louder, until even the fading fury of the storm was pushed down, down under the sea's waves, there to drown in shame.
In the tavern in the town on the coast called the Reach of Woe, Gruntle sat with the others, silent at their table, as miserable as death yet consumed with shaky relief. Solid ground beneath them, dry roof overhead. A pitcher of mulled wine midway between.
At the table beside them, Jula and Amby Bole sat with Precious Thimble – although she was there in flesh only, since everything else had been battered senseless – and the two Bole brothers were talking.
'The storm's got a new voice. You hear that, Jula?'
'I hear that and I hear you, Amby. I hear that in this ear and I hear you in that ear, and they come together in the middle and make my head ache, so if you shut up then one ear's open so the sound from the other can go right through and sink into that wall over there and that wall can have it, 'cause I don't.'
'You don't – hey, where'd everyone go?'
'Down into that cellar – you ever see such a solid cellar door, Amby? Why, it's as thick as the ones we use on the pits we put wizards in, you know, the ones nobody can open.'
'It was you that scared 'em, Jula, but look, now we can drink even more and pay nothing.'
'Until they all come back out. And then you'll be looking at paying a whole lot.'
'I'm not paying. This is a business expense.'
'Is it?'
'I bet. We have to ask Master Quell when he wakes up.'
'He's awake, I think.'
'He don't look awake.'
'Nobody does, exceptin' us.'
'Wonder what everyone's doing in the cellar. Maybe there's a party or something.'
'That storm sounds like angry women.'
'Like Mother, only more than one.'
'That would be bad.'
'Ten times bad. You break something?'
'Never did. You did.'
'Someone broke something, and those mothers are on the way. Sounds like.'
'Sounds like, yes.'
'Coming fast.'
'Whatever you broke, you better fix it.'
'No way. I'll just say you did it.'
'I'll say I did it first – no, you did it. I'll say you did it first.'
'I didn't do—'
But now the shrieking storm was too loud for any further conversation, and to Gruntle's half-deadened ears it did indeed sound like voices. Terrible, inhuman voices, filled with rage and hunger. He'd thought the storm was waning; in fact, he'd been certain of it. But then everyone had fled into the cellar—
Gruntle lifted his head.
At precisely the same time that Mappo did.
Their eyes met. And yes, both understood. That's not a storm.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
My finest student? A young man, physically perfect. To look upon him was to see a duellist by any known measure. His discipline was a source of awe; his form was elegance personified. He could snuff a dozen candles in successive lunges, each lunge identical to the one preceding it. He could spear a buzzing fly. Within two years I could do nothing more for him for he had passed my own skill.
I was, alas, not there to witness his first duel, but it was described to me in detail. For all his talent, his perfection of form, for all his precision, his muscle memory, he revealed one and only one flaw.
He was incapable of fighting a real person. A foe of middling skill can be profoundly dangerous, in that clumsiness can surprise, ill-preparation can confound brilliant skills of defence. The very unpredictability of a real opponent in a life and death struggle served my finest student with a final lesson.
It is said the duel lasted a dozen heartbeats. From that day forward, my philosophy of instruction changed. Form is all very well, repetition ever essential, but actual blood-touch practice must begin within the first week of instruction. To be a duellist, one must duel. The hardest thing to teach is how to survive.
Trevan Ault
2nd century, Darujhistan
Gather close, and let us speak of nasty little shits. Oh, come now, we are no strangers to the vicious demons in placid disguises, innocent eyes so wide, hidden minds so dark. Does evil exist? Is it a force, some deadly possession that slips into the unwary? Is it a thing separate and thus subject to accusation and blame, distinct from the one it has used? Does it flit from soul to soul, weaving its diabolical scheme in all the unseen places, snarling into knots tremulous fears and appalling opportunity, stark terrors and brutal self-interest?
Or is the dread word nothing more than a quaint and