* * *
   «What are you talking about?» I demanded. «I know you're my father.»
   «No, Britlin, I'm not.»
   «You're lying,» I snapped.
   «Britlin,» he said softly, «you know how your mother is. Do you really think she'd let me touch her? Ever? I didn't father you, boy. Of all the women who took me to their beds, your mother wasn't one of them.»
   «Then who was my father?»
   «Duke Urbin, of course – Anne's own father. She was pregnant by him when I found her. That was really the only reason he let me take her away: he wanted her out of Aquilune before his neighbors noticed her condition. They'd all know who had fathered the child, and there are some crimes even a duke can't get away with. He performed the wedding ceremony himself, then sent Anne and me back to Sigil where she'd be safely out of sight.»
   My heart had seized in my chest. «And I was the…»
   «You were the child, yes. Not the fruit of my loins, but I tried to be a father to you. At first, just for Anne's sake, but then for your own. I liked having a son, Britlin. Just as I like having a daughter.» He smiled at Yasmin. «But you two have no common blood. Nothing stands between you.»
   I wanted to sit down; but there were no chairs, just the surrounding silver shimmer, as if we stood completely separate from the rest of the multiverse. With all the resentments I had felt toward my father… but he was not my father, he was just a professional hero, who had saved my mother as he would save anyone else in trouble. He married her because that was the way to save her, and he had supported me throughout childhood because that was the honorable thing to do. Could I resent him anymore? In a single revelation, he had released me from the burden of living up to him… not to mention freeing me to love Yasmin.
   By all the gods, it was slickly done.
   Yasmin stepped forward, her face beaming. She was reaching out to wrap her arms around my neck when I said, «No.»
   «'No' what?» she asked.
   «No to everything.» I pulled away from her. «This is all too piking convenient.»
   «What are you talking about?» Her smile collapsed. «Why are you acting like a berk?»
   «My father,» I said, gesturing toward him. "After twelve years, he just shows up here in the Court of Light. He has a plausible explanation for everything – why he never came back, how my mother would be happy that he consorted with other women – and he even tells us it's perfectly all right to be lovers if we want. Isn't that neat? Isn't that glib? One little secret clears away all the shadows.
   «Well, I refuse to believe it,» I continued. «I would refuse to believe it if I heard it in Sigil, and I certainly refuse to believe it when it's delivered here in the Hall of Tests. Niles Cavendish is my father. I know that so deeply in my heart, all the waters of the River Styx couldn't wash the knowledge away. I've longed to be someone else's son, but I'm not – I don't have that choice. Neither does Shekinester.»
   I waved my hands to dismiss the people in front of me. «Go back to the goddess now. Tell her I'm my father's son. I won't say I've made my peace with that, but it's time to stop denying the truth.»
   Both the others opened their mouths as if they intended to argue; but no words came out. The expression on my face must have told them debate was futile. For a moment, the two exchanged glances… and then my father simply dissolved into copper-colored sparks that fell to the ground like rain.
   «An illusion, of course,» I murmured. Turning to Yasmin, I said, «He was never here at all, was he?»
   «He visited our court long ago,» came the answer. «He is elsewhere now.»
   The voice was not Yasmin's – it was still female but deeper, impossibly golden. No human throat had ever spoken with such soft power. In the blink of an eye, Yasmin's body flared to a brilliant white, so dazzling I had to avert my eyes. The image thinned and lengthened, twisting and turning in spirals around me, until I was ringed by a snake of white fire, its tail stretching around and around in ever-widening circles. A fierce heat beat against my face; but I managed to stammer out, «Shekinester?»
   «Only one of Her daughters,» the flaming serpent replied. «You have passed our Mother's tests. Be glad.»
   «What about my friends?»
   «They are being tested too. If they are weak, they shall fail.»
   «I'd like to help them,» I said.
   «You cannot. In this place, all souls stand alone.»
   The naga's blazing face sizzled close to mine, too blindingly bright for me to make out any features. With the speed of a cobra striking, her head darted forward, directly at me; but instead of a bite, I felt the kiss of fiery lips on my cheek. Light flared from all directions… and abruptly, I was standing near the center of a large stone chamber, high-ceilinged and devoid of decoration.
   There was only one source of illumination in all that great wide space – a pillar of snow-white flame, burning in the very heart of the room. I stood at the base of a flight of low stone steps, leading up to the fire like the ascent to a tabernacle.
   Surrounding me, filling the chamber to the very walls, stood an army of the undead. Simple zombies, their skins hanging in loose and rotting sags… skeletons with bony faces in perpetual grins… a cloudy congregation of ghosts, specters, haunts, and wraiths, as thick as midnight fog… vampires, pallid and mesmerizing, standing shoulder to shoulder with lich sorcerers, their fleshless fingers a'glitter with heavy-jeweled rings… and of course, scattered throughout the dark company, the baleful bonfire eyes of wights.
   From reflex, my hand dropped to my side. It touched my father's rapier, restored to me now that the testing was over; but I let my fingers relax, and did not draw.
   «Okay,» I called to the assembled horde. «Hands up all those who feel as uncomfortable as I do right now.»
   I thought I saw a zombie lift its arm, but it might just have been rigor mortis.

* * *
   With a rattle of bones and armor, a death knight stepped from the front row of watchers. It wore chain mail, covered with a tabard that had once been pure white linen; but a fuzzy black smut had grown over the cloth, powdering out whatever emblem this knight had fought for in life. The creature's face was skeletal, with the orbit around one eye raggedly smashed away – probably a death blow from a mace, sending this once-noble warrior to an uneasy afterlife.
   When the knight spoke, its voice had the chilling tone of a crumbling mortuary. «Now,» it said, «you must enter the Arching Flame.»
   «The Arching Flame?» I looked back over my shoulder at the pillar of fire. «That flame?»
   «You have passed the easy tests,» the creature said. «Now you must be purified.»
   «If that involves incineration, I'd rather not.»
   «The flame does not burn those who are true to themselves. It cleanses. It restores.» The knight turned its head toward the brightness. «I would enter it myself if I could.»
   With a wave of my hand, I said, «Be my guest. I'll sign over my ticket.»
   The knight's sword whipped out of its scabbard so fast the blade was a blur. Its tip pointed directly at my throat. «Take care,» the knight whispered. «Take care your flippant tongue does not start you down the road I have traveled. It is Shekinester's will that you enter the flame. If you defy the goddess… but I shall not let you do that. Damned though I am, I will not permit you to suffer such a curse.»
   The creature stepped forward and I had to retreat, backing away hurriedly from that sword. The weapon's blade was fuzzed thickly with the same black smut that covered the knight's tabard – fungal rot from a corruption that should have returned to the soil long ago. I leapt toward a gap in the front row of monsters… but suddenly, a phantom flickered into existence to fill the space, milky and groaning.
   «No escape, mortal,» the death knight said behind me. «Shekinester wishes you to enter the flame. Whatever we might have been in life, we are hers now. She has given us relief from the raging insanity that affects others of our kind. In thanks, we do her bidding within this chamber.»
   I looked out at the decaying company. Their faces did not twist with rage or regret, the two great anguishes of most undead; I saw only resolve, a determination to fulfill their duty to Shekinester and her flame.
   «All right,» I shrugged. «Into the fire I go.»
   Tossing a rakish wave to the knight, I ran up the steps and did a half-gainer into the heart of the blaze.

