Chapter 1

There is only one law in Katapesh: "Do as you will, but do not interfere with trade." We were a sorry looking bunch of desperate mercenaries, and if my suspicions were correct, our would-be employer would have us break the law.

There were eight of us waiting in the shadowy back room of the Black Gin, a grimy dock tavern that saw little business in the early noon, when the dockhands were working hard and the drunk and dissolute had barely shaken off last night's indulgences.

The sorcereress was the most obviously flamboyant, with metallic-coppery skin, dark red eyes and scarlet hair pointing to efreet blood, sunken chin and rheumy eyes a clear indication of drug withdrawal of some sort, possibly Pesh. Pesh, the drug that kept the slaves and human cattle from restlessness, the lifeblood of Katapesh. It was in such demand that food was sometimes short, for the farmers thought only of their pockets. For all that, she was exceedingly alluring. I had no trouble imagining how she fed her habit.

The dwarf, in heavy plate armor, shield and brutal looking axe not far from his hands, was hollow cheeked and gaunt, his beard scraggly, signs of recent illness and injury. There was a haunted look in his eyes, but his arms were rock-steady.

The elf-blooded girl was constantly looking around, on an edge of alertness. With her blonde beauty and silks, she was clearly an escaped slave, but the way she moved and kept fingering her curved sword reminded me of the Dawnflower's dervish dancers. A number of them had put a show once in Merab, when I was much younger. I'd never forgotten the grace of the dance, the frightful speed and dazzling sunlit edges that sliced through air and silk scarves with equal ease. If she was an escaped slave, I wouldn't want to be looking for her, not without some proper magic.

The vengeance priestess, one of Calistria's stings, had clearly come off second or third best in some of the never-ending intrigue the clergy of tricksome Lady Lust engaged in. She looked exhausted, like she'd been entertaining a dozen men throughout the night all by her lonesome, completely wrung out. For all that, she was a lovely enough woman, an exotic Tian beauty, and kept her back stiff with pride.

The spell priest, a disciple of the All Seeing Eye, was in threadbare grey robes, and had consumed the modest and unappetizing fare our employer had provided with almost unseemly haste. Clearly, another who had fallen on lean times, but the battle wand at his belt showed that he had chosen not to hock quite everything.

The elfmaid was very young and clearly a street thief, with violet pools for eyes, dark of hair and pale of skin, and was just as nervous as the dancer, twirling a dagger 'twixt her fingers with admirable skill and frightening speed, glancing at the lone entryway into our humble abode with almost obsessive frequency. She'd almost certainly knifed someone with friends - recently.

Each of them possessed no more than three items of power.

The halfling was an oddity. He was too clean, too confident, much too calm for comfort. He was clad in broken in leathers that were enchanted to some small degree, with too many daggers hidden everywhere, and worst of all, I could smell the deathblade poison on the metal, and it came from him. He was the one to watch, probably an assassin - and not down on his luck. He'd not hidden his coin pouch quite well enough to escape my eyes, and most of his gear was enchanted.

Me? A humble alchemist, pottering about with elixirs and infusions, just off the boat from dusty old Thuvia. Where my teacher and master had dared too much and died for it, almost taking me with him. I had my clothes, thick protective leather imbued with a special coating that offered as much protection as heavy metal armor, my personal alchemy kit and recipe books, without which I was of little use, the latter and a few books and some supplies, including a weapon, kept in a backpack with extradimensional pockets. I had just the one artifact that had survived my master's end without fail, crushed beneath a great dragon's full weight, a ring of black adamant studded with five true gems, a powerful defense against elemental attacks.

Katapesh was all about trade, but you needed something to trade with beyond mere expertise, and I had not enough coin for even the smallest and most modest of portable laboratories, let alone the ingredients I needed to make things for sale - never mind the guild fees required to practice. Abadar's priests had judged me shiftless, and I would not turn to the dark market skinners for borrowed funds, for unlike the servants of the Merchant's Friend, the Master of the First Vault, I could not trust them to deal fairly where they felt the upper hand lay with them.

After feasting on the rather meager fare offered us, we waited in leaden silence for our summoner to join us and make his pitch. We did not wait long.

The Garundi man was tall and solidly built, dark of skin and hair, in white breezy robes and wearing more jewelry than I cared for. The begemmed silver scarab in his hair hinted at an Osirian connection, and his entire appearance - from the perfumed scent wafting off his oiled skin, to the stylized, rune-stitched blue kaftan - was designed to offer an impression of benign wealth. The scar on his hand, though, showed that he had at least some experience at knife fighting, not something prosperous merchants are wont to indulge in.

"Good, good, you're all here," our patron employed the merchant's tongue, a limited and vulgar language that served for somewhat broken communication throughout the inner sea, with glib facility. The Mwangi jungle savages might be unfamiliar with it, but few in Katapesh were completely ignorant of the simplified brogue.

