Vangerdahast promptly waved at Narm in an imperious "turn around" gesture and nodded when the young mage hesitantly complied. "No personal marks or brands or the like. Good. Now you, lass."

Shandril gave him an angry look. "Must every wizard I meet gloat over my bare flesh?"

"No," Vangerdahast replied-a little wearily, Shan thought. "Just the ones who have to see the body they're trying to disguise, to weave a good spell and not merely a swift and easy one. And this lucky lad of yours, too, I suppose. Gods above, girl, how many unclad women d'you think I've seen, in all the years of serving the king?"

"Ah," Narm said, eager to find something to say that wasn't cold word-dueling or menace, "so all the tales are true!"

"Those tales and a lot more besides," Vangerdahast told him gravely, "but if it keeps the Dragon of Cormyr from being a tyrant to the good folk of his kingdom and away from his war-saddle and all the graves that follow in the wake of such ridings, he can craft a dozen new tales every night with my full blessing!"

He came back around the bed to look at Narm directly "You'll learn, lad, to count lives wasted and stalking fear and blood spilled and broken trust as far greater sins than a little rutting, if you live long enough to use your eyes. Now, turn around again. I need a good look at your scrawny backside if I'm to spin a good false seeming for you."

"You were followed?"

"Of course. This is Scornubel, Thoadrin."

"And so?"

"And so," the slender man in dark leather replied with a crooked smile, holding up a wicked little knife that Thoadrin hadn't seen him draw from a sheath anywhere, "this drank thrice. The last one was merely an opportunist who hoped to catch me in a vulnerable moment, during a fight. His hopes were met; he did."

"You're hurt?" Thoadrin asked sharply.