guard looked at him again, then gestured for the man to leave his post and come closer. Lifting himself from the stool with a flourish,
the guard complied.
"Listen very carefully," Cyric whispered as he placed his hand on the guard's shoulder. "Lord Mourngrym has sent me to get one
of the prisoners slated for execution in the morning, the dark-haired mage. He wishes to question the woman. Take me to her."
"I should inform my captain -"
"There's no time," Cyric said quickly. "Keep your voice low. You don't want to wake your other charges."
Many of the cells had been filled with mercenaries who had been hired to fill out Bane's forces in the Battle of Shadowdale, then
surrendered themselves to the dalesmen when the battle was lost. Cyric heard the sound of a boot scuff the floor, and he tensed.
A pair of dirty hands protruded from the iron bars of a nearby cell, and a dark, sweaty face peered out. The prisoner laughed
once, then nodded to Cyric and gestured for the thief to proceed.
"Let's go," Cyric said. The guard led him past the twenty cells that lined the corridor's north bank. An ugly stone wall on the
southern side of the hallway was the only view afforded the prisoners. Finally the guard stopped before a storage room adjacent to
the final cell and unlocked the door.
"Wait," Cyric said as the guard's hand reached for the heavy wooden door. "If anyone should ask, I am over six feet tall, with
fiery red hair, the build of a wrestler, and a strange foreign accent."
"Of course you are," the guard murmured flatly. There wasn't a trace of emotion in his voice.
"Describe me," Cyric whispered as he gazed into the guard's face. The dalesman described the thief exactly as the hawk-nosed
man had instructed. Satisfied that the effects of the dart were all that his informant had promised, Cyric gave the guard a few final
commands and watched as he returned to his station.
The thief opened the door with care, fearful that the sound might alert the other guards. Cyric gazed into the confines of the
black room and saw the object of his search lying on her side in the corner.
"Midnight," Cyric whispered as he entered the cell and went to work on the bonds of the dark-haired magic-user. He left the gag
for last. "Keep it to a whisper," he cautioned.
As soon as the gag was removed, Midnight drew a deep breath, then looked at her fellow prisoner. The cleric sat with his knees
drawn up before him, his forehead pressed against his knees to hide his face.
"Adon!" Midnight whispered. The mage rubbed her arms and legs, trying to massage some feeling back into them.
"Can you stand?" Cyric whispered as he got up and moved to the door. "We must leave quickly."
"We've got to take Adon," Midnight hissed urgently. She crawled toward the cleric.
"Your ordeal has left you contused," Cyric said. "Leave him."
Placing her hands on the cleric's shoulders, Midnight shook Adon, attempting to wake him. Shadowy, bloodshot eyes rose as
Adon looked up, but the young cleric didn't seem to see his friends. He simply stared at the wall behind Midnight.
"He's useless!" Cyric hissed. "Besides, he betrayed you with his silence at the trial." The thief glanced nervously into the
hallway, but no guards had noticed the open door yet.
"No!" Midnight declared, her voice cracking with pain and fear.
"Every moment we delay here increases our risk," Cyric snapped. He turned from the door, grabbed Midnight's arm, and tried to
drag the magic-user to her feet.
"Get away from me," Midnight whimpered, but she was too weak to resist Cyric's less-than-gentle urgings.
"I came back for you!" Cyric hissed.
"You'll take us both, or I'll start screaming until even the gods know you're here!" Midnight warned. "He's sick. Can't you see
that?" The mage ran her hand through Adon's tangled hair.
"I see only his cowardice," Cyric growled. "That and nothing more. But if his life truly matters to you, even after what he's done, I
suppose I have no choice."
Midnight stumbled back as Cyric tore into Adon's bonds with an alarming fury. The tip of the thief's dagger drew a few drops of
blood from Adon's wrists as Cyric hurriedly cut the last bit of rope and reached down to pull the cleric up by his filthy robes.
At the end of the corridor, the drugged guard waved stupidly as Cyric dragged Adon from the black room. Midnight stumbled
along behind the thief.
