Chane sipped his mulled wine as though the exchange meant nothing to him, but his heart beat fast beneath the tan cloak he wore. The lord had expressed a mild interest at best, but a mild interest was all Chane needed. A servant laid half a roast pheasant on the loremaster's plate. Unlike those around him, he cut into it carefully, making certain the bird's juices did not soil his sleeves or spatter his neighbor.

A caravan on its way to Iriaebor arrived in Berdusk late into the night nine days later. The bards, mages, and thieves of Twilight Hall paid no heed to the passengers on the incoming wagons, only the supplies they carried. They had no idea that one of their own traveled in the heart of the clamor.

Chane kept quietly hidden between two wagons, having exchanged his tasteful cream robes for leather breeches and a heavy black tunic. He told no one of his arrival. He told no one on the caravan his true identity. As far as Berdusk was concerned, Loremaster Chane was visiting Rysheos on diplomatic business.

As the horses and wagons began to separate near the marketplace to park safely for the night, Chane turned his mount down a side street and headed for the city's west end.

The Seat of Lore, temple to Oghma.

The very thought of the temple filled him with anticipation. Long ago, scores of ancient books had been spirited inside those sacred walls. Centuries-old texts of legends and lore waited for him like glittering jewels in a consecrated mine. The temple's overseer was a gnome called Bransul-dyn Mirrortor, a former rogue and wanderer who now guarded one of the largest collections of ancient and rare texts that Chane could ever desire. And what did Mirrortor do with all his wealth? He simply locked it up like some sad old man hoarding coins under a mattress.

A familiar litany tripped through Chane's thoughts: Knowledge is power. Power is wealth. Wealth is adulation and respect. That sorry gnome knows nothing of possibilities. He deserves to die.