The Dark Blade of Doom glanced around the tiny turret room and out its lone door past the crossed glaives of the impassive guards standing to each side of that entry, past the second pair of glaives held by the matching pair of guards on the other side of the door-and into the hard stare of the guard with the loaded crossbow, who stood beyond the glaive-bearers, facing into the room. "Unless all this tavern-tale stuff, to borrow a phrase," he added lightly, "is your habitual style when meeting slayers-for-hire, Thoadrin."

The Cult warrior sighed, raised his large and ornate goblet to his lips, and said, "Say that it isn't, so that you have made a judgment-a guess, if you will. Say further that you're in a strange mood and desire to try to guess, for once, at what task I've come so far to hire you for. What would your guess be?"

Marlel regarded Thoadrin impassively for a very short moment of silence ere he said firmly, "Spellfire."

The Cult warrior nodded but said nothing.

The Dark Blade of Doom smiled thinly, then leaned back in his chair, brought languid booted legs up onto the tabletop, crossed them, and said softly, "The lass who has it is coming this way. You want me to capture her for you sometime while she's passing within reach. You're going to offer me a staggering amount in gems for delivering this Shandril Shessair into your hands-bound and senseless or spell-thralled."

Thoadrin lifted his eyebrows. "For someone who tries never to guess, you do it very well."

Marlel shrugged. "I do everything very well."

Thoadrin of the Cult made a face, but it might have been the wine. He set his goblet back down and asked, "Do you accept this task?"