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to know. For ages the Arcanostrum of Saldor had trained the world’s finest magi, bar none, and the Kalsaaris knew it. But the presence of sorcery among the nobles in Kalsaar spoke less to their talent than to their tolerance of it. The overuse of magical power was still somewhat taboo in the nations of the West, and all magi were trained to use only the barest fraction of their power in any given situation. In those rare instances when they did use the sum total of their arts to tackle a problem, the very fabric of the earth shook. Tyvian knew this better than most: his mother, Lyrelle Reldamar, was one of the most powerful sorcerers alive, and when she worked a spell, the world trembled.
    Myreon Alafarr was, of course, not anything close to Lyrelle. Tyvian knew that, Myreon knew that, but the Kalsaaris likely did not. Their magic was focused upon invocation—­the most ephemeral discipline of sorcery, which created effects and simulations that lacked real substance. Myreon’s skill in augury, enchantment, and transmutation would no doubt thrill them. Indeed, what enchantment, transmutation, and even conjuration the Kalsaaris had devised were all based on the confessions and interrogations of Western magi they had captured or who had defected to them over the years.
    The exceptions to all of this were the Artificers. A secretive monastic order that devoted itself to a mixture of the Low and High Arts, they were the creators of magical artifacts beyond compare. It was said that their skill exceeded even those of the magi of the Arcanostrum or the Builders of Eretheria. Tyvian knew that if he could get them to take a look at the ring, not only could they likely remove it, but there was also a distinct chance they could tell him where and how it was made.
    Of course, his deal with the Hanim would not put him directly closer to meeting with an Artificer. For as much as Tyvian thought the Hanim would accept his deal, he was twice as confident that she would double-­cross him at her first opportunity. Not only was deception part of her nature, but he had gone out of his way to insult her pride this evening, and he knew she couldn’t accept that without getting some kind of satisfaction for that injury at his expense. Betrayal seemed the easiest, most straightforward option.
    The deal with the Hanim was one facet of a plot that, if it worked, would serve to relieve him of the ring, attain his vengeance on Hendrieux, fulfill his “deal” with Hool the gnoll and get the Defenders off of his back for a long, long time. His plot had been growing in complexity with every passing day, but with Hendrieux’s fortuitous appearance at the party this evening, things just got a little bit simpler. Of course, he had to hurry.
    Tyvian ran around the periphery of the Hanim’s palace until he was reasonably certain he had catalogued all the visible exits. Doing a little mental geography, he calculated the most obvious route one would take from the palace to the Blocks, and placed himself in an alley a quarter mile distant that gave him a good view of the area. The problem, however, would be how to make a move on Hendrieux’s party without getting killed.
    â€œHmmmm . . .” he said, trying to beat warmth into his arms. “If only I had a sword with me.”
    It was then that Hacklar Jaevis jumped from the rooftops onto Tyvian’s back.

 
    CHAPTER 3
    JUST ANOTHER STREET FIGHT
    T he first thing that happened was Jaevis broke Tyvian’s nose by slamming him into the wall of the alley. Then came a swift kick in the guts, which sent Tyvian’s breath whistling through his teeth. Jaevis then picked the smuggler up like a sack of flour and threw him on the ground. All of this transpired in approximately two and a half seconds.
    The alley spun in the darkness. Tyvian’s nose was throbbing and clogged with what he guessed was a lot of blood; he couldn’t breathe, see, or hear