remnants of the feast while he slept. Clean clothes in three sizes were piled on the table in place of food. A new staff, carved from Nibenese agafari wood and topped with a bronze lion-head, leaned against garments meant for a half-elf’s slender frame. The gold medallion lay atop the pile intended for Pavek. Ruari pronounced himself satisfied with his gift, but once again Pavek left the medallion behind.
It was still pitch-dark when the messenger led them to the lower court, a cobblestone enclosure on the palace’s perimeter. A maniple of twenty templars from the war bureau and their sergeant, a wiry red-haired human, were waiting. All twenty-one appeared to be veterans. Each wore piecemeal armor made from studded inix-leather. Vambraces covered their forearms and sturdy buskins, also studded, protected their feet, ankles, and calves. For weapons, they had obsidian-tipped spears and short composite swords that were edged with thin metal strips or knapped stone. Composite swords were common issue in the war bureau; like the templars who wielded them, they were tough and lethal.
Despite the metal sword hanging from his belt—an adjutant’s weapon at the very least, if not a militant’s—Pavek was in no way qualified to lead these men anywhere. He knew it, and they knew it. But orders were orders, and the sealed parchment orders the sergeant handed to Pavek said, after they were opened, that he was in charge.
“What have you been told?” he asked the sergeant, a grim-faced woman his equal in height.
“Great Lord, we’ve been told that you’ll lead us underground and then to Codesh, where there’s to be another maniple meeting us at midday. We’re to follow your orders till sundown, then return to our barracks—if we’re still alive.”
The words on the parchment were different and included a warning from Hamanu to expect trouble in the cavern because he, the Lion of Urik, had decided not to send templars to claim the bowls. He preferred—in his words—to let Kakzim safeguard the simmering contagion until Pavek could destroy it completely. Hamanu’s confidence that Pavek would succeed was less than reassuring to a man who’d watched Elabon Escrissar die. Pavek crumpled the parchment in his fist and faced the sergeant again. “I can lead you to the cavern, but if there’s fighting—and I expect there will be—I won’t tell you how to do it.”
“Great Lord, you might be a smart man,” the sergeant said, giving Pavek a first, faint glimmer of approval.
“I’ve lived this long; I’d like to live longer. Were you told anything else? Anything about the bowls?”
“Bowls? What bowls?” the sergeant shot a look over her shoulder. Pavek didn’t see which templar’s eye she was trying to catch or the results of their silent conversation, but when she faced him again, the faint approval was gone. “Great Lord, we’re waiting for one more, aren’t we? Maybe she’s got your answer.”
Mahtra. In his mind’s eye, Pavek could see Hamanu telling Mahtra how they were supposed to dispose of Kakzim’s sludge. It was amusement again: Hamanu could resolve everything himself, but he was amused by the efforts of lesser mortals.
They didn’t have long to wait. Mahtra entered the lower court from another doorway. As always, she wore the fringed, slashed garments typical of nightfolk. The sergeant sighed, and Pavek shrugged, then Mahtra handed Pavek another sealed scroll.
“My lord wrote his instructions out for you. He says you must be careful to do everything exactly as he’s described. He says you wouldn’t want to be responsible for any mistakes.”
“Who’s your lord?” the sergeant asked, apparently puzzled that her lord was someone other than Pavek, who occupied himself breaking the seal while Mahtra answered:
“Lord Hamanu. The Lion-King. He’s the lord of all Urik.”
Hamanu’s instructions weren’t complicated, but they were precise: flammable bitumen, naphtha, and balsam oil-leather sacks and sealed jars of which would be waiting for them at the elven market guardpost—had to be mixed thoroughly with the contents of each of Kakzim’s bowls, then set afire with a slow match, which would also be waiting for them. The resulting blaze would reduce the sludge to harmless ash, but the three ingredients were almost as dangerous as the sludge. With bold, black strokes across the parchment, Hamanu warned Pavek to be careful and to stay upwind of the flames.
Pavek committed the writing to his memory before he met the consternated sergeant’s eyes again. They were, after all, not merely templars, but templars from opposing bureaus, and the traditional disdain had to be observed.
“These instructions come from the