The man at the table put down his fork and calmly sampled his wine. He wore gray robes decorated at the hem with hermetical symbols stitched in red and gold thread. Though seated, he was obviously a tall man, for his arms stuck well out from the sleeves of his robes as he rested his elbows on the table. His hair, black as pitch and cropped close, complemented the darkness of his eyes.

The two men continued to circle warily, thrusting and feinting, testing one another for an opening. Suddenly, the waiter stumbled into an overturned chair, dropping his defenses for a moment to catch himself against a table. The lumber merchant launched himself with a scream of victory, but the waiter’s stumble was a cleverly concealed ploy, for he immediately sidestepped and prepared to catch the unwitting lumber merchant on the tip of his knife.

At that moment, the innkeeper intervened with a stout length of oak, cracking the waiter’s knife from his hand with a swift blow to the wrist. He then turned on the merchant and swatted the man across the forehead with his club, felling him before he could recover from his flying leap. A third blow behind the knees swept the waiter from his feet even as he was stooping to recover his dropped blade. His head cracked against the wooden floor.

The man in the gray robes set his napkin on his plate and stood.

“My apologies, Sir Tanar,” the innkeeper said in a curious accent. He flashed an oily smile from beneath a thin black moustache. “I am not knowing what has come over these two. They act like some kind of madness has gripped them.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the gray-robed man said. “I would have intervened, but I did not wish to destroy the excellent furnishings of your dining area.”

“I am thanking you,” the innkeeper said. He motioned violently at the two men sprawled on the floor. Three waitresses and the cook rushed out and dragged them into the lobby. “Of course, this evening’s meal shall be compliments of the house.”

“I thank you,” Sir Tanar said as he casually sucked his teeth.

“It is our pleasure, Master,” the innkeeper acknowledged. Bowing once more, he hurried away to welcome and reassure those guests cautiously reentering the room. Waiters and other members of the staff scurried about, righting tables, clearing away spilled dishes, and refilling glasses with complimentary wine.

Sir Tanar made his way from the common room to the lobby and then up four flights of stairs before turning down a long hall decorated with red carpets and paintings of oceanside scenes. At the end of the hall, a window looked out over the docks below. To the left of the window was a door. As Sir Tanar approached the door, his footsteps slowed, for a tiny ringing sound beckoned to him from beyond the door.

His listened for a moment, his head cocked curiously. The bell rang again, insistently.

“Damn!” he swore as he sprinted for the door. He slid to a stop on the rug in front of the door, already fumbling in his pockets for the key. Frustrated, he placed his palm against the door, spoke a single arcane word, and burst the door from its frame, leaving it hanging by one twisted hinge.

He rushed into the room as the ringing grew louder and more urgent than before.

Fumbling at a dresser beside the ornate bed, he jerked open a drawer and removed a wide, flat wooden container like a jewelry box. He turned and dashed the cluttered contents from the top of his desk before setting the box gently on a leather mat, then pulled up a chair, sat on its edge, and opened the box.

Soft black felt covered the interior of the box’s bottom and hinged lid. The felt glimmered like a night sky filled with stars, for sewn into the ebon cloth were numerous small clear crystal gems, red garnets, green peridots, and blue aquamarines. In the box’s lid was set the magical silver plate he had received a month or so before. Since that time, he had not been yet been contacted as promised, although he had used the object’s magic to better his situation in small ways.

Even as he gazed at the plate, the ghostly image of his reflection vanished and the last ringing tones faded. A black darkness appeared in the center of the upright plate, spreading slowly like oil. Nothing could be seen in that darkness, yet he felt something staring at him. He scowled and shifted uncomfortably.

“I have been waiting for you to answer my summons,” said a voice that leaped fully formed in the air. Though deep as the roots of a mountain, the cadences, the rhythm, and the demanding tone of the voice was female. But it was strange, distorted, as though spoken over a great distance or from the depths of a deep well.

“Your forgiveness. Mistress,” Sir Tanar said as he tilted his head slightly in a how.

“You know how I dislike waiting,” the Voice of the Night continued.

“I was not in my room, Mistress. I was taking some refreshments-” he began.

“You will dine in your room from now on,” she interrupted. “I will not be kept waiting.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he acquiesced reluctantly.

“I am glad to see that you survived my messenger. I shall soon have need of you, Tanar,” she continued.

“As you wish,” he said.

“You are a Knight of Neraka, Tanar, yet you serve me. What is your loyalty to the Dark Queen?”

“The goddess Takhisis is no longer with this world, nor with us,” the Thorn Knight answered. “I am loyal to myself.”

The darkness in the platter seemed to grow even darker, if that were possible. Feeling the anger welling from it, Tanar added, “As well as those I have sworn to obey.”

“Very good, Tanar,” the Voice of the Night said. “You may yet please me in some small way. Still, you must obey the commands of your superiors. That is why I have contacted you. You will be receiving orders from your usual contacts in several days. I will contact you at that time. Meanwhile, I remind you not to abuse the powers of this magical communication device.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Tanar said, bowing as the darkness in the plate faded. In moments, he found himself looking once more at his own distorted image dimly reflected in the plate’s shining surface.

“We should have stopped in Palanthas,” Doctor Bothy said. He stood beside Commodore Brigg in the conning tower in the last light of the day.

Fore and aft, gnomes were busy stowing the sheets and dropping anchor. Indestructible lay in a calm harbor several hundred yards from shore. Although at first glance it seemed an excellent safe haven for ships, this was but a disguise concealing a lurking danger. Little more than a dozen yards from the bow of the ship, jagged reefs and rocky shoals lay just beneath the placid surface. All around them stood the naked masts of ships that had sailed heedlessly into this place and found their doom. Perhaps they had come here seeking shelter from storms, or concealment from pirates, or perhaps they came in search of fresh water and game. From where the commodore and Dr. Bothy stood, they could count four wrecks, while dark shadows in the depths spoke of numerous others.

This particular stretch of the coastline was one of Ansalon’s most desolate. On maps, it was called the Northern Wastes, a vast desert region lying within the domain of the blue dragon Khellendros, home to little more than rock vipers, lizards, and scorpions. Nearer the sea, the land was broken into hills, and here where the warm moist winds blew could be found a few green plants, creosote bushes, palms, and thorny willows clinging to the stubborn soil wherever a trickle of water appeared. Only wild goats, rabbits, and the leopards and desert eagles that stalked them managed to wring a meager existence from this place.

Into the harbor flowed a small river. Down from the surrounding hills it tumbled, white and frothing over the stones. Likely, it had been the sight of cool, fresh water that had drawn the ships into the bay, only to wreck themselves upon the shoals.