Master Gillam looked at it blankly. "Why … I … I .. . Your Majesty, I'm appalled to admit I don't know”

Cup and saucer in hand, Jiarine tripped over and peered past Gillam's shoulder into the keflee pantry. "Oh, that? One of the maids brought it to me yesterday, when you were with the king, Your Majesty. She said she'd found it in your office. It had the look of one of your expensive rare blends, so I had Bili, Master Gillam's assistant, run it down here last night." When Annoura didn't respond, Jiarine frowned. "Your Majesty? Did I do something wrong?”

"What?" Annoura shook her head, shoving back memories of dangerous intoxication and near betrayal. "Oh, no. Thank you, Lady Jiarine. And thank you, Master Gillam. You have everything well in hand, as always.”

She turned and walked quickly away from the cellars and the keflee pantry and that damnable purple bag of powdered ruin.

In Norban, Sian vel Sendaris forced a genial smile as he waited for the stocky pubkeeper of the Hound and Boar to ruminate over twenty years of memories. A full day of searching and inquiries yesterday had turned up nothing, and today wasn't shaping up any better.

"No," the pubkeeper said. "No, I can't say as I recall a man named Pars Grolin.”

"He was about this tall, with bright red hair and green eyes." Beside Sian, Torel vel Carlian waved his hand at chin level. "And may have been traveling with his baby daughter.”

"Mmm, no, doesn't ring a bell. Sorry." He finished drying the pint mug in his hand and set it on the shelf with several dozen others.

"Well, thank you for your time." Sian reached a hand across the bartop.

The pubkeeper hesitated a moment, then said, "I served in the King's Army as a lad. About forty-five years ago, when Fey swordmasters still taught the king's men how to use a blade. Best damned swordsmen I ever saw" He shook Sian's hand. "One of them even took the time to teach me a thing or two when he caught me watching the practices.”

A deluge of memories rushed through Sian as he gripped the man's hand. Images of the pubkeeper's days in the army, of a dark-haired Fey warrior conducting training exercises, frightening images of war. Sian tried to filter out those images and concentrate on the thread he'd planted about strangers, red hair, and baby girls, but the pubkeeper's memories of war and the Fey were very strong.

"I was just a kid and a cannon's mate," the man continued. "No reason for him to teach me, but he did. Enough, any- ways, so I could throw a dagger accurate at twenty paces and parry a sword thrust. And that saved my life in '43. I've had a fond spot for the Fey ever since. More so than most of the folks 'round these parts.”

The handshake ended, and a final flood of images poured from the pubkeeper's consciousness into Sian's. Disturbing images of a priest standing in the pulpit, denouncing the Fey as soulless servants of the Dark Lord. Calling for Celieria's people to turn from the lure of evil that wore a pretty face and cleanse Celieria of the Shadow's servants. The town square was ablaze with some sort of bonfire, and villagers approached to throw what looked like personal belongings into the blaze. A priest with white-blond hair stood nearby, watching, his voluminous hooded cape swirling in the fire- generated winds.

"If you don't find news of this Grolin fellow here in town, you might try Brind Palwyn. He lives in the woods near Bracken, about thirty miles west of here, but he used to live just north, near the old quarry. His pa was a woodcutter. Your journeyman friend might have done some smithy work for Brind's parents before they were murdered.”

Sian's ears perked up. "Murdered?" Murder was an unusual event in a sleepy little hamlet like Norban.

"Ta. Both of them slain by brigands about twenty-three years past, their home burned to its foundations. Brind was just a lad at the time. Come to think of it, they died around the time you said your journeyman friend was in town." Caution clouded the pubkeeper's previously open gaze. "No one ever did find the men who killed them.”

"Pars was an honorable man, one who'd give his life defending a stranger," Torel assured the man. Not even seven hundred years after Pars Grolin's death would Torel let another impugn his friend's honor. "The Fey do not grant their regard lightly, nor to the unworthy.”

The pubkeeper flushed. "My apologies. Suspicion is second nature in the north. If you want to speak with Brind, take the King's Road north about two miles to Carthage Road, then head west for another thirty or so. His place is just off the river, by the falls. He's suspicious of strangers, so tell him Wilmus sent you. And have a care if you're out past sunset. These woods aren't the safest after nightfall.”

"Our thanks," Torel said. "The gods' blessings on you."

"What do you think, Torel?" Sian murmured as they left the inn. "Should we head west to visit this fellow?”

"Let's finish here first. Another few bells won't hurt.”

Torel's lips lifted. "Unless you're afraid of the woods after nightfall.”

Sian gave Torel a shove. "Get scorched." Then his expression grew serious. "I don't like those memories we've been getting from folk about that pale-haired priest and the bonfire. Since when did the Church of Light start preaching that Fey serve the Dark Lord?”

"Good question. That's certainly something we should include in our report to General vel Jelani tonight."