19. THREE FOPS IN THE FOREST

   If I could remember what happened within the Arching Flame, I'd try to describe it. Heaven knows, I could peel free drinks for the rest of my life, just telling the tale to Sensates who wanted to know what it felt like to stand within that withering blaze. All that remains in my mind, however, is a brief moment of light, sensed not just with my eyes but with my skin, as if every inch of my flesh could see the brilliance that pierced me to the bone. My clothes vaporized in an instant, every fiber bursting into dusty smoke…
   …and then I lay naked under a night sky, the chill of snow beneath me. Clouds drifted across the darkness, but only a few: high wisps and tatters slipping along the starless black.
   I sighed; and my breath turned to steam, drifting straight up on the calm air. For one brief moment, I was content to watch it mist away to nothingness… then the cold against my backside finally bit into my consciousness, and I dragged myself to my feet.
   Before me stood the chapel to the nagas, the small stone building just outside of Plague-Mort. Snowflakes now dusted its roof, and nestled in the cracks of its crumbling masonry; but nothing else had changed. The surrounding forest had lost some of its dense foliage, the trees too disheartened to keep hold of their leaves now that the snow had come; and the rustle of small creatures scurrying through the darkness had grown quiet in the time we had been gone. Winter had descended, true winter… a time of peace and resignation, no matter how the cold shivered against my skin.
   «Oh good,» said a pleasant female voice. «You're awake.»
   A few yards away, Zeerith had coiled herself into the bole of an ancient elm, her tail draping down the tree's rough bark. It disconcerted me to stand unclothed in front of her cherubic teen-aged face; but she showed no sign of embarrassment herself. I suppose she must have looked upon me with the same indifference a human feels to see a dog naked. Then again… «Aren't you cold down there?» she asked from her perch. «I came up here to get away from the snow.»
   «It would be nice to have some clothes,» I told her. «Something warm.»
   Her brow furrowed for a moment, and she closed her eyes. The air filled with a barely audible buzzing, both a sound and a tangible prickling against my skin. I looked down and saw motes of white dust drifting out of the night, floating up to my body and settling down with the softness of feathers. More and more of the tiny specks swept from the darkness, until they began to clump together in downy swatches that quickly warmed with my body heat. Still the dust streamed in; it thickened into a matted layer as cozy as brushed felt, but lighter than the finest linen. Almost as an afterthought, the covering of dust partitioned itself into separate garments, pants, shirt, jacket, gloves, and all of an utterly pure white.
   «Feet,» Zeerith said, still concentrating intensely. I lifted one foot, then the other, to give the inflooding stream a chance to coat me with dense white boots, lighter than my old ones but as tough as metal plate. When those were done, I thought the outfit was finished; but the flow of dust simply shifted to my head, fashioning itself into a warm cowl that covered my hair and the back of my neck. I had the suspicion that Zeerith had shaped it to resemble a cobra's hood: a young naga's attempt to make a «legger» look less like a pathetic monkey.
   «Well,» I said when the dust had stopped pouring in, «you seem to have mastered the knack of magic fast enough.»
   «My father's been helping me,» she answered. «He's, um, insistent I learn my lessons quickly.»
   «He looked like the kind to be strict,» I agreed. «Where is he now?»
   «Prowling the woods. He's impatient to get back to his own territory, but I wouldn't leave till I knew you were all right.»
   «I appreciate that,» I assured her. «And what about my friends?»
   «Mother Shekinester will test them in Her own time,» Zeerith said. «If they survive the flame, my uncles and aunts will carry them back here. My relatives may not like leggers, but if your friends pass the Mother's tests, my family will be honor-bound to provide that much help.»
   «What happens,» I asked reluctantly, «if my friends don't pass Shekinester's tests?»
   «They still enter the flame,» Zeerith replied. «They just don't come out. The fire… it burns the soul as well as the body; there's nothing left.»
   «Does that happen often?»
   «I don't know. I've asked my father a great many questions, but some he refuses to —»
   «Zeerith!» shouted a voice from the forest. «It's time to go.»
   «But, Father…»
   «You wished to ensure the legger's safety. You have done so. I see no reason to waste further time in such a creature's presence.»
   Zeerith gave me an apologetic look, but I simply smiled. «Fathers take some getting used to,» I said.

* * *
   After they had gone, I took stock of myself. If the Arching Flame had «purified» me, I could detect no obvious difference. True, I felt superbly limber, free from the twinges and stiffness one gets from sleeping on the floor of an umbral hut; but why jump into a pillar of fire, when I could get the same relief from eight hours in a decent bed? At the moment I didn't feel hungry or thirsty either, although days might have passed since I last put something in my stomach… still, you'd expect that visiting a goddess might have more profound effects than a good meal. Perhaps the blaze had burned away intangible imperfections – the «plugs of butter congealing in my heart», as one dour Athar doctor warned me – but I had no way of perceiving such hidden cleansings. Suffice it to say, I felt good but not supernaturally blessed… which left me wondering what I should do next.
   November had told us the chapel held a portal to Sigil, and its key was the image of a serpent. I could make such a picture easily enough – rip off bark from the nearest tree and use a sharp stone to scratch out a drawing – but did I want to run back to Sigil before my companions returned? The thought of leaving without them turned my stomach: Niles Cavendish's son did not abandon his friends. On the other hand, did I dare waste precious time waiting for them when Rivi might be running rampant in the streets of my home?
   And how much time had I lost already? The nagas had kidnapped us at night, it had been daytime at the Court of Light, and now it was night again. That meant at least twenty-four hours… but it could have been much more, depending on how long the nagas had kept us paralyzed and how long I'd been unconscious after going through the flame.
   As I debated the question, my gaze roamed around the dark clearing and lit on something that reflected the white of my clothes like a mirror. When I investigated, I found my father's sword thrust into the frozen earth, almost a foot of its tip dug into the soil. The nagas must have brought it with them as they carried me to this place; but I found it hard to imagine either of them gripping the hilt by mouth and plunging it into the ground so forcefully. Perhaps Shekinester herself had transported the rapier here: a hint from the goddess that it was time for me to do battle.
   Wrapping my fingers around the sword's pommel, I pulled up tentatively, just to test how firmly the blade was implanted in the soil. It slid out of the ground as soft as a whisper, as if the weapon was pushing itself free and I was simply holding on. When I looked at the tip, there wasn't the slightest fleck of dirt on the metal, nor any of the nicks and notches you'd expect from ramming a honed length of steel into the frozen forest floor. Indeed, the sword gleamed sharper than I'd ever seen before; and it occurred to me that I'd been wearing the rapier when I jumped into the flame. Just as the fire had scorched away my little aches and pains, it must have refined any minute imperfections in the weapon, leaving it sharper, more lethal, more magical than ever.
   I laughed softly, then lifted my head to the sky. «You think you had a great sword, Father… you should see mine.»

