"And Darkend organized this whole attack in the last few days?" he pressed.

"Actually, he's been planning it for some months. Since before he became thane, actually. My brother's a very good planner-not a dull, plodding scholar like your father. Darkend was waiting for a certain piece of news. When he got it, he was ready to move."

"Word about Thane Hornfel and the Hylar army!" Tarn's eyes tightened on his mother's face. He spoke heatedly in spite of his earlier resolve for discretion. "And you brought word from your own husband. You betrayed my father, the thane, the whole city."

"If you don't think the Hylar deserve it, then you've been sleepwalking through life," she retorted sharply. "For too many centuries the smug Hylar have been lords of Thorbardin, and the time for their arrogant rule has passed."

But Tarn's mind was following other paths. "Planned for months, while Darkend was waiting for word… Then you have been part of this conspiracy all that time. And your divorcing my father had nothing to do with him?"

"It had everything to do with him. But I learned of my brother's ambitions and bided my time until my departure could serve a dual purpose."

"And the Helm of Tongues-did you take it just as father claims?"

"Of course," his mother snapped in exasperation. "The artifact has use to me. Indeed, I have in mind far more practical applications than your father's esoteric research. You might say that it is a key to part of my own little plan."

Tarn wanted to ask other questions, to probe farther into his mother's schemes. For a moment he considered challenging her, but he lacked the will. He was surprised to realize that Garimeth actually frightened him a little. Instinctively he took a step backward.

"What do you intend to do with me?" he asked. Once again he was suddenly very aware of his dry mouth, of the ache that had settled from his skull to permeate his entire body. His stomach was unsteady, but he now knew it was hunger. "Can I have something to eat and drink?"

"Of course. I have no wish to punish you. After all, you're my son. But of course, I can't let you go just yet. You're also your father's son, and that part of you will be in a hurry to get back to Hybardin. And as I have said, I cannot allow that."

The guards ushered him back to his room, where Tarn was relieved to note that the wardrobe door was shut. The two bowmen stood watch until, a few minutes later, Karc brought a pitcher of cold water, another pitcher of beer, and a variety of bread, cheeses, and fungi.

"Thanks, old dwarf," Tarn said affectionately. "I don't suppose this beer came from that special batch, did it?"

"I really must apologize for the deception, Master Tarn," the venerable attendant said with apparent sincerity. "And no, you will find this repast quite untainted. As long as you must be detained, I shall do what I can to make the time pass pleasantly."

Karc and the guards departed. Tarn heard the door locked securely after it had closed behind them. He stood and listened carefully for several moments, certain that he heard three pairs of footsteps walk away.

Only after another full minute had passed did he cross to the wardrobe and pull open the thin door. He was determined to vigorously question Regal Wise-Always. Instead, he was startled to find himself staring into a small, empty closet. The back wall was the stone of the room's outer wall, and when he knocked on the surface there was none of the resonance that might have indicated a concealed passage.

Unsettled, he closed the door, then checked the other wardrobes. He was certain this was the one Regal had used for his escape. At first Tarn had assumed the gully dwarf knew a hiding place, but now he was certain that the Aghar used some secret path into his mother's house. And not just her house, but the very room where he was imprisoned.

And, Tarn figured, any way into the house was likely to work equally well as a way out.

Unless he had imagined the whole encounter. After all, his mind was still clouded by toxic fungus, and hadn't the guards said they heard him talking to himself?

He settled down to eat and drink, and for a time he was able to forget about everything except sating his hunger and thirst. He gulped down the whole pitcher of water, and half the beer. After many slices of thick, flavored bread, he began to feel better.

That was when his mind starting asking questions and making insinuations-even accusations. First of all, he saw that Axel Slateshoulders had been right and that he, Tarn, had been wrong. It was a mistake to want to inform the dark dwarves of the Hylar misfortune. Indeed, the matter of Hornfel's predicament and the threat of the Chaos storms had seemed utterly irrelevant to his mother, except insofar as it kept the Hylar army away and opened up the possibility of dark dwarf treachery.

This led him to his next thought: his own gullibility had led him to remove himself from any place where he could do any good. He couldn't help his father, and worst of all, the Daergar plot put Belicia Felixia Slateshoulders in grave danger.

Tarn leaped to his feet and stomped across the room to the door. He pulled at it, straining his shoulders in a futile attempt to bend the heavy bar. He fiddled with the latch, but he could see immediately that it was a steel lock that would only answer to the proper key. Finally he banged on the panel with his bare fist, demanding that someone come and let him out. Soon enough, growling in frustration, he ceased his clamor. He wasn't naive enough to think such a disturbance would have any chance of aiding in his release. It might, on the other hand, bring about some treatment that was sure to be punitive.

He sat down on the edge of his bed and dropped his head into his hands. Never had he felt such loathing for himself. He told himself if he had possessed a weapon he would have been sorely tempted to drive it into his own breast.

"Great Reorx!" he moaned, turning and smashing his fist into the stone wall. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"Reorx doin' nuthin, far as I can see."

Tarn leaped to his feet and whirled around, astonished to see the gully dwarf standing on the other side of his bed. "Regal! You're back!"

"Regal Everwise, in person," he said with a little bow.

"Wasn't your name Wise-Always?" Tarn asked, delighted beyond reason at the little fellow's return.

"What difference? Got some beer left?" The Aghar wandered over to the table and began to snatch up Tarn's leftovers. Many bits of bread and mushroom were popped into his mouth and pockets in random order.

"Help yourself," said Tarn, indicating the pitcher.

But Regal was already drinking. Equal amounts of beer seemed to be going down the Aghar's throat and drippling down his sparsely bearded chin onto his clothing.

Meanwhile, Tarn looked at the wardrobe and saw that the door he had left closed now stood ajar. He felt a giddy measure of relief at this sight and grinned at Regal as the gully dwarf smacked his lips and began to lick off the platter upon which Tarn had been served his meal.

"I though you told me this was Agharhome," he declared genially. "But I happen to know for a fact that it's one of the finest houses in Daerforge."

"Yep." Regal barely looked up as he finished the platter and set to licking off the table. "Dark dwarves built lots of houses in Agharhome. 'Course, we Aghar gotta hide lotsa times, or they bash us."

Tarn felt a flush of shame at his own childhood memories. At the same time he couldn't help wondering, "You mean you live in these same houses and we-that is, the Daergar-don't even know it?"

"This part of Agharhome kinda nice, but we gotta be quiet. Sometimes hide."

"I guess so." Remembering childhood stories of fairies and other spirits that were often blamed for strange occurrences in his mother's house, Tarn suddenly had no doubt of the truth of Regal's assertions. "But then why did you let me see you?"