a double flitch of bacon.
But as he neared the desk, stumbling slightly, the stranger seemed to solidify and focus. Tall and slender, he wore nothing but an elaborately worked silver collar and a matching ornament of a sheathlike nature over his loins. It being the middle of Festival, this was nothing to attract attention; but there was something unsettlingly familiar about the young man’s face.
His features were smooth and regular, handsome to the point of prettiness. His hair was thickly curling, and there was a lot of it. His wide eyes were cold, glittering, and utterly mad.
“Hello,” he said, wafting wine fumes at Smith. “I understand this is a, er, friendly hotel. Can I see your thing you write people’s names in?”
His voice was familiar too. Smith peered at him.
“You mean the registration book?”
“Of course,” said the youth, just as three more strangers ran through the doorway and Smith placed the likeness. If Lord Ermenwyr were taller, and clean-shaven, and had more hair, and didn’t squint so much—
“There he is!” roared one of the men.
“Die, cheating filth!” roared another.
“Vengeance!” roared the third.
The youth said something unprintable and vanished. Smith found himself holding two mugs of tea.
The three men halted in their advance across the lobby.
“He’s done it again!” said the first stranger.
“There he is!” The second pointed at the tea mug in Smith’s left hand.
“Vengeance!” repeated the third man, and they resumed their headlong rush. But they were now rushing at Smith.
They were unaware of Smith’s past, however, or his particular talent, and so, ten seconds later, they were all dead.
One had Smith’s left boot knife embedded in his right eye to the hilt. One had Smith’s right boot knife embedded in his left eye, also to the hilt. The third had Smith’s tea mug protruding from a depression in his forehead. Looking very surprised, they stood swaying a moment before tottering backward and collapsing on the lobby carpet. No less surprised, Smith groaned and, getting to his feet, came around the side of the desk to examine the bodies. Quite dead.
“That was amazing! Thanks,” said the youth, who had reappeared beside him.
Smith’s headache was very bad by then, and for a moment the pounding was so loud he thought he might be having a stroke; but it was only the thunder of eight feet in iron-soled boots descending the stairs, and behind them the rapid patter of two feet more elegantly shod.
“Master!” shouted Lord Ermenwyr’s bodyguards, prostrating themselves at the youth’s feet.
“Forgive us our slowness!” implored Cutt.
“What in the Nine Hells are you doing here?” hissed Lord Ermenwyr furiously, staring at the youth as though his eyes were about to leap right out of his head.
“Hiding,” said the youth, beginning to grin.
“Well, you can’t hide here, because I’m hiding here, so go away!” said Lord Ermenwyr, stamping his feet in his agitation. Willowspear, who had come up silently behind him, stared at the newcomer in amazement.
“My lord! Are you unhurt?” he asked.
The youth ignored him, widening his grin at Lord Ermenwyr. “Ooo! Is the baby throwing a tantrum? Is the poor little stoat scared he’s going to be dug out of his hole? Here comes the scary monster to catch him!”
“Stop it!” Lord Ermenwyr screamed, as the youth shambled toward him giggling, and as the youth’s graceful form began to run and alter into a horrible-looking melting mess. “You idiot, we’re in a city! There are people around!”
Smith drew a deep breath and leaped forward, grabbing the thing that had been a youth around its neck and doing his best to get it in a chokehold. To his amazement, Curt, Crish, Stabb, and Strangel were instantly on their feet, snarling at him, and Willowspear had seized his arm with surprisingly strong hands.
“No! No! Smith, stop!” cried Lord Ermenwyr.
“Then … this isn’t the mage Blichbiss?” Smith inquired, as the thing in his grip oozed unpleasantly.
“Who?” bubbled the thing.
“This is the Lord Eyrdway,” Willowspear explained. “The Variable Magnificent, firstborn of the Unwearied Mother, heir to the Black Halls.”
“He’s my damned brother,” said Lord Ermenwyr. “You’d better let him go, Smith.”
Smith let go. “A thousand apologies, my lord,” he said cautiously.
“Oh, that’s all right,” gurgled the thing, re-forming itself into the handsome youth. “You did just save my life, after all.”
This brought Smith’s attention back to the three dead men lying in front of the desk. Lord Ermenwyr followed his gaze.
“Dear, dear, and I promised you there wouldn’t be any bodies lying around your nice hotel, didn’t I? Boys, let’s get rid