Every step was a struggle for Midnight, and it became worse when they reached the darkened stairway. Cyric contemplated
dropping Adon down the stairs, hoping that the cleric would break his neck in the fall. But Midnight walked close behind him, as if
sensing the thief's intentions.
"Where's Kel?" Midnight gasped through sharp breaths as they struggled up the stairs.
Cyric hesitated as he decided which lie would serve his needs best. "He refused to join me. He said he 'couldn't interfere with
justice.'"
"Justice!" Midnight spat out in amazement.
"I told him he was a blind fool," Cyric said, shrugging. The thief waited for a response from Midnight. When none came, he
assumed the lie was enough to satisfy the mage - for now, at least.
At the top of the steps, Cyric saw the soft orange glow of torchlight from the hallway and wondered if he should warn Midnight
about the dangers of the randomly solidifying doors. He decided against it and secretly hoped that the wall would reappear just as he
pushed Adon through.
Shoving the cleric through the portal first, Cyric quickly hurried through the narrow passage. "Make haste," he hissed into the
darkness. Midnight dragged herself through the doorway and stumbled along behind the thief.
At the end of the corridor, Cyric looked out through a series of spy holes to verify that the boatyard was still deserted. Midnight
helped to support Adon as Cyric unlocked the door with the key he had taken from Forester's body.
The boatyard was quiet. Only the sounds of the gently lapping waves from the Ashaba and the conspiratorial creak of wooden
boats rubbing against the dock helped to cover the plodding footsteps of the escapees as they followed Cyric. A host of blue-white
torches illuminated the arched wooden ceilings of the boathouse and the vast array of craft docked nearby.
Making his way toward a twenty-foot skiff at the south end of the yard, Cyric imagined the boathouse in flames. The chaos such
an event would create was exactly the distraction they needed to ensure their safe escape. With the destruction of Mourngrym's small
fleet, the repairs to the Ashaba bridge would be stalled and any pursuit of the escapees would be severely restricted.
Much to Cyric's regret, however, they didn't have time for such an elaborate operation.
Cyric stood before the boat and looked around quickly. "Can you spellcast, Midnight? We might need a diversion."
Midnight shook her head from side to side. "I would need to study first, and my spellbook was left in Elminster's Tower."
Cyric was about to speak when he heard the soft padding of footsteps. Someone was leaping from boat to boat, carefully
avoiding the dock where his footfalls would give him away. "What do you think of this boat?" Cyric said as he made an exaggerated
motion with his right hand, hoping to draw attention away from the quicksilver motion of his left hand as he drew out one of his
daggers. Suddenly the thief whirled on the intruder.
Midnight grabbed Cyric's hand before the dagger could fly. One of the torches on the tower flared, and the heroes found
themselves gazing into the searing green eyes of Elminster's scribe, Lhaeo. Midnight softly breathed his name, and the brown-haired
young man gracefully leaped from the bow of a nearby boat to the dock. A huge sack was slung over the scribe's shoulder, but he
carried it without effort. An elegant black cloak hung rather loosely around his shoulders.
"What do you want here?" Cyric hissed, suspicion burning in his eyes. The thief held his dagger pointed toward Elminster's
servant.
"I'm not about to give you away, if that's what you mean," Lhaeo whispered, then carefully set his canvas bag down on the dock.
"Do you have any idea how annoyed Elminster will be if the first thing he learns upon returning home is that you've been executed for
his murder?"
"But we saw Elminster die, Lhaeo," Midnight said, hanging her head. "He was drawn into that horrible rift." Adon winced slightly,
but the cleric didn't speak. He just stared at the boat, slowly bobbing in the water.
Lhaeo rubbed his chin. "I don't believe it," the scribe said as he opened his sack. "Elminster's disappeared before - many times,
in fact. I would know... somehow... if he were truly gone."
"If you're not going to stop us, then what do you want?" Cyric growled quietly. He continued to point his knife toward the scribe.
"If you haven't noticed, we're in a bit of a hurry."
Lhaeo frowned and pushed Cyric's dagger aside as he approached Midnight. "I'm here to help you. It's the least I can do after
the trial."
The scribe gestured for Midnight to look into the sack. "Your spellbook is here, along with some provisions for your journey."