* * *
   Five minutes later, I was putting the last touches onto a sketch scratched into a punky piece of oak bark. To make the image of a snake, I might have got away with a mere squiggly line – portals are seldom picky – but I had my pride. The picture showed a cobra ready to strike, its body raised, its hood flared, its fangs dripping venom… which is easier said than done, when your only drawing implement is a 4B wedge of limestone.
   In the dim light I stared at the sketch, trying to decide if it needed something else or if adding more would clutter things up – the perennial dilemma of every artist – when I heard a rustling in the woods. Immediately I sprinted for the chapel, where I could hide in the blackness of the doorway… and where, if worst came to worst, I could use my drawing to flee through the portal to Sigil.
   Silent moments passed, and I began to wonder if I'd been spooked by some porcupine, late for hibernation. Then, as hushed as an owl in flight, two nagas entered the clearing. The one in front, a huge female with fangs so white they glowed, carried her head warily; her tongue flicked in and out constantly, left, right, left, as if she were certain that trouble must be lurking close by. Behind her, the other naga was smaller, with the fresh-hatched face of a boy scarcely older than Zeerith. He showed none of the caution of the other – in fact, he sported a beaming grin, suggesting he was enjoying every second of this adventure away from home.
   Clinging to his neck, like a child riding a pony, sat Wheezle. The gnome wore on over-long robe cut in Dustman style; but instead of a somber gray, this garment was as white as the face of a moon. Even in this starless night, the cloth shone and shimmered as if it had been peeled off an unusually generous ghost.
   The front naga hissed sharply, and stared in my direction. Belatedly, I remembered that I too was dressed in purest white – not the best sartorial choice for someone hiding in shadows. «It's all right,» I called quickly. Stepping from the darkness, I said, «I'm a friend.»
   «Honored Cavendish!» cried Wheezle with delight. He hopped from his perch on the young naga and ran forward, his arms wide. I was so astonished to see him on his feet again, I didn't react; so when he reached me, he wrapped his arms around my knees and squeezed in warm embrace.
   «You can walk again!» I marveled.
   «He has passed through the flame,» the older naga said. «Why should you doubt that it healed him? Do you think the sacred fire is weak?»
   «No, no,» I answered quickly. «I've been through the flame myself, you know.»
   The naga blinked once, then she grudgingly nodded her head. «You are to be congratulated for passing Our Mother's test.»
   «And you passed too, Wheezle.» I squatted and returned the little gnome's hug. «Your legs are really all right?»
   «Better than that, honored Cavendish. My memory has returned.»
   The boy-naga made a scoffing sound. «Why not? Shekinester's stronger than the stupid old Styx.»
   «And look,» said Wheezle. «Look at this.»
   He held up his wrinkled old hand and made a circling gesture with his thumb. A ring of blue light flared into existence where the tip of his thumbnail traced through the air, then sprang up a few inches and dropped like a hoop around his index finger. With a small rattling noise, it disappeared again.
   «What was that?» I asked.
   «That was sorcery, honored-but-slow-on-the-uptake Cavendish. Shekinester's flame burned me clean of Rivi's dust. I have my magic back!»
   «What about the others? Have you heard anything about them?»
   Wheezle shook his head, but turned to the nagas who'd brought him here. The old female shrugged… or made a motion that would have been a shrug if she'd had shoulders. «No one knows how the Holy Mother will conduct Her tests,» she said. «It may take an hour, it may take a year. I can give no better answer.»
   «We don't have a year,» I muttered. «We may not even have an hour. Rivi's taken a long headstart, and she's not one to waste opportunities. Still,» I clapped Wheezle on the back, «you've got magic, and I've got one shining blood of a sword. Why don't we go kick some —»
   Suddenly, the air ripped open in front of me, spilling out a stench of sulphur stronger than the vilest pits of Baator. The nagas hissed, Wheezle's hands blazed with eldritch energies, and I whipped my rapier up to attack position.
   Obliviously, Hezekiah stepped from the reeking rift. «Hey Britlin,» he said, «see how far I can teleport now?»

20. THREE FLOORS OF MADNESS

   I wanted to wait for Yasmin, Hezekiah wanted to wait for Miriam, and surprisingly, Wheezle showed interest in waiting for our alu-friend, November; but we couldn't afford the delay. On another piece of bark, I scratched a note saying that the three of us had gone ahead… and I hoped Shekinester would release our companions in time to read the message.
   The young and old naga watched wordlessly as I propped the chunk of bark beside the chapel door. For a moment, I considered asking them to join against our enemies – heaven knew, we could use all the help we could get – but what incentive could I offer? The chance to get shredded by Rivi's wights? Or perhaps the possibility of having their minds enslaved by Rivi herself? The older naga was almost certainly the mother of the young one, and would never put him in danger.
   Instead, I simply gestured for the mother to come nearer. She slithered warily across the snow. «If we fail,» I told her in a low voice, «this area may not be safe in future. Sigil's on the other side of that portal, and Sigil may turn ugly. Talk to your people about mounting a guard.»
   She stared at me a moment, then nodded. «Try not to fail,» she said.
   Then she and her son slid quietly into the woods.

* * *
   The interior of the chapel was filled with gloomy thickets of shadow, but a few shreds of light still managed to slip through the dirt-crusted windows. A smell of damp rot hovered in the air, coming from the clumps of fungus that fed off the long-unused pews. Here and there along the walls, a spill of white showed where snow had blown in through cracks between the stones; and somewhere close to the front of the sanctuary, a steady drip told of a leak in the roof.
   Hezekiah's hand clutched at my sleeve. «November promised this place wasn't haunted, right?»
   «Hezekiah,» I said, «correct me if I'm wrong, but you went through a series of tests in the Court of Light, true?»
   «I don't want to talk about them,» he muttered.
   «But at the end,» I continued, «you must have walked into a pillar of fire, surrounded by several hundred undead of all descriptions. Now you're worried about this little place being haunted?»
   The boy cleared his throat uncomfortably. «I wouldn't exactly say I walked into the pillar of fire. I was kind of escorted there.»
   «Escorted?»
   «Okay, dragged. By three vampires, two ghouls, and this big white thing that kept groaning all the time.»
   Wheezle murmured, «An interesting picture to imagine, honored Clueless.»
   «Yeah, I screamed so loud, I kind of reduced a banshee to tears. My point is, I'm not feeling very friendly toward the undead right now, so I hope there aren't any hanging their sheets here.»
   There didn't seem to be. Apart from a smattering of beetles sluggish from the cold, the chapel showed no sign of occupation by creatures on either side of death. We walked up the central aisle, eyes and ears open for peril, but all was quiet. It felt quiet too: not the least quiver of supernatural menace.
   Even in the dark, the soft glow of the portal was hard to see. As November had said, it lay in the doorway between the main sanctuary and a small sacristy at the back; and it occurred to me how piking inconvenient it must have been for the worshippers to have a snake-activated gate right in the middle of their cloister. If a priest had a naga tattoo, a serpent brooch, even a child's creed-school drawing of a pretty python, he'd start walking into his sanctum and get deposited in the middle of Sigil. No wonder this cult had never managed to make a go of itself.
   «Where do you think this portal goes?» Hezekiah whispered in the dark.
   «The way our luck's been running,» I answered, «it could be the Great Foundry's blast furnace.»
   «Correct me if I'm wrong,» Hezekiah said in an annoying tone, «but you must have walked into a pillar of fire surrounded by several hundred undead of all descriptions. Now you're worried about a little blast furnace?»
   «Pike it, berk,» I growled; and holding my sketch of the spitting cobra, I stepped through the portal…

* * *
   …and into a spartan room with mildewed walls and a single barred window. There was no furniture, simply a heap of limp straw piled in front of the window. My nostrils told me the straw had lain there for some time, long enough to begin a rancid decline into rot; and other smells mingled with the sharpness of decay – the thudding aromas of a chamberpot whose slops have gone unemptied for days.
   Yet despite the stink of the place, I found myself hushed solemn by the room's one notable sight. Seated serenely on the pile of rotting straw was a venerable female orc, wearing an ornate satin wedding dress. At one time the dress must have cost a hefty sack of jink, for the bodice was stitched with a tasteful display of beadwork and fine embroidery; but age had yellowed the fabric and smeared it with copious smudges of unknown origin.
   The old orc woman showed no sign of embarrassment at the state of her gown. Indeed, her face was wreathed in a gentle smile, and her hands folded placidly in her lap, like an unruffled debutante waiting to be asked for a dance. As Wheezle and Hezekiah stepped through the gate behind me, the orc rose to her feet and curtsied smoothly, as if people materialized in her squalid boudoir every day.
   «Your majesties,» she said, «I have awaited your coming for some time. Some time. Some time. Have you decided which of you I shall wed?»
   Hezekiah nearly jumped back through the portal, but I stopped him in time.

