If you need a memory refreshment, please read the first and second and third parts of this story.

The server, Gregor, fancied himself an actor. He had participated in the circle plays in the small Western town he came from. When he ventured to the Edge in search of glory on the stage he’d found a job as a server in Revel’s parlor, as well as a precious few opportunities as spear-carriers and other lowly types in several amateur companies, but his ardour for the craft was undulled. So as he climbed the stairs to the second level of the Fallen Dragon he prepared for the role he was about to play. He would discover his customer crumpled on the table. Of course he would assume the great bard was asleep, perhaps suffering from the effects of a little too much wine. But then he would check more closely, and discover that the man was deceased. His surprise would be complete. In his mind he rehearsed the hearty scream that would echo through the parlor, evidence not only of his surprise at discovering a dead man, but also of his sorrow at the loss the untimely death by poisoning of Armen Severcross, the greatest bard of the age, meant to the world of the theatre. In reality the server though it no great loss. The famed bard was a talentless hack as far as Gregor was concerned, lucky enough to have a few rich patrons. And that voice, like a crushed frog. The woman with the poison had brought a merciful end to a career that grated on the hearts of true performers everywhere.

But when Gregor reached the top of the stairs and looked down the corridor all planned performances fled his mind, and with little talent for improvisation he simply stopped short and stared. Armen was sitting up in his chair, peering out the window, his fingers tapping an exotic rhythm on the table. In front of him was a single untouched glass of wine. He must have heard Gregor’s faltering steps, because he turned his face from the stars to peer down the corridor.

That face, that lumpen face which was so loved by the masses and by the courts despite its ugliness, looked even worse than usual. The bard’s mismatched eyes were bloodshot, his skin deathly pale and his lank hair dripping with sweat, but there was a smile on his too-large lips, and his eyes glittered with focus.

He looked Gregor in the eye, and his voice, though it sounded like the whisper of death, somehow carried down the corridor as if he stood nearby and placed his words carefully into Gregor’s ear.

“There’s something wrong with this wine. Would you taste it, brother?”

Armen smirked and watched the server turn as white as a dead man, whirl, and run down the stairs. He closed his eyes and listened to the pounding footsteps as the man proceeded through the parlor, no doubt causing undue stress to several patrons. Armen almost felt pity. It had been cruel of Marath to involve the man.

He opened his eyes and picked up Marath’s glass, drank it down himself. He knew the clerksbane leaf would protect him from further doses for several hours yet. It was remarkable: the poison they’d used was completely tasteless. The wine was very fine indeed.

The drink eased the throbbing of his head somewhat, but he still felt terrible. He wished that he’d eaten the leaf before meeting Marath, as he’d thought to. But the thing had cost a fortune to procure, and he hadn’t wanted to waste it if she wasn’t going to poison him. He shook his head and shivered at the thought of how close the thing had been. Next time he would come prepared, and damn the cost.

He finished the poisoned wine and tossed the glass out the window. So Morash had moved first. Now any further violence was completely justified.

Armen Severcross croaked out a laugh and turned to stare out at the stars, considering his next move.

The End — for now