Lhaeo reached into the bag and withdrew a beautiful orb that glowed with an amber light. Strange runes had been wrought in the
surface of the glass, and a golden base, marked with intricate designs that were covered with fine, sparkling diamond dust, had been
added since the last time Midnight had seen the orb in Elminster's study.
"Do you remember this?" Lhaeo said as he held the sphere toward Midnight. A slight smile played across the scribe's face.
"Aye," Midnight said as she reached out to stroke the glowing sphere. "The globe was made to shatter if any powerful magical
object comes within its range."
"This should help you find the Tablets of Fate," Lhaeo said quietly and put the globe back into the bag.
Midnight and Cyric looked shocked, but Lhaeo continued to smile. "There is little Elminster keeps hidden from me. He even told
me that the first tablet is in Tantras."
"We have to go," Cyric hissed to Midnight. "You can go through your bag of gifts later." The thief grabbed Adon and moved
toward the boat.
"One last thing," the scribe whispered as he removed another, smaller bag from his shoulder and handed it to the magic-user.
She opened it and saw a metal vial.
"The mists of rapture," Lhaeo said. "Perfect for disabling a large group of guardsmen without causing lasting harm." Cyric
pushed Adon into the boat and started to untie the skiff's moorings.
"You were going to try to rescue us yourself!" Midnight gasped. Adon looked up from the boat, and for an instant, his gaze
seemed to focus on the scribe.
"Oh, perish the thought!" Lhaeo whispered and turned away with mock indignation.
Midnight grabbed Lhaeo by the shoulder and spun him around. The scribe's expression was serious, almost hard, as he gazed
into the mage's eyes. "Why?" she said. "The townspeople would kill you if they found out."
Lhaeo stood up straight, and his voice deepened slightly."I could not allow you to be injured. I could not condone such a
travesty of justice, milady." The scribe took Midnight's hand and kissed it. "Elminster trusted you to help him at the temple. You must
be worthy of that trust."
Cyric looked up sharply. "Midnight, I might just leave you here with him to face Mourngrym if you don't hurry!"
"He's right," Lhaeo said softly. "You must go."
Midnight climbed into the boat. Lhaeo helped Cyric release the boat from its remaining moorings, and the scribe pushed the
craft away from the dock. Then Lhaeo stood on the pier and waved once before disappearing into the darkness.
Cyric manned the oars at the center of the boat, his back turned to Midnight. As he rowed, the thief was forced to stare into the
vacant eyes of the scarred cleric, who always seemed to avoid Cyric's angry stares. Utilizing the hand-over-hand method of rowing he
had been taught during his years of traveling, Cyric started the boat moving, but, much to his surprise, not very quickly.
"What's going on here?" the thief cursed as he looked into the water. "Are we caught on something?" As he dropped his hand
into the cold water of the Ashaba, Cyric realized what was wrong. The current was traveling in the wrong direction, forcing him to
paddle against the flow of the river, even though they were moving downstream, away from Shadowdale.
Cyric cursed and slapped an oar against the water. A small wave sloshed into the boat, soaking Adon and Midnight. The mage
cried out in surprise, but the cleric just sat there, letting his wet tunic hang on his slouched shoulders.
Cyric looked at Adon and cursed again. "This lump is only so much ballast," he sneered and flicked water into Adon's eyes. "All
he'll be good for on this trip is making the rowing harder."
The hawk-nosed thief started to row again, and Midnight used a cloak to dab some of the water from Adon's face. "I know you
can hear me, Adon," the mage whispered. "I still care. I won't let you get hurt."
When Adon failed to respond, Midnight frowned and wiped more water away from the cleric's face. She didn't notice the salty
tears mixed with the cold drops from the Ashaba.
* * * * *
Kelemvor had stood in the windy courtyard much of the night. Sleep had been out of the question. Besides, the fighter had not
been alone. Guards had been stationed to watch over the courtyard of Midnight and Adon's executions, and a small crowd of rowdy
gawkers had decided to keep an all-night vigil. Watching the dalesmen laugh and make disgusting jokes about the event scheduled
