PLANET MAGAZINE

Micker and I spread the map out on the table. “You can see it all here,” I told Pagomari. “The sewers are wide enough to fit a man through, and the Temple of Kashell has its own drain.” I spoke in a whisper, and Micker kept his eyes peeled to make certain that none of the drinkers in The Gauntlet and Brand were paying too close a mind to us. “The drain is in the kitchen, but the kitchen’s just a speck over from the shrine, where the gems we mean to lift are.”

The Bard Pagomari listened patiently, a pipe in his mouth, his dark eyes narrow as he studied the map. “This came from Amundi the Saber,” he said. Micker gave us a nervous look over his shoulder.

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“And that’s when Asyan understood that he not only lost his wealth. He lost his family, his reputation, and his dignity. Left with nothing, he spent the rest of his years seeking, obsessed with the treasure he had lost, and died a lonely man.”

The two-dozen people who had gathered around Thomas Grayweed at the Drunken Wolf, a pub in the Lower House District of the City of the Windy Mountain, applauded. As usual, Thomas’ story did not disappoint and his audience rewarded him with admiration and a few coins. It was no average accomplishment for a four-foot-tall rat living in a land of humans. His fatherly manner, his value as an oddity, and his knack as an entertainer had done much to promote his acceptance.

“Another, Master Storyteller!” a few begged.

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The plump, balding psychoanalyst shifted in his chocolate-brown Naugahyde Execu-Chair. He looked down briefly, then up, his expression a mask. The air-conditioner hummed softly as he spoke to the large, battle-scarred warrior sitting on the client side of the white Formica desk.

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