Over the hiss of the wind, or commingled with it, the regulator heard a clear note that rose and fell in jerky beats. Was it another voice snatched up by the wind and carried to his ears, or just the handiwork of nature in the air's headlong rush? It was beyond Pinch to say. The cry, if it could be called such, had the sad quality of a lamentation, the type sung at wakes by drunken kin almost in time and harmony.

As he paused to listen, the rogue spotted a new element. All down the length of the passage, from left to east, west to right, were tracks. Not just rat trails or the squirms of snakes, but real footprints.

They were human, or at least as much as Pinch could tell, and there were at least two sets, but beyond that he couldn't say. The rogue was no huntsman. The overlapping jumble of tracks before him was beyond his ability to decipher.

Shielding his candle, Pinch guessed on a direction and followed the trail. Who did each track belong to? The princes? Cleedis? Or someone else? One set seemed too small and dainty for prince or chamberlain, the other quite possible. Still, Pinch ruled out the princes.

He couldn't imagine any of them traipsing through cob-webbed corridors, not when they had flunkies to do the job. Cleedis, he knew, would do his own dirty work. Perhaps the old man had been spying on him.

A flickering light immediately ahead ended all speculation. It had emerged without a preceding glimmer, perhaps the shutter raised on a lantern. Pinch immediately hid his light, tucking the candle into a sleeve. The flame scorched his arm. There was nothing to do but bite back the pain and endure in silence. Without a stick of Kossuth's sulfur, there was no way to relight the candle should he need it later.

The distant light darted back around its corner, frighted by his own gleams. The rogue lightfooted after, determined not to lose this other interloper. He moved with quick puffing steps, years of stealth aided by a thick carpet of dust.

He peered around the corner, candle still cloaked and dagger ready, barely in time to see the rays disappear around another bend. The rogue's breath thrilled at the challenge of the chase.

His prey was as quick as he was stealthy, darting through the labyrinth of passages. Pinch guessed they were in some old catacombs beneath the palace. Left, right, right, left-he struggled to remember the turns. It would do no good if he could not get back.

As he rounded one more turn, the floor vanished, replaced by empty space. Unable to recover, he plunged forward, hit a step, lurched, and then the candle slipped from his hand. As the rogue frantically batted at the flame in his sleeve, he lost all hope of balance and tumbled into the darkness.

The fall was mercifully short, but not short enough. Pinch managed to crack what seemed like every bone against the jagged stone steps. His hose snagged ripping edges, his hands tore along the rasping walls. And then it ended with a hard crash as the man spilled onto a floor of cold, greasy stone.

Slowly and with a great deal of pain he could easily have lived without, Pinch tottered back to his feet, supporting himself on a wall he could not see. It was black, without even the little twinkling lights they say a man gets from a sound whack to the head. His head throbbed enough, but no whirling colors appeared.

What if I've knocked myself blind? The thought triggered panic.

A gleam of light dispelled that fear. Whomever he pursued was still up ahead. They had certainly heard his fall, there was no more point in secrecy.

"Whose light? You've lured me this far. Show yourself and let's have done with it." Pinch tried bravado since surprise was out.

There was no response. The light wavered and then began to fade.

"Damn you," the rogue muttered to no one but himself. "You're not slipping me." His only choices were to follow or grope his way back, and he couldn't remember the turns to his room. The fall had knocked the order loose and they drifted around, right-left, left-right, he didn't know for sure. There really was no choice but to hobble forward.

The lantern bearer continued their game and moved away just as Pinch reached the corner. The rogue broke into an off-stepped run.

Around the next corner, it happened again. Even in the instant his foot stepped into the void, Pinch cursed himself for blindly running into the trap. He lurched forward and this time he could sense there was no jagged stairs, only emptiness and death below.

The light knew it too and hurtled back into sight. It wasn't a lantern bearer but a glowing diffusion of the air that throbbed eagerly in time with the man's waves of pain and despair.

Pinch hung on the rim of the precipice forever, one second of time subdivided by his senses into eternity. The feeding light, the bottomless hole, the crumbling stone of the walls, the ever-steady plunge forward-so this is how I die. The thought came coolly to him.

In that infinite moment, Fate intervened-or something at least. It could have been blind chance, cosmic design, or the whim of some god Pinch had inadvertently forgotten to blaspheme. Two things occurred almost simultaneously, and were the rogue to examine them later, he would not be able to say what they both were. Out of his torn doublet swung the amulet he'd stolen from the Morninglord's temple. As it hung free, the artifact flared with the brilliant hues of dawn washing out all sight with a roseate haze. The luring light dwindled against it as if in pain.

Ironic that I should die in a blaze of glory.

As the thought formed, something seized him. A strong hand or maybe a claw clenched around his arm and heaved him back.

And then the moment ended. The flare subsided, his plunge stopped, and he stood blinking in the darkness on the edge of nonexistence. A hand took his and pulled him away, and the rogue stumbled after, too stupefied to resist.

When his wits recovered, all was completely black. A hand, slender and feminine, led him through the darkness, around several corners, and up a flight of stairs. His guide moved with confidence through the ebon world.

"Who are you?" Pinch demanded as he stumbled in tow.

There was no answer.

Pinch tried to pull up, but the hand tugged him insistently forward.

"Trust."

The words were the whisper of dried husks, papery brittle and filled with the music of tears. It was a voice

Pinch had never heard, but still it seemed to wrap him in comfort.

"Trust me, little one."

The hand pulled forward again.

Perhaps because his senses were dulled by all that had passed, the rogue let himself be led on.

Right, left, left, and more they went until at last they stopped. The invisible guide placed Pinch's hand to the wall and whispered, "Up." His foot blindly touched the bottom of a step.

"Up to safety. Go." The guide gently pushed him forward and yet wanted to hold him back.

"Who are you?" The question finally formulated itself for him.

"A… friend. Go." The voice struggled against a choking sob and then the hands left him.

He was alone in the darkness once more. Faintly through the air drifted the sound of weeping.

Pinch climbed, carefully groping out each step lest there were any more traps. No lights came to torment him, lead him astray, and the way climbed and twisted until he was sure he was back on the stairs to his room.

Along the way, the regulator fingered the amulet and wondered. What have I gotten into? Murderous dwarves, strange passages, mysterious saviors-it was all much more than he had bargained for. Did Cleedis know the mysteries that filled this palace? Would he even tell me if he did?

The stairs came to a platform and wall and Pinch felt out a handle. Pulling firmly, he dragged the stiff panel ajar, flooding his eyes with the blinding candlelight of his room.