The magic-user ducked down an alley and clawed over a pile of rubble half as high as one of the buildings. Then she tumbled down the other side and ran into the alley that connected with another street. She turned left and ran halfway down it. Finally, confident the denizens would never find her, Midnight climbed over another pile of rubble and stopped in a blind cul-de-sac.
She needed a guide. In a city of this size, it would be impossible to find Bone Castle without help. Even had she known the castle’s location, the city was so alien it would be a simple matter to make a mistake and get killed. Midnight realized she would have to summon help.
Immediately, the incantation for summoning monsters came to mind, along with all of the extraneous information about its creator and the theory behind its construction. It was not a monster she wanted, but after contemplating the original spell for a moment, Midnight saw how she could modify the incantation to suit her needs.
The spell was designed to call an unspecified monster to aid the caster. Instead of a monster, however, Midnight needed to call a person, but had no idea who. By adjusting a few finger manipulations and altering the intonation of the spell’s verbal components, the mage thought that she could call someone who both knew his way around Myrkul’s city and would be willing to aid her.
Midnight was a little frightened by what she was about to try. Normally, only the most advanced mages altered or created spells. But, considering the knowledge available to her and the stability of the magical weave in the plane, Midnight was confident of success.
After reviewing her adjustments, the magic-user performed the incantation. A moment later, someone began climbing over the rubble in the entrance to her cul-de-sac. Midnight waited anxiously, prepared to dash into a building if the visitor was not what she expected.
A halfling climbed into view atop the rubble, then stopped and frowned at her. He had the same drab features, gray hair, yellow-gray skin, and expressionless gray eyes as the slaves Midnight had seen from atop the wall. In fact, the halfling was distinguishable from those slaves only in size.
Atherton Cooper had no idea how he had come to be in this alley. Just a moment ago, he had been laboring to mortar a struggling woman into the wall.
“Sneakabout?” Midnight asked, peering uncertainly at the short figure.
The halfling’s frown deepened. He recognized something in the woman’s voice and in the name she had called him. Then he remembered: Sneakabout was his name. “Yes—that’s right,” he observed. “Who are—”
The answer came to him before he finished asking it. He had once been friends with the woman who now stood before him. “Midnight!” he exclaimed, sliding down the rubble. “What are you doing here?”
The mage held her arms out to the halfling. “Not what you think,” she replied. “I’m alive.”
Midnight’s comment about being alive kindled a painful realization for Sneakabout and he stopped short of her arms. “I’m dead,” he said, unpleasant memories flooding his mind. “Why did you let Cyric kill me?” he demanded.
Midnight didn’t know what to say. She had not expected to meet Sneakabout, and was not prepared to justify saving Cyric to someone the thief had murdered. “I wouldn’t make the same decision again,” she said, dropping her arms.
“That’s little consolation,” Sneakabout hissed. “Look at what you’ve done to me!” He ran his hand down his body.
“I didn’t let Cyric kill you!” Midnight snapped. “You threw yourself at his mercy!”
“I had to!” Sneakabout said, more memories washing over him. He looked away from Midnight’s eyes. “He had my sword. I had to get it back or go insane.”
“Why?” Midnight asked. So she would be at the halfling’s eye level, she sat down.
“It’s an evil, cursed thing,” he explained, still not looking at the mage. “If you lose it, you must recover it. The man I stole it from died trying to steal it from me, just like I died trying to take it from Cyric.”
Midnight suddenly understood why Sneakabout was in the City of the Dead. By pursuing the sword, by living only for it, he had betrayed his god.
“So you’re one of the False,” she gasped.
Sneakabout finally turned to look her in the eye. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
“What does that mean?” Midnight asked. “What is your fate?”
The halfling shrugged, then casually looked away as if his fate was of little concern. “I’m one of Myrkul’s slaves. I’ll spend eternity mortaring the Faithless into the wall.”
Midnight drew a sharp breath.
“What are you worried about?” Sneakabout asked. He turned back with an irritated frown on his face. “I thought you worshiped Mystra? Not that being faithful is much better than being faithless when you’re down here. The Fugue Plain is overflowing with the abandoned souls of most of the gods’ faithful.”
“I’m not worried about myself,” the mage said. “A few weeks after he killed you, Cyric killed Adon … and Adon died with no faith in the gods.”
“Then its the wall for him,” Sneakabout said, shaking his head glumly. “I’ll probably be the one that mortars him in.”
“Is there anything that you can—”
“No!” the halfling snapped, waving his hand to cut off Midnight’s plea. “He chose his fate when he was alive. It can’t be changed now. If that’s why you summoned me—”
“It’s not,” Midnight said sadly, upset by the halfling’s curt response. She wondered if he would be as unwilling to help her recover the tablet as he was to help Adon. Hoping to look more commanding, she stood. “You must take me to Bone Castle.”
Sneakabout’s eyes widened. “You don’t know what you’re asking! When they catch us, they’ll …” He paused and considered his situation. The denizens could do nothing that was worse than what they were doing to him now.
“If you don’t help me,” Midnight said, taking the halfling by both shoulders, “the Realms will perish.”
“What’s that to me?” Sneakabout replied, backing away. “With luck, so will Myrkul’s city.”
“Help me get the Tablet of Fate and return it to Waterdeep,” Midnight said, following Sneakabout. “I’ll end your misery.”
He stopped backing away. “How?”
“I don’t know yet. But I’ll find a way.”
The halfling raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Trust me,” Midnight pleaded. “What do you have to lose?”
Of course, Sneakabout had nothing to lose. If the denizens caught him helping Midnight, they would torture him for eternity—but they were already doing that.
“All right. I’ll help,” the halfling said. “But realize that you’ve made a very important promise. If you don’t keep it, you might be considered one of the False when you return.”
“I know that,” Midnight said. “Let’s go.”
Sneakabout turned and started over the rubble at the end of the cul-de-sac. For several hours, he led Midnight through a maze of twisting alleys and cluttered streets. Occasionally, they entered a region of straight clean avenues. The halfling always crossed these places quickly, then led them back into a deteriorating or twisted borough.
Midnight was glad to have Sneakabout as a guide. Although vaguely aware that they were walking toward the low end of the city, she was completely lost. Even the halfling stopped now and then to ask directions of one of the False. He always confirmed his directions with two or three others.
“The False,” he explained, “are not to be trusted. They’ll send you straight into a pack of denizens just out of habit.”