* * *
   «You are mistaken, honored lady.» Wheezle kowtowed to the orc with grace enough to match her curtsy. «We are not of royal blood, nor are we potential husbands.»
   «Ah, you have come incognito,» she smiled. «I find that charming. But I have waited so very long… very long, very long… it has been hard to keep up my spirits through the cruel days and nights. No doubt you were delayed by dragons?»
   «Something like that,» I murmured; but my attention was elsewhere, scanning the view out the barred and dirty window. It showed a wide cobblestone street, a few ramshackle hovels, and a queue of people – humanoids and others – waiting somberly in dim twilight before this very building. Something about that queue seemed familiar: young adults standing with writhing children; older adults carrying stretchers where elderly white-hairs lay as still as corpses; men pleading with monsters only they could see, and women cringing as if every sound around them was a needle plunged into their flesh…
   Suddenly, I recognized it all and knew where we were. «It's the Gatehouse,» I said to Wheezle.
   The gnome nodded as if he'd been thinking the same thing, but Hezekiah asked, «What's the Gatehouse?»
   «A place for those whose minds are bruised,» Wheezle told him. «It means we have truly returned to Sigil,» he added; but his tone of voice suggested he would prefer the blood-soaked streets of Plague-Mort to the Gatehouse Asylum.
   Hezekiah's expression said he felt much the same as Wheezle. «We'd better leave,» he muttered.
   «Your majesties, please!» the orc woman cried. «You must not…» Her agitated voice broke off, and eased once more into a tranquil smile. «But of course, you will take me with you.»
   «Honored lady,» Wheezle began… but she placed a wrinkled hand to his lips and shushed him.
   «I know,» she said. «Gossiping tongues will wag – a young and vulnerable lass traveling unchaperoned with three lusty princes. But I have waited… I have waited so long… and people have said so many cruel things already. They have tried to tell me… they have claimed I am… foolish.» Her hands were still folded in front of her, but the knuckles had turned white as they squeezed against each other. «Please, your majesties… I have waited… I have worn this dress… this dress… I saved every farthing for this dress because I knew you would come… and marry me…»
   I couldn't meet her tear-filled gaze. As I lowered my eyes, I realized all my clothes were pristine white… as were Wheezle's robes and Hezekiah's foppishly-tailored outfit. No wonder she took us for princes, princes dressed for a wedding day. When this poor old woman had seen us, we must have fulfilled her every confused dream.
   «What is your name, young miss?» I asked as gently as I could.
   With another curtsy, she answered, «Irene, may it please your majesty.» It wasn't an orc name, but then, the white satin gown was not an orc wedding dress. Perhaps she fancied herself human… or perhaps, she had been raised by humans in a manner at odds with her orc heritage. Such things happen in Sigil.
   «Irene,» I told her, «my fellow princes and I must go on a dangerous quest. It would not be safe for a delicate —»
   Before I could finish the sentence, she seized my arm. «Please don't leave me here,» she whispered. «If you leave me after all this time, I fear I might… go mad… please, don't make me be a mad old woman…»
   I turned to Hezekiah and Wheezle. Both of them were staring at the floor.
   «All right,» I told her. «You can come with us a little way.»

* * *
   Hezekiah offered Irene his arm. He didn't look comfortable about it – he held himself as rigid as a steel fencepost, and never let his eyes stray in her direction – but the boy was clearly making an effort to show her courtesy. Irene didn't seem to notice his tension; she settled in against him with the composure of an experienced courtesan taking a baron's hand.
   The room had only one exit, the doorway that framed the portal to the Outlands. I threw away my sketch of the cobra before leaving – otherwise, I'd find myself back in the chapel. Wheezle led the way into the corridor, followed by Hezekiah and Irene, with me trailing as rear guard… which meant I was the last to confront the full squalor of the Gatehouse Asylum.
   The place stank of desperation. Yes, the smells in my nostrils were more specific, mildew, slops, and a wispy tang of blood; but over everything hung an oppressive desolation, tangible enough to make my skin crawl. Half the rooms along this corridor had their doors closed, secured with cast-iron padlocks. The others had their doors wide open, letting out the whimpers and moans of their inhabitants. A few patients had emerged from their rooms, to lean against the walls and stare vacantly into the distance, or to stand with eyes closed, rocking and humming tunelessly in their throats. One wore an unbuckled straitjacket; the rest wore unwashed garments, some no better than rags.
   Wheezle headed for a door at the end of the hall. Most of the patients took no notice of us as we passed; those who did covered their eyes with their hands and shivered until we were gone. Irene touched one of the shiverers on the shoulder and said in a gentle voice, «You may have my room, Mazey. I shall not need it again.»
   Past the door, we came upon what passed for a nurse's station: a flimsy wooden table where a bulky young dwarf sat picking his teeth with a sliver of bone. He glanced up at us, and his eyes widened. «I told you they would come for me,» Irene said triumphantly. «I told you they would come.»
   He stared for another second or two, then shrugged and went back to digging between his molars.

