of Stalwart Adventurers, I claim the rights of safe conduct and-"

"Has anyone here raised a talon against you? No. So you've obviously been granted safety." The death god sighed with impatience. "Aren't you going to return my courtesy?"

"C-Courtesy?"

"I've dropped my facade. Are you going to do the same?" Cyric watched Sir Hamnet's face for some sign of recognition, but none came. There was only the typical pall of fear and awe. "Shall I let the weasel explain it to you again? I thought he'd summed it up nicely before, but maybe he should have another go."

At Hawklin's stammering reply, Cyric pounded the arm of his throne. "The facade of the great hero, the great explorer!" he shrieked in a voice like an orchestra of untuned violins. "You didn't lift a blade in defense of your companions at the Hill of Lost Souls. You ran as the first goblins entered the camp-just as you've run from every danger you've ever faced! As my sinuous friend said earlier, you were the only weasel on the hill that day."

The Lord of the Dead closed his eyes and collected himself. "Now," he continued more calmly, "I don't brand you a coward. I'd label your actions-" He paused and looked up, as if the proper word floated just over his head.

"Self-preservation," the weasel on his shoulder rasped.

"Exactly," Cyric chimed. He stroked the beast's bloody muzzle affectionately before turning back to Sir Hamnet. "I applaud someone smart enough to preserve his own life, but I take exception to your imperfect guise of resolute honesty and stout-hearted courage. You haven't convinced yourself that you're a hero, not deep down. So don't insult me by hiding behind a flawed mask and expecting me not to notice it's cracked."

"It's not a mask," Hawklin murmured dazedly. "My books. My maps. The Stalwarts respect all that I've done." He voice grew stronger, his words more certain. "They know the truth…"

Cyric clapped slowly, facetiously. "Not embarrassingly bad, but I've seen you do better cheating your way out of a bar bill at the club."

"Seen me do better? You've been watching me?"

"No more than any other liar."

Hawklin's bushy white brows knit over his dark eyes. "This was a trap! You charged that monster Other with luring me here, tempting me to search this place out!"

An amused murmur rippled through the assembled court of Hades.

"I hardly need to employ imitation fiends like Uther when I have the endless hosts of the underworld at my beck and call," the Lord of Strife replied blandly. "And I leave this pathway to Hades open, and let my minions circulate stories of its existence, to see who wanders in. It breaks up the monotony of listening to the dead drone on about their tedious past lives, to the damned scream in agony. I just happened to recognize you when you crossed the threshold."

Cyric studied the nobleman for a moment, then shook his head. "I hope I haven't overestimated you, old gent. You forge lies well enough, but you've hidden your heart from them, shielded it with a wall of delusory respect built up by those boors at your club."

The weasel perked up and added, "But the problem with walls is, you never know which way they're going to fall when they finally crumble. Maybe out, maybe in."

Casually Cyric gestured to two of the largest, most hideous fiends in his entourage. "Throw him out-but be careful you don't hurt him. He's under my protection until he reaches the mortal realms."

A scream wrenched itself from Sir Hamnet's throat as the fiends closed on him. They gripped him with fingers liquid and putrefying, but strong as vices, and lifted him from the ground. Cold seeped into his flesh at their touch. It spread up his arms and across his chest, chilling his heart, making it thud against his ribs like a frantic caged animal.

Sir Hamnet was still screaming when the city watch found him at sunrise the next morning, kneeling in the mud before the burned-out shell of an abandoned building. They recognized him, of course, his fame having spread beyond the walls of the Stalwart Club long ago. That was fortunate, since the watchmen would have been less patient, less gentle with a commoner so obviously insane with drink.

"We'll take you to the temple of Mystra, Sir Hamnet," the captain offered. "They'll look you over there. Then we'll take your report."

"No. Take me home."

"Fine. We'll have you to your estate before the servants are done preparing breakfast," the captain replied.

"I said home," Sir Hamnet croaked. "Home, damn you. The Stalwart Club."

For three days, Sir Hamnet Hawklin immersed himself in the healing familiarity of the society's library. He slept in his chair, his rapier never far from his hand. He spoke little, and when he did it was only in carefully worded snatches that obscured more than they illuminated. Still, he revealed enough for his fellow Stalwarts to construct their own, utterly distorted account of Gareth Truesilver's demise and Hawklin's own confrontation with Cyric. Their version cast Sir Hamnet as a valiant defender, overcome by a combined cadre of body snatchers and fiends that grew in number with each telling.

The nobleman did not object, and some time during the second day he almost came to believe that he had crossed steel with a dozen assassins and denizens in his friend's defense. Soon after, plans were begun for Sir Hamnet's long-overdue statue. Hawklin had warmed by then to the familiar role of daring trailblazer and all-around stout fellow. In his own mind, he even managed to dismiss the most troubling events at the Shattered Mirror as toxin-induced hallucinations, brought on by a nick from a body snatcher's poisoned blade.