Lord Dakhir fingered the stolen ivory necklace thoughtfully. Then he looked at the others. "So now we present our 'gift' to the Majarahbii, so that he may drape it about his tiny neck -- and may the weight of it strangle him."

"Tsk, tsk," purred Lord Felsteff, grinning slyly. "Such a way to speak of our ally."

Lord Muuba, his features looking even more gaunt and drained ever since he slew a sentry to procure the necklace, said, "An ally of convenience, nothing more."

"Are not all allies allies of convenience?" asked Felsteff, good-naturedly.

"To be discarded when their convenience is at an end?" demanded diminutive Lord Elltharash. "Is that how you view things?"

"It's rather late in the game to grow a backbone, little one," said Felsteff condescendingly. "And that goes for all of you. We agreed to ally ourselves with the Cult of Shalli, because only it was organized enough to offer a viable force against Prince Shayanaq. And things have worked well in our favour. Shayanaq lost the support of much of the army when he declared the northern barbarian, Morg, a traitor.

"Never has his power been weaker. Let Shayanaq and the Holy Majarahbii cut each other down, let their forces war in the streets. Let chaos and blood flow. Then we will step forward, offering a moderate alternative to a power crazed tyrant and a mad, self-styled prophet. But first we must present the Majarahbii with this Band of Office, this symbol of lawful authority, so that he may parade himself through the streets and declare himself a legitimate challenger for the throne."

Muuba frowned. "The boy prophet needed us to procure the necklace -- he is without other followers among the nobility who could have reached the inner chamber in which it was hid without greater opposition. And we need him to mount an effective opposition to Shayanaq. So I ask you, in your view that allies are only men of convenience...once we present him with the necklace, do we not out-live our convenience to him before he does to us?"

The purple tapestry had barely settled around Morg and Lali before the door swung open and three men entered. Peering from his hiding place, Morg noted that one of the men was dressed as Lali had described, in a crimson skirt, with cornrow braided hair.

But the other two were dressed more interestingly. They wore crimson cloaks that went to their ankles. And though their heads were bare, the cloaks sported hoods that could be pulled over the head. He pressed the nude slave girl to his side and whispered, "I think I see a way out of here."

He felt her tremble against him as she recognized what he meant to do.

The three men were busying themselves over by one corner, obviously searching for a crate in what Morg had begun to realize was a storage room. He waited, muscles tensed, until the door had swung shut, leaving them all alone together in the room. Then Morg thrust aside the tapestry and silently drew his sword.

He might normally feel a qualm about about attacking men without warning, but as a former soldier of the city, he well knew the reputation of the Cult of Shalli -- a blood cult who gave their victims no quarter. He pounced soundlessly forward and thrust out at the nearest cloaked man, his back to Morg.

The lethal sword tip slipped under the cloak -- and stopped, shuddering in Morg's hand as though he had stabbed a fortress wall. The cloaked man whirled about, his two companions following suit, their faces registering first shock, then rage.

Morg stared dumbly. "Storim's Bones!" he cursed. Then the man he had tried to slay was upon him, and Morg's sword was knocked from his hand. He grappled with the cloaked cultist, still dumbfounded by the man's imperviousness. As fingers clutched at his throat, squeezing air from his body, Morg saw that the other two were making no move to summon help. At three to one, they must not have seen the need.

Then, as his attacker's cloak fell open, Morg saw the glint of polished metal. The man wore armour under his cloak! There was no sorcery at work here, just tempered steel. That knowledge emboldening him, wiping aside his momentary shock, Morg brought his arms up between the other man's around his throat, breaking his hold.

Then the barbarian slugged him in the face with fists once likened to balls of stone in their ferocity. The man staggered back and Morg hit him again and again, till his face was bloody and broken. As the man stumbled back, insensible, Morg turned upon the other cloaked man.

He was already drawing a short sword from under his cloak, but Morg pounced upon him, not giving him a chance to wield it. From the corner of his eye, he saw the skirted man turn for the door, obviously now deciding to summon aide. Morg grunted, but could do nothing while he struggled with his opponent.

Suddenly a lithe, ebon form darted forward, and the slave girl, Lali, jumped upon the fleeing man, and the two crashed into some old crates. The girl had spirit, Morg thought, grinning. But he doubted she could hold him long.

Turning his attention to his own adversary, Morg wrapped one mighty arm around the cultist's neck and swung around behind him. He rammed his hip into the small of the man's back, and wrenched with his arm. There was a dull crack, and the man went limp. Morg let him fall like a sack of laundry and turned to the final man, struggling with Lali. In two strides he was at their sides and with a chop with the edge of his hand, sent the man tumbling into unconsciousnes.

Lali's hair was dishevelled and there were a couple of minor red scratches on her skin. Otherwise, she seemed unharmed. He grabbed her and kissed her hungrily. "Give me a few months to train you," Morg said, "and I reckon I could make a fair foot soldier out of you."

She grinned momentarily, then her features sobered as she looked around. "We are still beneath the city, and in the very heart of the domain of the cultists -- what are we to do?"

Morg bent over and yanked a cloak from one of the bodies at his feet. He threw it over her shoulders, allowing himself a momentary twinge of regret as the crimson cloth closed over her nakedness. Then he pulled the hood over her head. He frowned. The cloak dragged on the floor, Lali being shorter than the cloak's erstwhile owner. But it would do.

He retrieved the second cloak for himself and draped it over his broad shoulders. Pulled close, it covered him completely, save at his feet and ankles, where his pale, northern skin stood out in contrast to the ebon flesh of the city's inhabitants. Still, if they moved quickly, none might notice.

"Help me, girl," he said, as he began dragging the bodies -- one dead, one unconscious, and the third he neither knew nor cared -- toward the tapestries. Once the men were safely concealed behind the fabric, and he had retrieved his sword, Morg moved toward the gold plated door.

He scowled, liking this not at all. Lali had said it was her master, Lord Felsteff, who had sent her to rescue him from the dungeons, and who had instructed her in how to navigate these underground tunnels. So was he now precisely where Felsteff wanted him to be? And if so, why? For what purpose?

Cursing under his breath, Morg pulled the concealing hood over his features and opened the door. With Lali at his side, he stepped out into the area beyond.

And a voice said: "Halt!"

Prince Shayanaq looked up as one of his palace guards ushered a fat, well-dressed man into his throne chamber. Shayanaq scowled, recognizing the man as the obsequious Lord Felsteff.

"What do you want?" growled the prince. "There are matters afoot that are more pressing than whether someone has purloined a bottle of your cologne."

Felsteff laughed. "Oh, very good, my lord. Your wit is undulled by the turmoil of the times."

Shayanaq scowled dangerously.

Still grinning, Felsteff said, quietly, "But I'm afraid I only wish that it was a crime of such insignificance of which I had knowledge. You see, I happen to know that some of this city's own nobility are in league with the Cult of Shalli and plot your overthrow."

Shayanaq shot to his feet as though a flame had come to life beneath his throne chair.