* * *
   Irene's room had been on the third storey; and when we finally found a stairway, it only went down one floor. That meant we had to backtrack along the length of the whole wing before we could get down to ground level. I assumed this design made it harder for barmies to escape, forcing them to run all the way along one floor, then all the way back on the next floor down, keeping them inside the building that much longer… but that only worked if someone tried to stop them from leaving. As far as I could see, none of the staff showed the least concern as we passed. No one asked who we were or where we were going; no one even recognized our existence.
   No one in an official capacity, that is – we got plenty of attention from the inmates. Many tried to hide from us; many more tried to talk to us, in languages that may or may not have been spoken by anyone else in the multiverse. A few followed us, gesticulating as they babbled, and pointing at odd objects: cracks in the wall, their own teeth, a single red shoe someone had left in the hallway. After a while, each lost interest and wandered off some other direction, still talking and waving incoherently.
   Down more stairs and an exit door came in sight – its glass smudged by the noseprints, gawkers looking in and inmates gazing out. A pair of guards in badly scuffed armor leaned against the wall near the door, passing a flask between them; but they straightened an inch as they saw us approach.
   «Yeah?» said the taller one, as if we had asked a question. She had a sleek crown of black feathers on her head instead of hair; I couldn't tell if it was a hat or actually part of her body.
   «We are leaving, honored guard,» Wheezle replied. «May your death be everything you hope it to be.»
   «Huh?» Feather-Woman asked. She must have shone in conversational skills at the job interview.
   «Don't mind him,» Hezekiah said hurriedly. «He's a Dustman. They say things like that.»
   «Dustmen wear gray,» observed the other guard. He had the head of a tortoise-shell cat, and by the looks of it, his fur went all the way down. Unlike most cats, this one hadn't done much in the way of licking himself clean for a long time.
   «Alas,» Wheezle told the guard, «my gray robes were burned when a death knight directed me to walk through a pillar of sacred fire. These clothes were reconstructed for me by nagas.»
   I cringed. If Wheezle blurted out everything from the past few days, these guards would heave us directly into padded cells. Magic salt-and-pepper grinders, camping out with fiends, getting chummy with wights on the Plane of Dust, then fighting them in Plague-Mort… this was not a story to convince people of our sanity. «We have to go now,» I said, stepping toward the door.
   Feathers hiked up her foot and planted it against the opposite wall of the narrow corridor, neatly blocking my exit. «Pass?» she grunted.
   «I beg your pardon?»
   «She wants to see your pass,» the Tortoise-Shell said. «A paper what says you can leave.»
   «We don't have a pass,» Hezekiah answered, too quickly for me to stop him.
   «Gotta have a pass,» Tortoise-Shell replied. «Patients get a pass from their doc. Visitors get a pass when they come in.»
   «That's the problem then,» Wheezle said. «We entered the building through a portal from Plague-Mort. Well, not directly from Plague-Mort… from a chapel outside of town, dedicated to nagas.»
   «Little berk's got a thing about nagas,» Feathers observed. «His doc must have a lot to say about that.»
   «I don't have a doctor,» Wheezle snapped. «We are just passing through on our way to fight an evil albino.»
   «Albino naga?» Tortoise-Shell asked with interest. «That's what you might call a provocative image.»
   «The albino's not a naga,» Hezekiah retorted, «she's a psionic. She's sucked all the power out of my brain twice, but I won't let her do it again.»
   «Good thinking,» Feathers said. «I sure hate it when albinos suck power out of my brain.»
   «If you berks got a thing about albinos,» Tortoise-Shell asked, «why are you all wearing white? Some self-punishing identification-with-the-enemy thing?»
   «They are wearing white,» Irene announced, «because they are three royal princes come to marry me.»
   «All three gonna marry you at once?»
   «They're princes,» Irene answered. «They can do whatever they want.»
   «Just the kind of attitude that gives royalty a bad name,» Tortoise-Shell observed. «Shame on your highnesses.»
   «Majesties!» Irene corrected.
   «A prince is Your highness,» Feathers said. «Your majesty is for kings and queens.»
   «Is that how it works?» Hezekiah asked. «I always wondered.»
   «They are all majesties,» Irene insisted, «because they will marry me and make me a queen.»
   «Even if they're only princes themselves?»
   «Maybe,» Hezekiah suggested, «if you marry three princes at once, you become a queen. It could be cumulative.»
   «All right, that's it!» I snapped. «Much as my companions belong in a barmy bin,» I told the guards, «we have to get out of here. So here's my proof that we aren't really inmates.»
   In a split-second, the tip of my rapier was poised a hair's breadth from Tortoise-Shell's right eye. The cat gulped and froze. Feathers followed suit.
   «Follow my logic, if you please,» I said. «Patients surely aren't allowed to carry weapons, right?»
   «Right,» the guards answered in unison.
   «I am carrying a very sharp, very lethal sword… right?»
   «Right,» they chorused again.
   «Therefore, I must not be a patient, right?»
   «Got me convinced,» Tortoise-Shell said, swallowing hard.
   «Pass, friend,» Feathers added, carefully dropping the leg that barred our way, and nudging the door open.
   Wheezle smiled and trotted out, followed by Hezekiah. As Irene glided regally past the guards, she stopped and whispered, «Please forgive Prince Britlin's impulsiveness. He is the eldest, and has endured many long years of chaste abstinence, waiting for our union.»
   «Perfectly understandable,» Tortoise-Shell answered, now cross-eyed from staring at the tip of my blade. «A cutter gets keen, I can sympathize with that.»
   «Explains all the talk about nagas,» Feathers agreed. «You have a nice honeymoon now.»
   I kept my sword at the ready as I backed out the door, but the guards made no rash attempts to nab us. As we hurried away from the asylum, I saw Tortoise-Shell raise the flask in our direction and drink off a hearty toast.

* * *
   The Gatehouse Asylum imposed its doleful presence on one of the least desirable zones of Sigil's Hive district… and since a sensible person would rather play leapfrog with a unicorn than visit even the best parts of the Hive, you can imagine what a sordid neighborhood we walked through now. Beady-eyed kobolds watched us passing, their boney fists clenching and unclenching with hate; but there must have been something imposing about our band – something in Irene's stateliness, or our ethereal white clothing, or maybe just the gleam of my rapier – that kept the hostility restricted to venomous glares. Within minutes, we had reached the relative safety of a patch of blighted grass, just outside a fortified Harmonium squad-station.
   «Do we go in?» Wheezle asked.
   «I'd prefer to report directly to Lady Erin,» I said. «Our story is too addle-coved to foist on a Hardhead desk sergeant. Still, we could beg for an escort between here and the Festhall; it's coming on night, and we're in a dangerous part of the city.»
   «I might be able to teleport us to the Festhall,» Hezekiah offered.
   «Back in Plague-Mort,» I reminded him, «you said you'd never tried a jump with more than two people.»
   «I feel stronger now,» he answered. «Since I came out of Shekinester's flame —»
   «Save it,» I interrupted. «This is not the time to try anything risky. We get some guards, we have them march us across the city, and we tell Lady Erin what we know. Let's keep it simple.»
   Normally, a station like this one would have muscle posted at the front door, just in case some local bully-boys barged in. At the moment we entered, however, the guards had left their post to take part in a free-for-all behind the front desk. The cause of the brouhaha was a gigantic minotaur, fully eight feet tall and bellowing drunken curses as four of the Harmonium's finest tried to wrestle him to the ground. A fifth, the desk sergeant, had given up on grappling and was bashing the creature's head with a truncheon; but minotaur heads are noted for horns, not brains, so the sergeant's cudgel was having precious little effect.
   «Should we help?» Hezekiah whispered, gaping at the fight.
   I shook my head. The Harmonium don't take kindly to interference from strangers; besides, with so many people fighting already, we'd just get in the way. «Wait till they're done,» I told the boy. «They won't take long.»
   Soon enough, I thought, the minotaur would gore one of the guards with his bull-like horns; and the moment Harmonium blood was spilled, the Hardheads would draw their swords and butcher Mr. Mino like an Aberdeen Angus. To my surprise, however, no matter how bubbed up the bull-man appeared, he retained some particle of prudence: he kept his horns to himself, never giving the guards an excuse to slice him to ribbons. Even worse, the sergeant with the truncheon was more gifted with zeal than accuracy – he clubbed his own comrades as often as he whacked the minotaur, thereby keeping the fight even for several minutes.
   It was only when the guards were finally getting the upper hand that Hezekiah tugged on the hem of my jacket. «Britlin…»
   «Not now,» I told him, «I have to talk to the sergeant.»
   The sergeant, hearing my voice now that the ruckus had subsided, looked up to see who had come in. His eyes opened wide with surprise… I told myself a snow-white outfit had that effect on people.
   «Britlin, this is important,» Hezekiah said, still tugging.
   «It can wait,» I snapped, giving the sergeant a smile of apology at the interruption.
   «Honored Cavendish,» Wheezle murmured, «perhaps this deserves your immediate attention.»
   I sighed and held up a finger to the sergeant. «Back in a second,» I said, and whirled on my companions. «What?»
   Hezekiah pointed to a row of six WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE posters tacked on the wall of the office. The faces were all too familiar… but frankly, the pictures must have been drawn by an untalented chimpanzee, given the abysmal quality of the sketches. When had I ever had such a protruding forehead? Why had they made Wheezle's ears so hairy? How could they depict a beauty like Yasmin as a blowsy draggle-tail?
   On the other hand, the picture of Hezekiah was pretty good.
   Yes, we were all there… including Miriam and even November. A hefty bounty rode on all our heads, authorized by «Her Honor Lady Erin Darkflame Montgomery, and His Worthiness Capt. Sarin (Harmonium Fact.).» Apparently, my companions and I had committed, «Numerous Acts of Sedition, Murther, and Most Grievous Crimes of Arson on Divers Public Buildings.»
   «Looks like someone is blaming us for Rivi's crimes,» I sighed.
   «Rivi is setting us up,» Hezekiah put in. «If she's taken over the brains of influential people…»
   «I know. She could easily manufacture a case against us.»
   «But how did she know we'd be here?» Wheezle asked.
   I shrugged. «She probably checked the house in Plague-Mort after the dust had settled. When she didn't find our bodies, she concluded we were still alive. She asked around, discovered we'd made contact with November, and guessed we'd be heading for Sigil. Clever wee Rivi took the time to frame a nasty reception for when we showed…»
   A sword point tickled the back of my ear.
   «…up,» I finished.

