Thieves' Gambit
Chapters 12 - 13
by Tanith Tyrr
pleasure@netcom.com

XII.


     
     Kelain ducked hastily into an alleyway, already cursing his
impetuousness.  If only he had been able to delay for a few hours,
he would have had more time to prepare for the hunt that would
doubtless follow.  If he were lucky, it would take a while for the
word to spread that the Weapons Master of the Guild was now going
to be a much easier target.  
     The prestige that could be earned by killing the nearly
legendary half-elvish assassin would be enough to raise any
competent journeyman to master rank, and to gain any full
Guildmember the status of Weapons Master.  Not to mention that by
Guild law, his killer would inherit his protected underground
quarters and possessions.  While Kelain had chosen to stay in his
rather Spartan journeyman's room, his collection of finely crafted
weapons was well known even outside the Guild, and it was the envy
of many.  Kelain snorted in disgust.  He'd be lucky if he had an
hour before every ambitious slayer in or out of the Guild was hot
on his trail.
     That meant he had to work fast.  He didn't dare re-enter the
tavern, for if the Guildmaster were still there, the situation
would be somewhat awkward.  Technically, he was banished from 
Thieves' Guild territory, and Alun might feel compelled to try to
enforce that edict.  
     From his narrow alleyway, he watched the traffic go by while
he pondered, automatically eyeing their garb for richness and their
purses for weight.  He almost missed the tall, lanky boy in the
patched crimson and russet cloak.   "Orin!" he called out quietly. 

