Though the upper levels of Firefingers’s tower weren’t as large as the ground floor, they were so spacious Taegan suspected the wizard had cast an enchantment to make them larger inside than out-. The dining hall had room for all of Thentia’s two dozen mages, and the old man had invited each and every one of them to breakfast with him before undertaking the chore of setting their dragon-damaged workroom to rights.

Taegan and Jivex sat as honored guests at their host’s right hand. The elf mage Rilitar Shadow-water, was on the other side of them, probably because Firefingers assumed Taegan would enjoy the company of a member of his own race, albeit a different branch of it.

Rilitar seemed to believe the same thing, though in fact, his familiarity made Taegan feel somewhat edgy. Or maybe it was the tense atmosphere afflicting the gathering as a whole. Some of the mages who’d stood their ground to fight the brass dragon plainly disdained the colleagues who’d fled, while the latter resented any implication of cowardice, however justified it seemed.

Indeed, Phourkyn One-eye was engaged in a particularly vitriolic exchange with Scattercloak, the warlock who went about ever muffled in a gray mantle and hood. Scattercloack sat with his meal untouched lest, in the act of eating, he give someone a glimpse of his face.

“I did not flee,” insisted Scattercloak in an androgynous, uninflected tenor voice. “I simply veiled myself in invisibility. That’s why you didn’t notice me afterward.”

“Liar,” Phourkyn sneered, a streak of light glinting on his oily black hair.

“Retract that.”

“No.”

Taegan’s professional experience enabled him to recognize the preliminaries to a violent altercation when he saw them. But before the situation could deteriorate any further, Baelric, Firefingers’s brawny doorman, strode into the hall in a manner that commanded attention.

Facing his master, he announced, “The Watchlord is here.”

Firefingers blinked. “Really? Well, show him in.”

Baelric ushered a middle-aged, solidly built, dour-looking man into the room. The newcomer was fancily dressed by Moonsea standards, though no rake in fashionable Lyrabar would have been impressed. He wore a chain of office dangling on the breast of his black velvet doublet, and at his side he carried a gold-hilted sword in a golden scabbard—likely another symbol of authority. A clerk and a pair of halberdiers trailed along behind him. All the mages rose to greet him, though some performed the courtesy in a perfunctory manner.

“My dear Gelduth,” Firefingers said, beaming, “this is an unexpected honor. We’ll set a place.”

“I didn’t come to eat,” the Watchlord said. “I came—” His head snapped around to stare at Jivex, who sat on his haunches on the linen tablecloth behind the plate he’d just finished licking clean.

Prompted by Sune-only-knew what witless impulse, Jivex spread his silvery wings. Taegan grabbed him by the neck an instant before he could take flight. Jivex glared at him indignantly.

“The man’s afraid of you,” Taegan whispered. “Approach him, and he’s liable to take a swipe at you with his sword.” He gave Gelduth a smile. “This is Jivex, Lord. He’s a friend to humans and other civilized folk.”

The small dragon twisted, brought a hind foot into proximity with Taegan’s hand, and gave him a stinging scratch across the wrist.

“Indeed.” Gelduth pivoted back toward Firefingers and said, “I came to talk to you—all of you, even though by rights I should be able to summon you to attend me in the Watchlord’s tower, at my convenience. But we all know how that generally works out, don’t we?”

“Gelduth Blackturret’s pretty much a figurehead,” Rilitar whispered to Taegan, “and some wizards don’t show him much respect. A mistake, in my view, precisely because he is the spokesman for the old families, and they really do run Thentia. Besides, he does a good job of protecting the outlying farms when the orcs come sniffing around.”

“Well, at least let me get you a chair,” said Firefingers to the Watchlord, and Baelric hurried away to fetch one.

“We have to talk,” Gelduth persisted, “about all these dragons coming and going. I’ve told you before, it worries me. The noble Houses don’t like it, either. Not when wyrms are running amok and laying waste to all Faerûn. But everyone accepted the situation because you assured us your dragons were safe. Now I understand that the one who arrived yesterday went berserk.”