* * *
   The guards had clearly decided that arresting three bounty-paying murderers made better sense than tussling with one garden-variety drunk. In fact, they had pressed the minotaur into temporary deputyship; he was on his feet again, little the worse for the fisticuffs, and looking keen to take us down if it would earn a share of the reward.
   The sword pricking my ear belonged to the desk sergeant, who showed strict adherence to the Harmonium Book of Clichs by saying, «Don't move a hair or you're dead.»
   «Why not kill them anyway?» one of the other guards asked. «The signs say DEAD OR ALIVE.»
   «Because these berks may know where the other three are… and if they start talking right now, we'll promise not to cut their throats.»
   «Cut their throats?» Irene repeated. «How dare you threaten three royal princes!»
   «How many princes've you killed, Saul?» one guard asked another.
   «Including goblins, kobolds, mephits – upwards of a dozen, I'd say… and then, there's all the Prime world princelings, but who counts them?»
   Hezekiah gulped. «We're really, really in trouble, aren't we?» he cried. With sobs in his throat, he reached out and grabbed a handful of my shirt, steadying himself on Wheezle's shoulder. «After everything we've been through…»
   The boy blew his nose loudly on my lapel.
   «Sorry,» I apologized to the nearest guard. «He's Clueless.»
   «He is my prince!» Irene said, stepping forward to lay a comforting hand on his arm. «I shall stand by him for eternity.»
   «As will I,» Wheezle pronounced. «Wherever we go, we shall go together, because we are joined as one.»
   Which offered confirmation, if Hezekiah needed it: the boy now had physical contact with all four of us. The next moment, we were someplace far away from the squad station.
   Hezekiah straightened up with an impish grin on his face. «I told you I could teleport us all. Sorry about the shirt, Britlin.»
   «It will wash,» I answered graciously.

* * *
   Hezekiah had teleported us somewhere he knew well: the street in front of the Mortuary. Not that it looked much like the place we had watched a few days earlier; the tenements were nothing but cinders, with occasional upthrusts of wood that had not burned completely to ash. Much of the surrounding pavement had been washed clean by rainfall – you can always count on Sigil for drizzle – but some patches of roadway were crusted over with crumbly residue that I guessed was humanoid skin… bits from the giant and the Collectors who'd been carrying him, grafted onto the cobblestones by the flash heat of the explosion.
   The Mortuary itself showed little of its damage directly; the masonry had been black to begin with, so the singe marks blended in. However, a gridwork of scaffolding had been erected all around the building, with wooden beams propping up sections of the roof and walls. Even if nothing had collapsed immediately, the Dustmen must not trust the current structural soundness.
   «It brings tears to my eyes,» Wheezle said softly.
   «Do you want to go inside?» I asked. «Look up any of your friends?»
   «That would not be wise,» he answered. «If Rivi has convinced the city I am one of those responsible for the fires – including the explosion here – I will have few friends. Besides, Rivi might well station spies in our factions, watching for our return. I do not think she could steal the mind of Factol Skall…»
   «Agreed,» I said, remembering my brief encounter with Skall, as he drained the life from the renegade wight.
   «But,» Wheezle continued, «I cannot reach the factol without first talking to his aides. Any one of them may have been compromised by Rivi.»
   «The same goes for me approaching the Sensates,» I said. «Whom can we trust?»
   «You can trust me, your majesty!» Irene answered, going down on one knee. «I am your humble servant.»
   «Thank you,» I smiled, patting her wrinkled hand. «Your loyalty is well-pleasing to me.»
   She beamed.
   «So far as I can see,» Hezekiah said, «we have to find Rivi ourselves. Find her and defeat her.»
   «Including Kiripao?» I asked. «Qi and Chi? A hundred renegade wights?»
   «Sure,» the boy shrugged. «Them too.»
   «But honored Clueless,» Wheezle said, «we don't even know where to find Rivi.»
   «That's easy,» he answered. «The Vertical Sea.»

* * *
   Hezekiah explained his reasoning as we slunk through the Hive toward the Sea. «It has a portal to the Glass Spider, right? And the Spider is Rivi's real base of operations. So even if she isn't at the fish-farm right now, I bet she comes and goes through the gate all the time. We just watch the place until she shows up.»
   «Why should she come and go?» I asked. «Couldn't she take over some mansion in town? Just brainwash a wealthy leatherhead and peel everything he owns.»
   «That would attract attention,» the boy answered. «Wealthy people have servants and nosy neighbors, not to mention business competitors spying for any advantage. Rivi might brain-nap a few rich vassals, but she won't want anyone to know they're connected with her – she still has to play things very carefully until she consolidates her power. Besides, she needs to secure the Vertical Sea, whether or not she's using the portal right now. It's her backdoor out of the city… and an access point for all her wights, if she ever needs them.»
   «What you say makes sense,» Wheezle admitted, «but I cannot understand how Rivi could enter Sigil in the first place. All portals are controlled by The Lady of Pain… who has established an infallible track record for keeping out destabilizing influences. Why didn't The Lady simply close the doors to Rivi? Let our albino friend plague some other city.»
   «I've been thinking about that,» I said, «and I have a theory. If Rivi couldn't enter Sigil, she'd try someplace else… where she'd either win or lose. If she won, she'd become that much more of a threat; if she lost, the grinders would fall into someone else's hands, and the mess would continue. In fact, the mess might get worse if the person who got the grinders was a high-powered fiend, something like that. Perhaps The Lady of Pain prefers to have Rivi and the grinders here within reach.»
   «Then why doesn't The Lady just kill Rivi now?» Hezekiah asked. «Do you think she's afraid of the grinders, like Rivi said? Or that The Lady doesn't know where the grinders are?»
   «It is possible,» Wheezle replied, «but more likely, she does not wish to earn the enmity of other gods. As I have told Britlin, the grinders are so supremely dangerous, the pantheons may unite to destroy any Power who tries to claim them. The Lady would surely try to avoid such a threat.»
   «Besides,» I said, «it's not The Lady of Pain's style to take such overt action. She expects her people to keep the city streets clean.»
   «Her people,» Hezekiah repeated. «Does that mean she's got a specially chosen team to deal with threats like Rivi?»
   «Yes,» I told him, «and at the moment, the team is us. Let's not pike this up, kid – The Lady of Pain is notoriously unforgiving toward sods who let her down.»