If I'd not been watching for it, I would have missed the signal and wink he exchanged with the smug little halfling poisoner.

"To business. My employer engaged Halvir of the Many Eyes to craft for him a certain staff," he drew a crude drawing from a hidden pocket and displayed it to us. An ankh-topped metal rod, its length wrapped roundst with a clinging serpent whose fanged jaw hissed through the ankh's open circle, it was unmistakable. Quite possibly, I judged with rising interest, a staff of life. It was one of five well-known forms for that particular mighty instrument of healing and resurrection. It was not something a wizard could craft - or at least, not easily.

"Despite payment having been made, the wizard refuses to hand the item over, claiming the coins never reached him. My employer has already sold the staff, and cannot afford to pay for it twice. The wizard is away from his abode at present, we have so contrived. You have two days to bring me the staff, here. I will know when you arrive. The payment is a hundred gold each now, three hundred upon delivery."

"Three hundred now, and another five upon delivery," Nethys' servant spoke dryly, in a strong and modulated voice that belonged in the halls of acadamae. "Need I mention the going price for such an item of power? Or the risks involved in braving the wards of a man who can craft it?" he added when white-robed man hesitated. "You will only have to pay the remainder to the survivors," no smile accompanied this last quiet statement.

"So be it," he soon acquiesced, looking us over. "Is it to be all of you?" he added, reaching inside a plain-seeming canvas bag of holding, down to his elbow, and drawing out small bags filled with coin - 50 each, I judged. He did not wait for us to count the proffered funds or respond, his robes almost whistling as he whirled around and departed.

I didn't bother to count the coins - as soon as the halfling turned away, I threw a dart at him, striking flesh. The little fellow yipped in startled pain, and reacted more swiftly than I'd expected, hurling no less than four daggers my way. One sliced into my neck as I failed to dodge quickly enough, the rest clinking away from my armor.

"Deathblade poison, little assassin, bothers me not at all. You, on the other hand, have ten minutes to live, unless you tell all. What is the real plan, my little backstabber?" I left the others time to react, ignoring the assassin's drawn sword, quickly distilling an infusion and gulping it down. The wound in my throat, frighteningly close to the jugular, sealed shut seamlessly as the healing spread warmth through my body.

The others drew weapons and prepared spells, and the halfling hesitated a second too long.

"Unless of course," I smiled grimly at him, "you are immune to poison? Can you feel it burn?"

"By the fires of perdition, what do you mean?" the flame-sorcereress looked at me, copper eyes wide.

"Look at him carefully," I did not take my eyes off the poisonous runt, "and see that he is not like us. He is not desperate. Only the desperate would openly break the laws of the Pactmasters - unless you believe that nonsense we were fed," I allowed my derision to show. "This one is in league with our oh so generous paymaster. Real coin?" I looked at the elfgirl, who was examining a small pile she'd scattered on the table. She nodded briefly, putting them away with fast and clever fingers - I could not see where.

"If one of you," I looked alternately at the priestess and the sorceress, "can bend his will, perhaps we can learn more before he dies. Otherwise, perhaps our dwarf friend here can persuade him to speak."

"Oh, aye," his voice was as deep as a mountain. "There's a trick to it, when you need them to speak quickly. Cut one finger if they refuse, then two, then three ... though it rarely gets that far," he raised his axe, slowly and steadily advancing on the halfling.

"It's burning," the small one began shivering, looking around in desperation, but his path was closed. "You have the antidote?" his pleading look was magnificent, enough to melt a golem's stone heart.

"Of course," I feigned being insulted at the question.

And so we listened, and learned, and were afraid. The assassin? The elfgirl cut his throat once he ran dry. No one said a word.

The smell of a corpse in such a closed room grew heavy, so I approached it and tossed a handful of white gravedust. It soon dissolved, leaving only clothes and tools behind.

"Useful," the dwarf commented thoughtfully.

"Indeed," I nodded respectfully at him. "We are all in a bit of trouble here. If you do not mind, let us introduce ourselves, and see if we can plan our way out of this deadly maze." Hearing no dissent, I began, "I am Farouq al Rashid, an alchemist until recently of Thuvia. My teacher and master attempted his own solution of Sun Orchid elixir, the potion of life and youth. I'm not sure how close he came to success - there is nothing left of him and his, other than myself, who took a sample. I have not had chance to see a mirror so ... ah, I see from your expressions that he did in fact succeed. I do feel younger and more full of energy. Alas no, I do not carry that research with me, it was lost in dragonfire. We have not the time for me to explain all I am capable of - accept that it is a lot. Sir dwarf," I turned to my left, "if you would."

"Drask Splintershield," he said gruffly. "We tried to claim back the Zolurket mines. I survived, just barely. Still not fully recovered," he was honest enough to add. "Lost everything. Damn ghouls and ghosts," he spat, "give me something I can cut, and my axe here will do what's needed."