“Afternoon Brug,” Tarlak shouted. Brug, in the middle of sharpening one of his daggers, startled so badly he fell off his chair and onto his rump.

“Dadgum idjit wizard! I told you not to do that!”

“Precisely why I do,” the wizard beamed. “I want you to meet the newest members of the Eschaton.”

Brug glared over before returning to his stool. “I already met ‘em.”

“Yes, but I would prefer you meet them without trying to kill them.”

“Don’t care to.”

“You’ll win him over,” Tarlak semi-whispered to the other two. “He’s always cranky after he gets his ass handed to him in a fight.”

“What did you say?” Brug roared, spinning in his seat so fast it sent him toppling, this time on his head.

“Next floor!” Tarlak said, slamming the door shut and dashing up the stairs.

The next door was shut tight.

“This is my room,” the wizard said. “Nothing exciting here. Next floor!”

W hen Tarlak stopped at the fifth floor, he turned to the other two, his face serious.

“This is Haern’s floor,” he said. “As a bit of warning, do not enter unless you want an attempt on your life.”

“Say again?” Harruq asked.

“That guy is an assassin, through and through. He likes to sneak up on anyone entering his room. I’ve tried catching him sleeping, eating, practicing. No luck. Had plenty of sabers poked into my back and neck, though.”

He pushed the door open a crack and gestured for them to enter.

“Guests first,” he said.

“How kind,” Qurrah said, shoving the door the rest of the way open. Harruq followed, his eyes searching the corners for the cloaked man. The entire room was barren but for a small chest and a simple bed at one side. There was no sign of Haern.