21. THREE DOWN, ONE TO GO

   When we reached the Vertical Sea, it was filled with wights: wights dressed in workers' clothes, wights trundling wheelbarrows from one level to another, wights whose eyes blazed with utter fury at the indignity of this pretense.
   I didn't want to think about what had happened to the real workers; but I wondered if the fish had fed better than usual over the past few days.
   From the vantage of the same tenement roof I'd used before, we crouched behind the chicken coops and watched the undead stalk about their business. For the most part, they stayed at least three floors above the ground, where their fiery eyes would be unlikely to attract the attention of passers-by. Lower down, the workers were all Rivi's hired goons, dealing directly with the delivery carts that came to pick up their supplies of seafood. Lanterns hung at regular intervals throughout the structure, on the stairs, on the ramps, and on the catwalks over the fish-tanks… enough light for the tower to be seen thirty blocks away, and to steal the night vision from anyone who might look in our direction.
   While it was impossible to scan the whole twenty-storey structure, by the end of an hour I had seen no familiar faces: no Kiripao, no githzerai, and definitely no Rivi. We'd just have to cool our heels until they showed up.
   «So, honored Cavendish,» Wheezle murmured, «what is our strategy now?»
   «Wait for your enemies,» Irene replied calmly, «then strike from stealth, and claim your plunder.»
   «Hey,» said Hezekiah, «look who's a real orc after all.»
   I patted Irene's hand fondly. «It's a good plan. If we see Rivi show up with the grinders and Unveiler, we teleport over and run a rapier through her gizzard. Then we grab the trinkets and teleport away again.»
   «Doesn't sound very heroic,» Hezekiah grumbled.
   «Neither does letting Rivi take over the city.»
   «But couldn't we just jump in front of her and give her the chance to surrender?»
   «You mean give her the chance to poach our brains,» I corrected him. «We can't afford to be charitable, boy.»
   Hezekiah didn't answer, but I could see he wasn't happy with stabbing people in the back. I would have liked to have a different option myself; but the stakes were too high to take chances. Maybe – maybe – if I had a clear shot and no risk of missing, I would club-punch Rivi with the butt of my sword rather than slicing through her liver. If I knocked her out, we could take her prisoner without killing her… but if the first blow didn't put her down, I'd use my blade as a follow-up, and sod how much blood I spilled.

* * *
   Time passed. Somewhere far in the distance, the Stern Bells near Sigil's prison chimed antipeak: midnight. Five hundred years ago, a Mercykiller sorceress named Justice-by-Fist had enchanted the bells so they could be heard all over Sigil – not making them louder, but simply making the sound carry all around the circle of the city. True Sigilians could tell where they were in town, just by the lag between the clockwise and counter-clockwise passage of the ringing.
   «Do you think anyone's going to show up tonight?» Hezekiah asked. «It's pretty late.»
   The boy was munching a not-quite-ripe peach Wheezle had procured from a greengrocer in a short trip down to ground level. Considering that all our pocket money had vaporized in the Arching Flame, I don't know how Wheezle paid for the fruit… but a gnome illusionist has resources even when he has no resources, if you know what I mean.
   Wheezle, his face the soul of innocence, finished a mouthful of his own peach and answered the boy's question. «The people we seek are more likely to work by night than day, honored Clueless. We should not give up hope simply because the hour is late.»
   «Before we start getting sleepy,» I said, «we should set up a watch schedule – take turns napping. It won't be comfortable bedding down up here…»
   «I shall make it comfortable for you,» Irene announced.
   Hezekiah winced. Wheezle had more self-control, but his face paled. «Honored lady, perhaps we should discuss certain… misunderstandings between us.»
   «In an arranged marriage,» Irene replied, «there are always adjustments to be made.» She had dribbled peach juice down the front of her wedding dress, but took no notice of it. «It simply requires the husbands and wife to meet each other halfway. Now,» she continued, smoothing her gown demurely, «do you want to decide which of you shall be first, or would you prefer that I choose?»
   «First for what?» Hezekiah asked uneasily.
   «Sounds like the boy needs the most education,» I leapt in. «Start with him.»
   «Yes, yes,» Wheezle agreed. «He is clearly in need of your guidance, honored lady. Your lengthy guidance. Spend several months if you have to. Years. We others can wait.»
   «What are you talking about?» Hezekiah demanded. «Because it almost sounds like we're discussing, umm… wedding nights…»
   «We are,» Irene answered serenely. «Shall we withdraw behind the chicken coops, your majesty?»
   Hezekiah's eyes threatened to skitter out of his skull and go dancing about the rooftop. He spun away wildly, possibly summoning his energy to teleport all the way back to the safety of Uncle Toby's parlor; but the insufferable luck of the Clueless saved him.
   «Look!» he cried, pointing a wobbly finger across the street. «There's Qi… Chi… one of the gith guys!»

* * *
   Hezekiah was right. The githzerai thief – let's call him Chi, though I never found out which he really was – had reached a point several storeys below us, climbing one of the Sea's corkscrew stairways. The other thugs gave him plenty of space to move up the steps; even the wights stood clear to let him pass. The look on his face showed they were wise to do so: his expression was gauntly savage, a hailstorm ready to break. I wondered if he'd worn that grimace ever since I killed his partner in Plague-Mort, or if his ferocity had a more recent cause.
   Not that it mattered. The only important thing was to capture the berk and make him tell us which stone Rivi was hiding under. We'd just teleport across, hold a knife to Chi's throat, and take him somewhere for interrogation.
   «Okay, Hezekiah,» I whispered, «we keep this simple. Wait till he's a good distance from anyone else, then take us right in behind him.»
   The boy looked like he was going to object, but I stared him down. In silence, we watched the githzerai glower his way upward… heading for the portal to the Glass Spider, I realized. One level below the portal, he would have to climb a ramp that crossed above a tank of squid – or calamari, if you prefer – and at present the area was clear of wights. «There,» I said to Hezekiah. «That ramp. Ready?»
   He nodded. I got a good grip on the boy's arm, and Wheezle grabbed hold of his belt. «We'll be back soon,» I assured Irene… who waited till the last moment, then laid her hand on Hezekiah's shoulder before I could stop her.
   Together all four of us materialized on the ramp – a dozen paces in front of the githzerai.
   «Sod it all,» I snarled, then charged toward the thief, my rapier glinting in the lantern light.
   «Surrender!» Hezekiah shouted to Chi. «You're outnumbered so just…»
   The githzerai whipped out a firewand.
   «…surrender…» Hezekiah finished lamely.

