She didn't jerk or whirl around. She turned without haste. It gave her time to whisper a charm.

The leer would have made it easy to identify the lout who'd touched her even if he hadn't been standing directly behind her. He was tall for a commoner, and his overshot chin and protruding lower canines betrayed orcish blood. She stared into his eyes and breathed the final word of her incantation.

The half-orc screamed and blundered backward, flailing at the illusion of nightmarish assailants she'd planted in his mind. The press was such that he inevitably collided with other rough characters, who took exception to the jostling. A burly man carrying a wooden box of carpenter's tools booted the half-orc's legs out from under him then went on kicking and stamping when the oaf hit the ground. Other men clustered around and joined in.

Smiling, hoping they'd cripple or kill the half-orc, Dmitra turned back around to watch the play unfolding atop a stage built of crates at the center of the plaza. The theme was Thay's recent triumph in the Gorge of Gauros. A clash of armies seemed a difficult subject for a dozen ragtag actors to address, but changing their rudimentary costumes quickly and repeatedly as they assumed various roles, they managed to limn the story in broad strokes.

It was no surprise that a troupe of players had turned the battle into a melodrama. Such folk often mined contemporary events for story material, sometimes risking arrest when the results mocked or criticized their betters. What impressed Dmitra was the enthusiasm this particular play engendered.

The audience cheered on the heroic tharchions and legionnaires, booed and hissed the bestial Rashemi, and groaned whenever the latter seemed to gain the upper hand.

Dmitra supposed it was understandable. Thayans had craved a victory over Rashemen for a long time, and perhaps Druxus Rhym's murder made them appreciate it all the more. Even folk who claimed to loathe the zulkirs-and the Black Lord knew, there were many-might secretly welcome a sign that the established order was still strong and unlikely to dissolve into anarchy anytime soon.

Still, something about the mob's reaction troubled her, even if she couldn't say why.

One of the lead actors ducked behind a curtain. He sprang back out just a moment later, but that had been enough time to doff the bear-claw necklace and long, tangled wig that had marked him as a Rashemi chieftain and don a pink-he couldn't dress in actual red under penalty of law-skull-emblazoned tabard in their place. He flourished his hands as if casting a spell, and the audience cheered even louder than before to see Szass Tam magically materialize on the scene just when it seemed the day was lost.

Dmitra knew the reaction ought to please her, for after all, the lich was her patron. If the rabble loved him, it could only strengthen her own position. Still, her nagging disquiet persisted.

She decided not to linger until the end of the play. She'd assimilated what it had to teach her, and to say the least, the quality of the performance was insufficient to detain her. She made her way through Eltabbar's tangled streets to what appeared to be a derelict cobbler's shop, glanced around to make sure no one was watching, unlocked the door with a word of command, and slipped inside. A concealed trapdoor at the rear of the shop granted access to the tunnels below.

Dmitra reflected that she'd traversed the maze so often, she could probably do it blind. It might even be amusing to try sometime, but not today. Too many matters demanded her attention. She conjured a floating orb of silvery glow to light her way then climbed down the ladder.

In no time at all, she was back in her study, a cozy, unassuming room enlivened by fragrant, fresh-cut tulips and lilies and the preserved heads of two of her old rivals gazing morosely down from the wall. She dissolved her disguise with a thought, cleaned the muck from her shoes and the hem of her gown with a murmured charm, then waved her hand. The sonorous note of a gong shivered through the air, and a page scurried in to find out what she wanted.

"Get me Malark Springhill," she said.

By marriage, Dmitra was the princess of Mulmaster, even if she didn't spend much time there, or in the company of her husband, for that matter, and she'd imported some of her most useful servants from that distant city-state. Her hope was that their lack of ties to anyone else in Thay would help ensure their loyalty. Despite the fact that he now shaved his head and sported tattoos like a Mulan born, Malark was one of these expatriates. Compactly built with a small wine red birthmark on his chin, he didn't look particularly impressive, certainly not unusually dangerous, until one noticed the deft economy of his movements or the cool calculation in his pale green eyes.

"Tharchion," he said, kneeling.

"Rise," she said, "and tell me how you're getting along."

"We're making progress. One of Samas Kul's opponents has withdrawn from the election. Another is being made to appear petty and inept."

"So Kul will be the next zulkir of Transmutation." Malark hesitated. "I'm not prepared to promise that as yet. It's not easy manipulating a brotherhood of wizards. Something could still go wrong."

She sighed. "I would have preferred a guarantee. Still, we'll have to trust your agents to complete the work successfully. I have another task for you, one you must undertake unassisted." She told him what it was.

Her orders brought a frown to his face. "May I speak candidly?"

"If you must," she said, her tone grudging.

Actually, she valued his counsel. It had spared her a costly misstep, or provided the solution to a thorny problem, on more than one occasion, but it wouldn't do to permit him or any of her servants to develop an inflated sense of his importance.

"This could be dangerous, not just for me but for both of us."

"I'm sending you because I trust you not to get caught."

"The tharchion knows I'm willing to take risks in pursuit of sensible ends-"

She laughed. "Are you saying I've lost my sense?"

He peered at her as if trying to gauge whether he had in fact given offense. Good. Let him wonder.

"Of course not, High Lady," he said at length, "but I don't understand what you're trying to achieve. Whatever I learn, what will it gain you?"

"I can't say, but knowledge is strength. I became 'First Princess of Thay' by understanding all sorts of things, and I mean to comprehend this as well."

"Then, if I have your leave to withdraw, I'll go and pack my saddlebags."

Bareris doggedly jerked the rope, and the brass bell mounted beside the door clanged over and over again. Eventually the door opened partway, revealing a stout man with a coiled whip and a ting of iron keys hanging from his belt. For a moment, his expression seemed welcoming enough, but when he saw who was seeking admittance, it hardened into a glare.

"Go away," he growled, "we're closed."

"I'm sorry to disturb the household," Bareris answered, "but my business can't wait."

It was less than two hundred miles from Bezantur to the city of Tyraturos, but the road snaked up the First Escarpment, an ascending series of sheer cliffs dividing the Thayan lowlands from the central plateau. Bareris had nearly killed a fine horse making as good a time as he had then spent a long, frustrating day trying to locate one particular slave trader in a teeming commercial center he'd never visited before. Having reached his destination at last, he had no intention of meekly going away and returning in the morning. He'd shove his way in if he had to.

But perhaps softer methods would suffice. "How would you like to earn a gold piece?"