“Regrettably,” said Firefingers, “that’s true.”

“Then I’m going to have to bar all drakes from Thentia.”

Some of the mages scowled and exclaimed at that, though the show of dismay was less than unanimous. Affronted, Jivex hissed.

“My dear friend,” Firefingers said, “I’ve told you, we’re seeking a cure for the Rage. That’s important work, and it absolutely requires that we consult with dragons. We’ll lose precious time if you force us to relocate our operation.”

“I don’t see,” Phourkyn said, “that this posturing oaf can ‘force’ us to do anything. We mages are the real power in Thentia. Apparently, because we don’t abuse our strength, some folk underestimate it, but I can remedy that.”

He gestured, and a pair of glass vials appeared in his hand. Blue smoke curled around his fingers.

Sinylla Zoranyian, the lass who’d healed Taegan’s blisters, and who sat across the room from Phourkyn with two other petite priestesses to whom she bore a familial resemblance, sprang to her feet.

“No!” she cried.

Rilitar leaped up, too, and snatched out the topaz-tipped oak wand he wore sheathed like a dagger on his belt.

Phourkyn gave them both a sneer. “I would have changed him back,” he said, “but have it your way.”

The vials vanished from his grasp.

“If you’d actually cursed me,” grated Gelduth to Phourkyn, “I guarantee you, the entire city would have taken it as an act of treason, and none of you, even the most powerful, could survive for long with every hand against you.”

“Phourkyn’s ill-considered jest has angered you,” Firefingers said, “and I don’t blame you. But surely we’ve no need to bandy threats about.”

“I’m speaking bluntly,” the Watchlord said, “because apparently it’s the only way to stab through your conceit and make you hear. The rest of Thentia puts up with a good deal from you lot and your lunatic experiments. We tolerate foul stenches, flying rats, milk that spurts from the udder already sour, and shoes that clomp around all night by themselves. But we won’t suffer slaughter and destruction that a bit of simple prudence might have prevented.”

“Lord Blackturret,” said Taegan, “I realize you don’t know me, but I implore you to reconsider. I was present when the brass dragon lapsed into frenzy. Firefingers and his circle killed it easily, before it could harm anyone or escape the building. Surely that demonstrates their ability to manage any potential hazard.”

“What if the wyrm had gone mad before it reached the tower,” Gelduth said, “or immediately after it departed?”

Taegan smiled. “Well, having observed a fair number of dragons lost to frenzy, I can assure you, the creature wouldn’t have been subtle about it. The whole town would have heard it roaring and smashing about. Whereupon the wizards, many of whom can transport themselves instantly from one location to another, would have rushed to the scene to eliminate the threat.”

“Maybe it is certain they could overcome a drake,” Gelduth said, “but you can’t tell me it might not kill some people first.”

“True,” the avariel said, “but I ask you to balance the danger against the potential benefit. This Rage is more terrible than any in memory, and your part of the North is crawling with wyrms. Surely you’ve heard about the devastating attacks on Teshwave and Melvaunt. It’s only a matter of time before an entire flight of dragons hurls itself at Thentia. Unless, that is, your mages can quell the frenzy first.”

“Maestro Nightwind’s right,” Rilitar said. “We enchanters are your best hope, as we’ve always been Thentia’s bulwark against the Zhents and all the other folk who wish it ill. By Corellon’s silver sword, we understand that our fellow citizens are frightened. Rest assured, we are, too. But we beg you to trust us. We haven’t let you down yet, have we?”

The Watchlord glowered for a time. Finally he said, “I’ll think more on this, and let you know my decision.”

He stalked out of the chamber, followed once again by his attendants.

“That,” said Sinylla, a hint of laughter in her voice, “is how a dignitary lets you know he’s changed his mind. It would wound his pride to admit it outright.”

“He’s changed it for now,” Phourkyn said. “If another of our wyrms goes mad, he’ll change it back again, and pleading won’t sway him. You should have let me teach him some respect.”

“I’m sorry,” Firefingers said, “that’s not how things are done in my home.”