* * *
   «It appears we have a standoff,» Chi said.
   I stood, sword ready, three paces away from him, while the others loomed behind my back. He held the firewand casually, but I didn't doubt he could trigger it in a split-second if any of us moved a hair.
   «We wouldn't have a standoff,» I answered through clenched teeth, «if someone had landed us behind you.»
   «I didn't want you to kill him,» Hezekiah pouted.
   «I wasn't going to kill him. I wanted to take him prisoner so we could interrogate him.»
   «You never told me that.»
   «Do I have to explain everything?» I growled at the boy. «You knew he was carrying something magic. The first time we saw him, you sensed magic on him.»
   «I didn't know it was a firewand!»
   «Enough!» Chi roared. «Do you think you can distract me by feigning an argument? I'm not a complete leatherhead, you know.»
   «Feigning an argument,» Hezekiah murmured. «That would have been clever.»
   «Stop rattling your bone-box!» Chi thundered. «I'm trying to decide whether to burn you where you stand.»
   «If you start a fire here,» Wheezle said, «you will burn down the Vertical Sea. Your portal to the Glass Spider will lose its anchor and disappear.»
   «The Spider has other portals,» Chi answered. «It's no great burden to gate into Plague-Mort and head for Sigil from there. You did exactly that, didn't you?»
   «It is possible to find an indirect route,» Wheezle admitted, «but would Rivi approve? She does not seem a woman who tolerates inconvenience.»
   «If I killed you three once and for all, she'd give me a medal,» Chi answered. «The slag in the wedding dress is gravy.»
   «Here's an idea,» Hezekiah piped up. «Why don't I just teleport my friends out of here, and call it a draw? You don't set us on fire, and Britlin won't cut out your heart.»
   «Like he did to my partner?» Chi asked sharply.
   «Actually,» I said, «I didn't cut out your partner's heart, I stabbed through the roof of his mouth and… well, maybe this isn't the right time to split hairs.»
   «Funny man,» Chi glared at me. «A lot of people have told me that, Cavendish – you like to make jokes. Does it surprise you I've talked to your friends? I've made it my business to find out about you, since we met in Plague-Mort. You won't believe the stories I've heard… and not one of your acquaintances doubts you could be a killer. Like father, like son.»
   I sighed. «Is this the part where we both taunt each other into a rage?»
   «No – rage is overrated.» Chi smiled an ugly smile. «This is the part where I kill you in cold blood.»
   I prepared myself to lunge forward: ready for the slightest lapse in his concentration, a laugh, a moment as he savored his triumph. All I needed was the merest instant of distraction; but Chi was an experienced blood who didn't make stupid mistakes. The wand in his hand didn't waver an eyelash. His lips opened to speak the invocation that would fire his weapon…
   …and an egg sailed out of nowhere, smashing his face with yolk.
   I was almost as surprised as Chi. Almost. But while he was still spitting egg-white from his mouth, my rapier punched clean through his ribcage, smashing bone fragments into his heart and lungs. I kept driving forward, hearing the edges of my blade scrape against vertebrae as the tip pierced out his back; and I held him upright on the end of my sword until I could pluck the firewand from his strengthless fingers. Then and only then did I turn across the street to see who threw the egg.
   On top of the tenement across the street stood three women in brilliant white.
   Miriam waved to Hezekiah.
   November leaned coolly against a chimney.
   Yasmin flexed her fingers and scowled. «That sodding chicken pecked my hand.»

* * *
   «Thanks for the egg,» I shouted to her, then didn't have time for more conversation. Six wights had appeared, trundling up wheelbarrows to harvest squid from the tank below us; but when they noticed our presence, their eyes blazed like volcanos and they hissed with delighted fury.
   «Hezekiah,» I called, «this would be a good time to get us out of here.» No such luck – the leatherhead boy was still a dozen paces behind me, and puppyishly waving back to Miriam; he hadn't even noticed we had undead company. «Hezekiah!» I roared, even as the stench of dead flesh and chemicals filled my nostrils.
   «Hi,» I said to the wights, mere inches from my nose.
   «Hiss,» they replied by way of repartee.
   The first two monsters to reach me had simply abandoned their wheelbarrows and charged, their claws ripping greedily through the air. If one hadn't stumbled over Chi's dead body, I might be writing these memoirs with a fistful of talons embedded in my face; but Chi's body sprawled across a good portion of the ramp, and the wight was too filled with bloodlust to care. It ran forward, tripped, and went down, catching itself from a face-plant only by throwing out its hands. Those nasty claws struck the wooden ramp like fourpenny nails, digging deep into the board… and by the time the creature could pry itself loose, I had dispatched the other wight with a nicely executed decapitation.
   The wight on its knees suffered the same fate, just as it pulled itself free. Its head bounced briefly across the ramp, scattering a trail of red dust; then it toppled over the edge and into the squid tank below.
   «Hezekiah!» I shouted again, but couldn't spare a glance in his direction. Another wight was racing up; and this one, her brain less decayed than her fellows, was still jockeying her wheelbarrow – a big heavy wheelbarrow, wide enough to block much of the ramp, and long enough that my blade couldn't reach over the cart to impale the creature. Not that she gave me time to try such an attack: she simply drove straight at me, the wheelbarrow crunching over assorted corpses on the way, as it hammered forward like a battering ram. The ramp gave me no room to move aside, unless I wanted to swim with the squid… so I took the only choice left and jumped forward into the wheelbarrow itself.
   When I say I jumped, I wish I could claim that I nimbly hopped into the cart and landed on my feet with panther-like grace. The truth was less feline: just as the wheelbarrow was about to bang into me, I rolled over the front lip and landed lumpishly inside.
   My rapier was pointed in the right direction, and I stabbed out with it, just to keep the wight from coming at me with her claws. The tip pierced the rotting meat of her shoulder and sliced off a pound or two. She hissed in pain, and heaved on the wheelbarrow handles with supernatural strength… or more precisely, she heaved on one of the handles – the other arm, injured by my sword thrust, didn't have nearly the same amount of muscle. One side of the wheelbarrow went up, the other scarcely moved at all, and I found myself tipping sideways out of the cart, staring down at a school of eagerly waiting squid.
   «Gack!» I commented; and trying not to drop my sword or gash myself on its blade, I scrambled to grab the edge of the wheelbarrow cart before I plunged straight into the water. My fingers found purchase, splinters found my fingers, and I stopped my immediate fall. The wight kept heaving sideways, however, and my feet slid out of the cart, slipped past the edge of the ramp, and plunked knee deep into the tank.
   So here's the picture – I'm dangling over the side of the ramp, one hand clutching the cart, the other aiming my sword in the wight's direction to discourage the monster from lunging for me… and a crowd of squid are caressing my feet with their suckered tentacles, trying to decide if I'm edible. «You can't eat me raw!» I called down to them. «You have to marinate, then simmer for a few hours or I'll be all rubbery.»
   The wight hissed. «Everyone's a critic,» I muttered. Then I noticed that the wight was hissing because its body had been hacked lengthwise from shoulder to crotch by a familiar-looking longsword. A white-shod foot kicked the bisected wight off the ramp, much to the culinary appreciation of the squid; and moments later, another white-clad woman with ridiculously puny wings tucked her hands under my armpits and flew me up to a solid footing.
   «Thanks,» I said to November, then «Thanks,» again to Yasmin who was dealing with the remaining wights. «I take it you flew across?»
   «Why not?» November answered, folding her wings back flat across her shoulders. «I've never been fond of barrow wights.»
   I buried my face in my hands and groaned.