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Hlael set down his glass a little hastily. "Well, there're Mhegras and Sabran – a very dangerous priest. Mhegras is all temper and bluster, but with Sabran guiding him…"

"I've not seen either this morn. They were running around in the battle, but now seem to have disappeared."

"Yes, but we can't assume they're dead. Any two wagon-merchants could be them in spell-guise, or they could be skulking in the roadside brush, or – "

Korthauvar waved an impatient hand. "Who else?"

Hlael held out his goblet again. "Praulgar and Stlarakur are dead, which leaves just three young magelings I know of, plus whatever hireswords they've brought along: Deverel, Jalarrak, and Rostol."

"More anxious to do each other dirty than to accomplish anything, of course," Korthauvar agreed, pouring, "Of course. The most numerous opposition to the Brotherhood in the caravan remains the Cult of the Dragon – as usual, hereabouts. Our mighty young mage of a spellfire consort, Narm the Clueless, took down Praulgar's slayer, but 'twas really spellfire that slew him and his fellow blade, Brasker and Holvan. Another pair of Cult swords – their names, I know not – went down in the same battle by other hands. The worst of it all is, I'm not sure how many more Cult swordsmen and thieves like them are along posing as merchants. There was a flurry of signings with Voldovan, on and off, after he agreed to take Shandril Shessair's passage." "Aye, every third wagon-horse could be a foe. Not a new worry. Count me out who else we do know."

"Well, the two really capable Cultists along are both dead: Malivur, who was rather carelessly playing a spice-merchant, and the thief Krostal. Another firewits mage with a wise guide."

"Ah, the clockseller. I thought I knew him from somewhere. He stole the Tiara of the Eyes from under our noses – and off Lady Thaulindra's head – in Sheirtalar some years back."

"That's the man. That leaves one more Krostal knew about, but I haven't spotted: a Cult wizard he considered 'powerful.' There were also whispers among Bluthlock's men that they'd best watch for a mage of Scornubel along on Voldovan's run who served the Cult but also quietly received messages from Luskan."

Korthauvar's brows rose, and he reached for the decanter again. "If both sayings are true and refer to the same man, he could well outstrip us both in spells."

Hlael nodded. "At least our tarrying has cleared the field of a handcount of other wizards, for when we have to move at last."

"What's your measure of the Arcane, the Red Wizards, and others? I confess I'm just peering and guessing, with not a single surety to my reckoning."

Hlael shrugged. "I wear the same cloak of doubt, but there are two persons for certain. One is Stlarakur's slayer, a sly rogue who calls himself the 'Dark Blade of Doom' – Marlel of Scornubel, being paid by I know not whom, and currently posing as Haransau Olimer, of 'Haransau Olimer's Best Blandreths.' "

Korthauvar nodded. "For all his oil, he's hard to miss. The other?"

Hlael shrugged. "Another Red Wizard, but I know not whom, or his guise in the wagons."

"There's never just one of them," Korthauvar said bitterly, his fingers idly caressing the velvet-smooth decanter.

Hlael smiled his crooked smile. "Aye, but which fat, cowering merchant is it?"

"I don't know," Korthauvar said slowly, "and I don't dare show myself trying to find out." He smiled suddenly, and added, "So we can tell Drauthtar we dare not move in to try to take spellfire yet."

A cold, familiar voice spoke from another handy decanter sharply and suddenly enough to make both Zhentarim flinch. "Consider me informed. As it happens – luckily for you – I concur with your assessment. The time to snatch spellfire is not yet.

Proceed, but don't fail to take Shandril when the time is right, or your deaths will be as lingering and as painful as you deserve."

Korthauvar and Hlael shivered in unison, exchanged hasty glances, and murmured, "It shall be as you command."

"Indeed. Don't smash decanters this