That didn't mean he could dawdle here. He didn't understand the urgency of his errand, but his mistress seemed to think it important and he didn't intend to keep her waiting any longer than necessary. He'd finish his business and ride out tonight, and with luck he could complete the wearisome "Long Portage" back up the First Escarpment before the end of tomorrow.

He headed down the rutted, dung-littered street. This particular thoroughfare, a center for carnal entertainments, was busy even after dark, and he made way repeatedly for soldiers, hunters, fishermen, pimps, and tough-looking locals of every stripe-for anyone who looked more dangerous and intimidating than a smallish, neatly dressed, clerkish fellow armed only with a knife.

Only once did he resent stepping aside, and that was when everyone else did it too, clearing the way for a legionnaire marching a dozen skeleton warriors along. Malark detested the undead, which he supposed made it ironic that he owed his allegiance to a princess who in turn had pledged her fealty to a lich, but serving Dmitra Flass afforded him a pleasant life and plenty of opportunity to pursue his own preoccupations.

He stepped inside a crowded tavern, raucous with noise and stinking of beer and sweaty bodies. A legionnaire turned and gave him a sneer.

"This is a soldier's tavern," he said.

"I know," Malark replied. "I came to show my admiration for the heroes who saved Surthay from the Rashemi." He lifted a fat purse and shook it to make it clink. "I think this is enough to stand the house a few rounds."

He was welcome enough after that, and the soldiers were eager to spin tales of their valor. As he'd expected, much of what they told him was nonsense. They couldn't all have slain Rashemi chieftains or butchered half a dozen berserkers all by themselves, and he was reasonably certain no one had raped one of the infamous witches.

Yet it should be possible to sift through all the boasts and lies and discern the essence of what had happened buried beneath.

Malark listened, drew his inferences, and decided further inquiries were in order, inquiries best conducted elsewhere and by different methods.

Stiffening and swallowing, he feigned a sudden attack of nausea and stumbled outside, ostensibly to vomit. Since he left his pigskin pouch of silver and copper coins behind on the table, he was reasonably certain no one would bother to come looking for him when he failed to return.

He found a shadowy recessed doorway and settled himself to wait, placing himself in a light trance that would help him remain motionless. Warriors passed by his hiding place, sometimes in groups, sometimes in the company of painted whores, sometimes young, sometimes staggering drunk. He let them all drift on unmolested.

Finally a lone legionnaire came limping down the street. By the looks of it, an old wound or fracture in his leg had never healed properly. Though he was past his prime, with a frame that had once been athletic and was now running to fat, he wore no medallion, plume, or other insignia of rank, and was evidently still a common man-at-arms.

He didn't look intoxicated, either. Perhaps he'd just come off duty and was heading for the same soldier's tavern Malark had visited.

In any case, whatever his business, he appeared perfect for Malark's purposes. The spy waited until the legionnaire was just a few paces away, then stepped forth from the shadows.

Startled, the legionnaire jumped back, and his hand darted to the hilt of his broadsword. Then he hesitated, confused, perhaps, by the contradiction between the menace implicit in Malark's sudden emergence and the innocuous appearance of his empty hands and general demeanor. It gave the spy the opportunity to step closer.

"What do you want?" the soldier demanded.

"Answers," Malark replied.

That was apparently enough to convince the warrior he was in trouble. He started to snatch the sword out, but he'd waited too long. Before it could clear the scabbard, Malark sprang in and slammed the heel of his hand into the center of the other man's forehead. The legionnaire's leather helmet thudded, no doubt absorbing part of the force of the impact. Not enough of it, though, and his knees buckled. Malark caught him and dragged him into the narrow, lightless space between two houses.

When he judged he'd gone far enough from the street that he and his prisoner would remain unobserved, he set the legionnaire down on the ground, relieved him of his sword and dirk, and held a vial of smelling salts under his nose. Rousing, the warrior twisted away from the vapors.

"Are you all right?" Malark asked, straightening up. "It can be tricky to hit a man hard enough to stun him, but not so hard that you do any real harm. I like to think I have the knack, but armor makes it more difficult."

"I'll kill you," the soldier growled.

"Try if you like," Malark said and waited to see if the prisoner would dive for the sword or dagger now resting on the ground beyond his reach or attack with his bare hands.

He opted for the latter. Wishing the space between the buildings weren't quite so narrow, Malark nonetheless managed to shift to the side when the captive surged up and hurled himself forward. He tripped the legionnaire then, while the other man was floundering off balance, caught hold of his arm and twisted, applying pressure to the shoulder socket. The warrior gasped at the pain.

"We're going to have a civil conversation," said Malark. "The only question is, do I need to dislocate your arm to make it happen, or are you ready to cooperate now?"

As best he was able, the legionnaire struggled, trying to break free. Malark applied more pressure, enough to paralyze the man.

"I really will do it," said the spy, "and then I'll go on damaging you until you see reason."

"All right!" the soldier gasped.

Malark released him. "Sit or stand as you prefer."

The bigger man chose to stand and rub his shoulder. "Who in the Nine Hells are you?"

"My name is Malark Springhill. I do chores of various sorts for Tharchion Flass."

The legionnaire hesitated, his eyes narrowing. Perhaps he'd never risen in the ranks, but he was evidently more intelligent than that fact would seem to imply. "You… are you supposed to tell me that?"

"Ordinarily, no," Malark replied. Out on the street, a woman laughed, the sound strident as a raptor's screech. "I'm a spy among other things, and generally I have to lie to people all the time, about… well, everything, really. It's something of a luxury that I can be honest with you."

"Because you mean to kill me."

"Yes. I'm going to ask you what truly happened in the Gorge of Gauros, and I couldn't let you survive to report that anyone was interested in that even if you didn't know who sent me to inquire. But you get to decide how pleasant the next little while will be, and how you'll die at the end of it.

"You can try withholding the information I want," Malark continued, "in which case, I'll torture it out of you. Afterwards, your body will be broken, incapable of resistance when I snap your neck.

"Or you can answer me freely, and I'll have no reason to hurt you. Once you've given me what I need, I'll return your blades, permit you to unsheathe them, and we'll fight. You're a legionnaire. Surely you'd prefer the honor of a warrior's death, and I'd like to give it to you."

The legionnaire stared at him. "You're crazy."

"People often say that, but they're mistaken." Malark decided to confide in the warrior. It was one technique for building trust between interrogator and prisoner, and besides, he rarely had the chance to tell his story. "I just see existence in a way others can't.

"A long, long while ago, I learned of a treasure. The sole surviving dose of a philter to keep a man from aging forever after.