Timothy Zahn - Triplet

At Phamyr they switched sky-planes and headed northeast, and as night closed over them they reached the southwest part of the Trassp Protectorate and the southern shore of Lake Trassp. Fed by six rivers, with three thousand square kilometers of surface area, the lake served as the major source of water for both the southern half of the protectorate and also for the Tweens area immediately to the west. From the sky an almost complete ring of village lights could be seen hugging the lake's shore, a panorama which some of Ravagin's clients in the past had found interesting. At the moment, though, far more important than scenery was the fact that Lake Trassp was the center of an extensive fishing industry.

Most of which had already closed down for the night... but with a little persistence Ravagin found what he was looking for.

"What do you think?" Ravagin asked Hart as they all sat around the small inn room they'd hired for the night.

The other shrugged, holding up one corner of the large fishing net for a closer inspection and giving it a stiff tug. "Well enough made, I suppose, as these things go. Certainly strong enough to handle any fish you might find in a lake this size. But we're talking a lot more weight here than that of the average fish."

"My question was more aimed at whether you're going to be able to set it up in the first place,"

Ravagin said with a touch of asperity. "The net itself isn't going to last very long no matter how we slice it. So to speak."

Beside Ravagin, Danae shifted uncomfortably in her seat but said nothing. "Of course I can set it up," Hart said, folding the net and laying it aside. "You'll need to give me a few hours' head start, but the techniques are perfectly straightforward. The real question is whether you're going to live long enough for it to do any good."

"I wish to hell," Danae growled, "that for once in your life you'd try to be a little diplomatic."

"No, he's right," Ravagin shook his head. "But I should be safe enough. The Darcane Forest's pretty dense—Danae, you can attest to that—and once I'm in among the trees there shouldn't be any way for a sky-plane to get to me."

"Too dense for a sky-plane, but not too dense for a man on horseback?" Hart asked pointedly.

"Perhaps; but you make the assumption that the demon will indeed come after you with a sky-plane.

Suppose he merely commandeers a troll and chases you on foot?"

The same question had occurred to Ravagin. Often. "If he does, then I'm in trouble," he admitted.

"But my guess is that he won't think to do that. He's presumably been on Shamsheer long enough to have become used to the convenience of sky-planes, and I think that by the time he realizes his mistake it'll be too late for him to backtrack. Anyway, I don't really have any choice. We know the parasite spirits can enter and exert limited control over sky-planes; weakened the way they seem to be here, I don't think they'll be able to do the same with horses. I'd rather take my chances with the forest and your skills with that—" he gestured to the net—"than wind up being flown somewhere nice and deserted where the demon can kill me at his leisure."

Danae took a shuddering breath. "Oh, God, I wish this were over."

Ravagin put his arm around her. "It will be soon," he promised, trying hard to sound convincing.

"Tomorrow night. Well—" his eyes flicked to Hart. "I guess there's nothing really left to say. I suppose we'd better get some rest; we'll want an early start in the morning."

"Yes," Hart nodded. For a second his eyes met Ravagin's. "Though I'm not particularly tired at the moment," he said, getting to his feet and heading for the door. "If you'll both excuse me, I think I'll go downstairs for awhile, check things out, then perhaps take a walk around the town. I've heard that Shamsheer's night life is worth sampling, and I didn't get the chance to try it the last trip in. See you in a couple of hours."

The door closed behind him, and for a moment Danae and Ravagin looked at each other. Then, without a word being spoken, they stood up and, holding each other tightly, walked to the bed. One final chance at a quiet moment before the storm... possibly the last chance they'd ever have. Briefly, one last stray thought flickered through Ravagin's mind, before all stray thoughts were crowded out: that perhaps Hart did indeed know how to be diplomatic, after all.

Omaranjo Saban's way house was larger and more elegant than most Ravagin had seen on Shamsheer, its dimensions all the more pronounced when the modest size of the town of Horma over which it towered was taken into account. Horma, its outer buildings edging precariously close to the westernmost fringes of Darcane Forest in south-central Feymar Protectorate, was barely a tenth of the size of Kelaine City; yet Saban's way house was at least twice the size of the one Pornish Essen presided over there. But it wasn't just the size of the place that set Ravagin's teeth on edge. A sense of arrogant power seemed to permeate the house, from the harsh decor of the conversation area to the strained expression of the local servant girl who went to summon Saban. It evoked unpleasant comparisons with Melentha's mansion in Karyx, and Ravagin found his right hand curling his scorpion glove into a hard fist as he stood at the window and waited for Saban to appear.

"Yes?" a sharp voice came from behind Ravagin. "You wished to see me?"

Ravagin turned to face him... and in that first instant he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that this man was indeed the one.

Not just because Saban's face, with its thinly tight mouth and hollow eyes fairly oozing hatred and impatience, reminded him so much of the demon face in Melentha's post line archway. Not even because of the hand twitching nervously at the hilt of the watchblade belted at his waist, a hand that, for all the arrogance of the man's voice and expression, proclaimed him to be deep in the grips of a full-bodied paranoia.

It was because of the way Ravagin's face seemed to register in those hate-filled eyes... and the way the man reacted. "Ravagin!" he whispered hoarsely. "But you were the one—he said you were gone

—"

He broke off abruptly. "Sorry—talking to myself. Name's Ravagin, isn't it? I think we met once—"

"Too late, Saban," Ravagin shook his head. "Much too late. There's only one reason you could possibly have reacted to me the way you just did—you know it and I know it, so let's skip the wideeyed innocence. Let's get down to the basics here; and you can start by telling me how many of them you brought over."

The hand by the knife hilt twitched a bit closer. "Who are you talking about?" Saban asked, clearly still struggling to regain his mental footing. "Listen, whatever you think you're doing here—"

"I know what I'm doing," Ravagin said softly. "The question is what the hell you think you're doing."

The shock was beginning to pass from Saban's face now... and in its place the hatred reappeared with renewed force. "What I'm doing is my business," he hissed. "And whether you hope to destroy it or to take it from me, you won't succeed. You hear? Because I'm the only one the demon obeys—the only one."

"Are you, now?" Ravagin said, keeping his voice as calm as possible. Demon, singular—

confirmation at last that their guess about the number and type of spirits in Shamsheer had been correct. The best possible scenario... and yet hardly a reason for optimism. All around him, an almost-felt whisper was beginning to breathe around the edges of his being: the demon and his parasite spirits, gathering their strength for battle. "Are you really in control of this demon of yours, or is it the other way around?" he asked Saban. "You really think that just because he tells you I'm a threat to your plans and humbly asks your permission to destroy me—you think that makes you the one in charge? Face reality, Saban. Without the demogorgon-based spells of Karyx to draw on, any hold you think you have over him is nothing but a wad of wrapping paper."