“Has it occurred to anyone,” asked Scattercloak, “that Gelduth Blackturret may have a point?”

Firefingers’s faded blue eyes narrowed beneath their scraggly white brows. “How do you mean?”

“To dissuade the Watchlord,” Scattercloak said, “Maestro Nightwind made us out to be invincible dragon slayers. But the truth is, the brass might have killed us all if he and his companion hadn’t intervened.”

Jivex preened at this acknowledgment of his valor.

“I was right,” Phourkyn said, “you are a coward.”

“Only idiots,” the shrouded wizard said, “have no fear of dragons.”

Some of his fellows muttered in agreement.

“It was a fluke,” said Rilitar, “that Samdralyrion snapped precisely when he did.”

“Perhaps we can look forward to more such flukes,” said a small, plump wizard clad all in white with azure trim, “considering that the Rage keeps waxing stronger. What if we do welcome a dragon into town, it goes mad and kills an innocent, and everyone holds us responsible? I fled here after deserting the Cloaks, with half of Mulmaster on my tail. Thentia is my sanctuary. I don’t want the nobles to cast me out.”

From the murmur of sympathy, Taegan gathered that a good many of the wizards were, for all their arcane might, fugitives and refugees of one sort or another.

“You presumably don’t want scores of dragons to destroy Thentia, either,” Rilitar said.

“That might never happen,” said one of the silver-robed priestesses.

“Or it may,” Taegan said, “unless you prevent it.”

“But can we?” Scattercloak replied. “So far, we’ve made little progress.”

“As Kara and the other seekers recover more information,” the bladesinger said, “that will change.”

“We don’t know that,” said the magician in white. “All we do know is that one of us has already died investigating this matter, and that many more could have perished yesterday.”

Phourkyn made a spitting sound. “True wizards are willing to risk their lives to discover new lore.”

Taegan turned to Rilitar and whispered, “Who died, and how?”

“Her name was Lissa Uvarrk,” Rilitar said, “a gnome, quite adept at transmutation. She was working alone at home when, as best we can judge, she called up a spirit that slipped the leash. It ripped her apart and burned her, too.” Then one of Scattercloak’s remarks snagged his attention, and he leaned forward, eager to refute it.

The argument rambled on for a couple more minutes, growing steadily more contentious, until the warlocks were shouting all at once. Finally Firefingers rose from his ornately carved high-backed chair and snapped the fingers of both hands. A spherical blast of flame exploded above his head. The flash was blinding, the boom, deafening. Startled, everyone else fell silent.

“We made a promise,” the old man said, “to aid Karasendrieth, and I intend to honor it. A great deal—perhaps even the fate of the world—depends on it. If you’re the wizards I think you are, you’ll do the same. If not, then all you need do to keep yourselves safe—until a dragon flight targets Thentia, anyway—is refuse to help any further. No one can force you. But if anyone does intend to turn his back on this enterprise, do it now. Leave my house, and don’t come back. You won’t be welcome in the future.”

Taegan could see that Firefingers had timed his ultimatum well. Despite all the complaints and misgivings, nobody had yet mustered the resolve to walk out, and so everyone stayed put. For the moment. Firefingers gave them all a grandfatherly smile.

“Splendid. I knew I could count on you. Hurry and eat, your meal is getting cold.” The wrinkled, white-bearded mage turned to Taegan and Jivex and said, “When we finish here, we can go to my study and decide on an errand for you. Since you can fl—”

Taegan interrupted the old man by lurching forward and coughing into his napkin, and kept on hacking until Firefingers and Rilitar were peering at him with concern.

“Are you all right?” Firefingers asked.

“Yes,” Taegan wheezed, dabbing at his eyes. “Well, no, not entirely. When Jivex and I fought green dragons in Impiltur, I inhaled a bit of their poison. My lungs haven’t been the same since, and I fear the smoke and cinders I breathed in yesterday damaged them still further. In all candor, I doubt I’m fit enough to continue my travels at present. May I please avail myself of your hospitality for a few more days?”