"Did we kill her?"

Cavatina hung her holy symbol around her neck. "We did. Your sword thrust weakened her, and I finished the job."

Thaleste smiled. A seed of confidence was in her eye, and over time, it would grow.

Cavatina whispered a prayer and sent, Iljrene, it was a Selvetargtlin. I killed her. We were wounded but have healed.

Iljrene's reply came at once: Well done, but keep alert. Where there's one Selvetargtlin, there's usually more.

Cavatina nodded, still troubled by the aranea's final words. The Selvetargtlin hadn't just been talking about the spellgaunt she'd somehow smuggled into the caverns surrounding the Promenade but about something else, something that had put an evil gleam of pleasure in her eyes even as she died.

She'd gone to her death secure in the knowledge that Selvetarm would reward her for whatever dark service she'd performed.

CHAPTER THREE

Q'arlynd pointed a finger at the jagged slab of rubble and whispered an incantation. The slab-a piece of calcified webbing that had once been part of the wall of House Ysh'nil-rose into the air, revealing a gap in the rubble beneath it.

He nodded at the svirfneblin who stood next to him. "In you go."

The deep gnome cocked his bald head to the side. His eyes, black as pebbles, studied the gap in the rubble. "Looks unstable," Flinderspeld said in a low, raspy voice.

Q'arlynd's nostrils flared in irritation. "Of course it's unstable," he snapped. "The city didn't land in neat rows, like stacked blocks. It collapsed."

"I'd feel better if it was shored up first."

Q'arlynd moved his finger slightly, levitating the slab of rubble over the spot where Flinderspeld stood. He nodded meaningfully at it. "You'll feel worse if I drop this on your head."