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There was Pitch, a hard-nosed ex-legionnaire from the Legion of Steel. She was more warrior than thief and wore her hair shaved close and neat. She suffered from a pathological need to win, and grew angry and violent when she lost at dice. The others seemed to suffer her without too much complaint.

A huge beefy man named Rull loved to perform feats of strength, not to intimidate or dominate his companions but simply to win their praise and applause. Still, Gunder and Gawain laid him on his back nine times out of ten during the wrestling hour. The other female of their group was Varia, an acrobat, actress, pickpocket, and con artist. Where Pitch was hard and bitter as vinegar, Varia was the very picture of womanly beauty. Surprisingly, her brother thieves never made the usual banal attempts to gain her affection. Cael learned why when he spent nearly an entire day of his first week tied up in his bed sheets after making inappropriate advances and discovering that Rull regarded her as a sister not only in name but also in blood. Before becoming a thief Varia had studied at the Citadel of Light and had learned a little of the art of mystic healing.

The sixth thief of their little band was a dark-spirited knife-in-the-back fellow named Ijus. The others said that he was a failed apprentice mage, a street magician gone terribly awry, but he rarely spoke for himself except to make some sick joke, usually at the most inappropriate times. He thought death the grandest joke of all and held a vast repertoire of macabre tales stored up in his twisted mind. However, he was a favorite lackey of Hoag’s, and followed him around like a whipped dog.

Although the past three weeks had seemed tiresomely pointless to Cael, he now began to realize the reason behind his incarceration. He was building camaraderie within a group of thieves who had already been together for a while. Through shared misery (and nothing is more miserable to a thief than boredom), they had forged something resembling friendship. He was the new member in an old group, and without this bonding period, in which they got to know one another, shared wisdom and techniques, and established their social hierarchy, he posed a threat to their success in future capers. Now, he was almost one of them, and he felt it. He was accepted, even if only on a provisional basis. Their approval awaited some final test-that he understood. Perhaps this was to be it.

“I had no idea I was making any progress at all,” Cael said, fishing for a hint as to the purpose of this interview.

“Your Inner Circle hasn’t killed you yet,” Oros commented as he poured himself another glass of wine. “I call that progress.” He settled back in his chair and massaged the glass between his huge, pawlike hands, eyeing the elf curiously.

Cael returned his gaze without blinking for as long as he could stand it, but his curiosity soon got the better of him. His eyes flickered once more to the cabinet standing in the corner.

Noticing this, Captain Oros asked. “Would you like to see what is inside it?”

“If it is not too much trouble, shaffendi,” Cael answered. Oros laughed. “I’ve seen much of the world, my friend,” he said. “In my travels, I learned a bit of Elvish-enough to know that you just insulted me.”

Cael chuckled.

Shaffendi is one of those untranslatable Elvish words, often used in reference to pompous twits,” the Guild captain continued as he approached the cabinet. He removed a small key from his pocket.

“Your forgiveness, m’lord,” Cael apologized, bowing his head. “It is a habit I developed in my dealings with humans. The ignorant like the sound of the word and so believe it to be a title of respect.”

“That’s quite all right,” Oros laughed. “I know a smattering of perhaps a dozen languages. For example, if I were to address you as the Great Khashla’k, you might never know that I had called you a horse’s ass.”

“A hit, m’lord,” Cael acknowledged. “You score on both points.”

“I had hoped you might use a more respectful Elvish term when addressing me,” Oros said. “One day you might call me shalifi.”

Cael grew serious. “That word is not lightly spoken, m’lord. Human scholars translate it as ‘master’ or ‘teacher,’ but its true meaning reaches far deeper.”

“That I know all too well,” Oros answered respectfully. “I only mentioned it because I like you. You have great talent, great energy and ingenuity. Many months have I watched you, Cael, tracking your career. The Vettow Ivory, that was yours, was it not?”

Cael bowed his head in assent.

“It is folk like you who are the future of the Guild-the daring, the bold. With a strong hand to guide you, there is much we could achieve.”

“I don’t work well with others,” Cael countered. “I prefer my own company. I am a loner, an outsider. Others may walk in the light of day, but I am a dark elf, cast from the light.”

Captain Oros burst out laughing. “Is that what you tell people?” he asked.

“It’s true!” Cael shot back. “I am thoroughly evil. I was cast out by my mother’s people for practicing the dark arts!”

“Pah! One look at you tells me that you don’t have what it takes to be truly ruthless. You are dangerous, yes. All of us are dangerous in our own way. You may be twice my age, my friend, but young you are nonetheless. A shrewd judge of horses, ships, and people am I. That is how I have achieved my position.”

“You know nothing,” Cael said with a smile. “I love the shadows. I embrace the night.”

“Be careful when you embrace the darkness that the darkness doesn’t embrace you,” Oros answered sharply. “Listen well to what I and others teach you. It will save your life.”

“I do just fine on my own,” Cael snapped. The wry smile faded from his lips. “Give me a sword and I will show you what my true shalifi taught me.”

The Guild captain merely dismissed Cael’s bluster with a wave of his hand. “I am sure you could cut me to ribbons. I am no swordsman. I am a leader of swordsmen. I get others to fight my battles for me. Kolav, for instance.”

A door opened and the minotaur ducked into the room. Cael leaped to his feet and put a chair between himself and the monster. Kolav laughed as he fingered the giant tulwar hanging at his belt. “That’s twice you’ve challenged me, little elf,” he boomed. “Be careful, or someone will make you eat your bragging words and wash them down with your own blood.”

“Melodrama is not your forte,” Cael said. “Why don’t you go find a nice fat heifer to play with?”

“Khashla’k!” the minotaur snarled. With a speed belying his giant stature, the monster leaped across the room and snatched the heavy chair from in front of the elf. He flung it aside like a piece of doll furniture. Cael dodged aside and grabbed the wine bottle from the table.

“If I am to fight, at least give me a sword!” he shouted. Was this, then, to be his test?

“I’ll give you a sword! Right between your ribs!” the minotaur returned.

“Kolav!” Captain Oros barked. The minotaur instantly halted, but a rumbling growl shook the room. Cael put the wine bottle to his lips and took a long swig, then returned it to the table.

“Leave us, now,” Oros ordered the minotaur. Reluctantly, the beast obeyed. However, he paused at the door and swung his great horned head around to glare at the elf.

“You will pay for your disrespect, elf,” Kolav growled. “The day of my revenge shall come. Challenge me a third time, and oath or no oath, I shall eat your liver.”

With those words, Kolav slammed the door with such force that it split down its length.

“What did he mean by that?” Cael asked as he righted his chair. Despite his attempt at a casual demeanor, his heart pounded in his chest. It was all he could do to calm himself.

“Didn’t you know? Elven liver is a minotaur delicacy,” Oros said.

“I meant the oath. What oath?” Cael asked through gritted teeth.

“Kolav has sworn an oath to serve me without question,” Oros answered.