"I imagine you think you're funny," he growled, crossing his arms so as not to reveal the faint trembling in his hands. The man in the armor was too busy chortling to himself to answer-which, really, was answer enough.

"Of course it's done," he said finally, once he could draw sufficient breath to speak. "They're all dead."

"All?" Nenavar asked, his brow wrinkling.

Another sigh, and somehow the helm conveyed the eye-rolling within. "Almost all. A few guards survived. I actually do know how to follow a plan, Master Nenavar."

"You could've fooled me."

"Very likely."

Nenavar glared. "You stink. Get rid of that thing."

The skull tilted upward, as though the wearer were lost in thought, and then it, and the armor, were simply gone.

Every man, woman, and child in Imphallion had heard the description of that armor, heard the horror stories of the warlord and wizard Corvis Rebaine, who had come so near to conquering the kingdom entire. But the man who sat revealed by the disappearance of the bone and steel-now clad in mundane leathers and a cloak of worn burgundy, his features shadowed in the feeble illumination-appeared far too young to be the infamous conqueror.

"You know what you have to do now, Kaleb?" Nenavar pressed.

"Why, no, Master." Kaleb's expression slackened in confusion, and he somehow managed to unleash a single tendril of drool as his lips gaped open. "Could you tell me again?"

"Damn it, we've gone over it a dozen times! Why can't…" Nenavar's fingers curled into fists as he realized he was being mocked. Again.

"Well, it appears you were right," Kaleb told him. "I could have fooled you."

Nenavar snarled and stomped from the room. Or at least Kaleb thought he was stomping; the old man was so slight, he couldn't be positive.