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The insult hit Laaqueel like a physical blow. She didn't trust herself to speak until she'd dealt with the anger that filled her.

"Then, at your own peril, you'll have your sign," Iakhovas said.

Huaanton looked at the wizard as if wanting to question whether the statement had been a threat. Instead, he asked, "When?"

Laaqueel didn't dare look at Iakhovas, afraid that her doubt and fear would be apparent to everyone. How could Iakhovas promise something like that?

"A tenday from now," Iakhovas went on. "It will be here, in your city, for all sahuagin to see." He paused, his eyes rebelliously focused on Huaanton's. "When that sign is delivered, there will be no doubt about what is to be done."

"I will look for you here," the sahuagin king said. "You'll be guests at the palace."

For Laaqueel the offer translated simply that they'd be prisoners of the palace. She watched numbly as Iakhovas excused them from the sahuagin king's audience chamber. They were accompanied by the royal guard through the maze of tunnels, swimming back to where the flier was tied up.

I perceive my error now, little malenti, Iakhovas said in her mind.

By promising a sign from Sekolah? she asked. If we don't come here in a tenday, Huaanton will rightly have us hunted down and brought to him. We'll be thrown into the gladiatorial amphitheater and used as sport. Should we show up and there's no sign, we'll end up in the same place.

Little malenti, Iakhovas mocked, you concern yourself overmuch with matters that are entirely trivial. I have cared for you fifteen years, elevated you into the position of high priestess for a prince from being a junior priestess and spy for a baron. Miracles are easy to accomplish if you have those who wish to believe in them.

Laaqueel resented the words, but knew they carried the strength of truth.

No, he said confidently, there will be a sign. My chief oversight lay in reasoning that I could accomplish everything I need to as anything less than king.

She stared at him through the darkness filling the maze tunnel. He smiled, and his single eye blazed with conviction.

XXV

17 Mirtul, the Year of the Gauntlet

Jherek pushed in through the double doors of the Copper Coronet in the row of festhalls fronting Athkatla's docks and opened his eyes to their fullest against the darkness that clung to the tavern's interior. Raucous voices in a dozen and more languages spilled over into the street beyond the doors, beaten back only by the street vendors hawking their wares to wandering ships' crews.

He waited a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. Even at midday, the tavern's darkness appeared to be an inviting cool, a place where secrets and guilt could be shared. Pipeweed smoke, dimly lit from candles on the scarred tables and wall sconces, curled toward the stained ceiling. Sea-roughened men reached for waitresses, cracking off-color jokes or making half serious offers given the benefit of graphic gestures. The waitresses for their part flirted with the men, working for the small tips that came their way.