Eleven Years after the Spellplague The Year of the Secret (1396 DR) Veltalar, Aglarond

The young tough thrust his dagger at Japheth's stomach.

Japheth retreated into the folds of his cloak. Shadows slapped his face like gauzy moth wings. With a second step, he was back in the abandoned brewery, a dozen yards from where the kid had tried to knife him.

He pointed. The weapon in the tough's grip flared with green fire. It clattered to the floor, trailing a spiral of emerald smoke. The kid bellowed in disbelief, clutching his scorched hand.

Japheth said, "You didn't answer me. Which one of you is in charge?"

An assortment of youths, lounging, boozing, and dicing away the afternoon stared at him in slack-jawed surprise. A few scrambled for weapons, but most didn't move. They seemed unable to believe a single man would be foolish enough to enter their hideout uninvited.

"Word is, the Razorhides are the meanest gang on the wharf," continued the warlock. His back brushed a wall.

He hoped it didn't conceal anyone else good with a knife. "Now that I found you, I'd like to make a deal."

The Razorhides recovered from their surprise. Like petals opening at dawn, blades appeared in their grubby hands.

The warlock forced a smile in order to demonstrate confidence. This was where his plan would be tested. He'd foreseen the gang's armed reaction-counted on it, even. But facing a small sea of glinting blades was different from imagining it. And the Razorhides had a reputation on the wharf. Those who crossed them ended up dead, usually with body parts strewn along the docks as a warning to merchants and freelance thieves.

"You're paying attention. Good," said Japheth, trying to make his voice light. "So, who's your leader? One of you? A merchant up in Old Town? Maybe a sergeant of the militia? Yes? No?"