A small blue dot lurked around the shore just outside the city walls, where Ambassador Laquatus connived and plotted. The ambassador both interested and amused the First. Laquatus may have mastered the shifting tides of diplomacy, but his childish self- interest made him woefully predictable. Also, the egotistical fool seemed to actually think he could keep secrets from the First in the heart of the Cabal's biggest city.
A small cluster of white dots approached from the plains beyond the main gate. Lieutenant Kirtar of the Order coming to call, or perhaps Captain Pianna herself? Whichever of its noble heroes came, Chainer's found treasure spelled the end of the Cabal's relative tnice with the Order. The First thought of himself primarily as an entertainer. While he was pragmatic enough to accept a resumption of hostilities, the host in him mourned the loss of resources that would be spent on destructive conflict rather than constructive spectacle. Finally, and most interestingly, a single red dot was heading into his city from the Pardic mountains to the southeast. This dot glowed brightly when compared to the others. The First commanded the finest network of spies and informers on or around Otaria, bar none. He knew who this dot was, and what it represented to his plans for the Cabal. The First smiled.
He compared relative distances between the various dots and the Cabal City pits. Within a day or two, all of the players would be assembled. He touched a smooth, gray finger to his temple and a skull- attendant stepped forward out of the darkness. "Bring me Skellum and the boy," he said. Sometimes, the showman in him thought, the best thing to do with something everyone wants is to throw it up in the air and yell, "Catch."
After four months in it, Chainer grew to hate the room in Skellum's academy that was designed to recreate the pits. It wasn't anywhere near as large and there weren't hundreds of bloodthirsty spectators screaming for death and carnage, but it was as near- perfect a recreation as possible. From the black stone floor to the fixed and inextinguishable torches to the spiked wooden barriers that protected the crowds, Chainer had to hand it to Skellum: the old man had an eye for detail.
He'd had plenty of opportunity to examine those details. For endless weeks now Skellum had filled Chainer's days with breathing and meditation techniques, and extremely boring speeches about Cabal history and the dementists' role in it. After the first week Chainer had mouthed off to Skellum about the monotony of the routine. Skellum had spun his hat and left Chainer alone in the room with a two-headed harpy and a fifty-pound slug that seeped acid. Chainer hadn't complained since.
Today, Chainer perked up because Skellum was carrying an eight-inch pewter cage. The cylinder- shaped contraption was hinged in the middle and had a thick slot in the top. Chainer stared at it hungrily. It was the only new thing he had seen in weeks. Maybe Skellum would let him actually do something.
"Big day today," Skellum said. He drew a thick charcoal coin and a match out of his satchel. He struck the match against his thumb, held it under the coin until the edge glowed red, and then dropped the charcoal disk into the slot on top of the cage.
"Here,". Skellum flipped the cage over to Chainer. Chainer caught it gingerly and tossed it from hand to hand until he was sure it was cool to the touch.
"Fasten it to your chain and set it on the floor," Skellum said. He spread his cape out with both arms and gracefully lowered himself into a cross-legged sitting position.
Chainer broke off five feet of chain, held the end near to the cylinder-cage, and whispered, "Link." The air shimmered, and the pewter cage became attached to his black metal chain as if it had been forged there.
"I've told you about we dementists," Skellum said. "We are the First's favorites. We work and sleep in places that would reduce lesser beings to babbling hysteria. We walk paths that would turn others' feet to ashes. We travel at will to the shores of nightmare, and not only do we return, but we return bearing captives. The Cabal serves Kuberr for a purpose, and no less than the First himself has confirmed-the dementists are part of that purpose."
Chainer shrugged. "Yes. You have told me these things."
"And I have told you about the paths we walk. How some bind their eyes and plug their ears in order to find a path. And others go without food, or water, or air until their feet find the way. And some turn to drink, or drugs, or the hypnotist's candle in order to leave this world behind and find the world within."
"So you have said, Master Skellum."
"But I haven't told you why I am the master. Why my service to the Cabal lies outside the pits. Why I am uniquely qualified to help you find your path."
"There is no need," Chainer said carefully. He watched Skellum's impassive face. "You are my master. I am your pupil. Lead, and I will follow."
Skellum smiled, gave his hat a playful spin, and caught a gap in front of his face after exactly one revolution. He reached into his satchel and took out a dusty red coin as thick as a finger.
"Put this in the censer." He showed the red disc to Chainer. "It's Dragon's Blood. Not the actual blood from a dragon's veins, mind you, but a resin we call Dragon's Blood."
"Why?"
"Mostly because it's red and stinky. Here."
Chainer caught the disc and dropped it into the slot. There was a hiss and a sizzle, and then fragrant smoke began to pour out between the bars of the pewter cage.
"Place it on a hot coal," Skellum said, "and it produces a strong scent and thick smoke. Quite a lot of thick smoke, actually."
Chainer nodded, but the choking fog from the censer stung his eyes and clogged his lungs.
"Can you still hear me, pupil?" Skellum's voice was clear, but Chainer couldn't quite pin down its direction.
"Yes, Master."
"Good. Spin the censer around on your chain. I'm about six feet away from you at ground level. Be sure not to hit me with it. When you've got a clear space around you that you can breathe in, say, 'Ready.' In the meantime, I'll tell you about Cateran."
Chainer coughed. "I understand, Master." He picked up the censer, tossed it out into space, and started it whirling around his head.
"Cateran," Skellum's voice now echoed out of the smoke from about two feet off the ground to Chainer's left, "was one of the greats. An extraordinary dementist. Before your time, before my time, maybe even before the First's time. The Cabal is here, Chainer, and some say it has always been. There are many more stories about its early days than you or I will ever hear."
Chainer had the censer spinning easily, and he was slowly creating a miniature cyclone of Dragon's Blood smoke with himself at the center.
"I'm still waiting to hear this one."
Skellum sighed. "Loathsome boy." Chainer spun the censer a few more times, then yelped as Skellum hit him on the end of his nose with a spare charcoal disc.
Skellum continued. "Cateran was a summoner. He was so good at it that he could threaten you with a monster, and make it appear between the letters in the last word he spoke."
"What was he good at? Big, scary things, or lots of little sharp things?"
"Both, and more besides. There's an old legend about him going into the pits alone on the eve of no moons and not coming out until the next one, a full month later. He must have been astounding. An inexhaustible roster of ferocity, size, variety, all at a moment's notice."
"So what happened to this dementist hero? Did he finally meet someone better than he was?"
"Of course not."