     The youth turned.  "It's you, Elf-man.  What can I do for
you?"  He seemed very self-assured.  
     Kelain marked that he had money, although it was nowhere
visible on him, from the way that he carried himself.  That might
make things a little harder, Kelain thought.  "I need a favor. 
I'll pay."
     A broad grin spread across Orin's boyishly handsome face. 
"You're a regular gold mine, aren't you, Elf?  What's your favor?"
     "You know the tavern's peacekeeper?"  He indicated the tall,
wood-thatched building.  "He lives upstairs, in the second room to
the right. I need you to get him for me."
     "The ogre?"  The boy chuckled uneasily.  "Right, Elf-man. 
Suppose he doesn't want to be got?  A body might get hurt that
way."
"Don't worry."  Kelain spoke confidently.  "Just tell him who sent
you.  He'll come quietly."
     "What's the deal?  Did you take a thorn out of his foot once
or something?"  The youth's expression was incredulous.  "I thought
the skagger was a fair dim glow."
     Kelain managed not to wince.  "Will you do it?"
     "What's it worth to you?"  
     Kelain reached into his pouch and drew forth a silver orii
piece.  "It's a simple errand, I'd say.  One silver."  A single
orii would buy a night's lodging in a good inn, a meal in the
finest one, or many days of plain provisions.  Kelain considered it
an outrageous overpayment for five minutes of work, but he didn't
want to waste time dickering with the opportunistic wharf rat.
     Orin laughed brazenly.  "Gimme three of them.  I don't risk my
ass for ten copper."
     Kelain smiled through gritted teeth.  "Two.  I don't have time
to argue."  He dipped again into his pouch and came up with another
round white coin.  
     "Three, Elf-man.  There's got to be a reason you aren't going
in and getting him yourself.  Wanna tell me about it?"
     For a long, satisfying moment Kelain thought about how good
the skinny youth's neck would feel under his hands as it snapped. 
Then he thought about it some more.  Finally, he reconsidered. 
"Three then, but make it fast."  Kelain pulled out another of the
thick coins and looked down regretfully at his fast diminishing
purse.
     Grinning, Orin snatched them from his hand.  "I'll be back,
Elf-man."  
     Kelain snarled quietly, feeling a grudging admiration for the
sharp youth.  "You had better be, my friend.  You had better be."
     The tavern was not dimly lit, as taverns go, but it took Orin
a moment to adjust his eyes to the colored firelight.  The main
hearth was glowing with the golden flames of quathwood, but the
torches on the walls were of ordinary wood, and there was at least
one spelled globe of blue magelight fixed above the bar.  
     Shadows abounded.  The place was abuzz with hushed voices, and
Orin was able to catch only snatches of the various conversations
as he made his way to the back of the tavern.  Still, snatches were
enough.  The halfbreed had apparently gotten himself slung out of
the Thieves' Guild for some stupid reason, and now wanted the help
of the dim-witted ogre.  For what, Orin wondered, as he climbed up
the sturdy, curving stairwell.  Well, it was none of his affair.
     When he reached the door that the half-elf had described, he
knocked on it firmly.  "Uh, Kelain sent me."  In a moment the door
had cracked open, and an immensely ugly face peered out.  This was
the first time Orin had actually seen the ogre up close, and he
grew understandably nervous.  "Uh, me friend.  You friend Kelain
want you come with me.  Savvy?"
     Raak's face underwent some interesting contortions, and the
youth blanched.  Actually, the massive half-ogre was trying hard
not to laugh.  He nodded and grunted as dully as he could manage.
     "Down stairs.  Follow me."  Orin began to back down the hall,
never taking his eyes off of the ogre.  "Follow.  Understand?"  In
response, Raak just grunted.  
     Orin made his way gingerly down the twisting stairs, feeling
his way with his feet before he stepped.  Raak didn't bother to
hide his grin; he just made it a large and stupid one.  Watching
the small Human tiptoe backwards down the stairwell was definitely
making his day.  
     Raak wondered briefly why Kelain had sent a messenger.  Then
he thought he knew, and his grin vanished.  He bellowed loudly and
urgently, sending the youth scuttling rapidly ahead of him.  
     Orin made his way out of the tavern and into the dark
alleyway.  The half-ogre followed close behind.  As soon as Kelain
stepped into Orin's sight, the boy saluted him briefly and vanished
into the lengthening shadows.  When Orin was gone, Raak spoke
quietly.  "What kind of trouble are you in?  Why didn't you come
for me yourself?"
     Kelain grimaced.  "Long story, Raak.  I've had to go renegade
to protect the Guild from conflict of interest, at least until I
make sure Cheltie's safe.  There's a problem, and I suspect the
Black Robes are involved.  Certainly some higher-ups in their Order
are.  I need you to get my brown trunk and as many of my good
weapons as you can carry concealed to the Orc's Head Tavern.  I'll
be checking in tonight."
     The Orc's Head was one of the roughest spots in the city.  It
was an old tavern, originally built by a retired adventurer who
used to bring home fresh trophies from the outlands to adorn the
iron spike outside the door.  After some truce had been achieved in
the lowlands between the Humans and the warring tribes of Orcs, the
inn had kept the name but not the custom.  
     Almost a century later, the inn was purchased by a cheerful
Orc merchant who went by the appropriate sobriquet of Grog.  His
method for stopping the not infrequent bar brawls was the least
costly and most envied of all the tavern keepers in Reshor.  He
merely threatened to sing.  Some nights he actually had to make
good his threats, but more often, any patrons who had ever been
treated to Orcish singing in the past rushed in horrified to stop
the fight before Grog had a chance to perform.
     The powerfully built Orc rarely had to resort to violence in
order to stop the brawl, which was a good thing.  As genially drunk
as he always seemed to remain, his strength was said to almost
equal that of the Blood Sport's ogrish but stupid bouncer.  In
truth, he had sent more than one large and argumentative patron
flying, literally, out the door.  
     Grog claimed not to enjoy being violent.  However, being
thrown a dozen feet or more, as he sometimes explained gently to a
potential troublemaker, never hurt anyone.  It was the coming down
that was a wee bit hard on fragile Human bones.
     The half-ogre looked at Kelain in disbelief.  "Gone renegade. 
Checking into the Orc's Head tavern.  What are you planning on
next?" 
     Kelain gave his friend a small, tight smile.  "Raiding the
Mages' Guild.  What else?"
     Raak eyed Kelain suspiciously.  "I hope you're kidding."
     "I wish I was.  Look, you know where all my room traps are. 
Arm them.  I don't want anyone in my quarters while I'm gone."
     Raak shook his huge head.  "I'll do better than that.  I'll
move in for the duration and arm the traps from the inside.  No one
will disturb your room, I promise."  
     "I don't think you want to do that.  You'll be setting
yourself up to face my would-be assassins."
     Raak reached out and clasped one of Kelain's slim, delicate
hands in a massive paw.  "You're being hunted for my sake, my
friend.  This is the least I can do."  He grinned fearsomely. 
"Perhaps I can give one or two of them second thoughts about
hunting you."
     Kelain returned the half-ogre's grip strongly.  "Thank you. 
I'm headed for the Lady to get Cheltie.  I'll take her with me to
the Orc's Head and meet you there.  If I have my trunk, I can
disguise her so that she can go back with you without being
recognized."
     Raak's brow furrowed in concern.  "It's that bad?"
     "Could be.  That's what I'm trying to find out.  If we're
lucky, I can just buy her out of whatever trouble she's mixed up
in.  If we're not - "  Kelain gave a heartfelt sigh.  "Some mages
will have to die.  Hopefully not too many.  I'm betting that the
Mages' Guild itself isn't backing the wholesale manufacture of
quevas, so I'm not too worried.  No one avenges renegades, or
traitors."
     His longtime friend regarded him soberly.  "And if you bet
wrong?  I'd hate to lose you."
     The last of the fading light gleamed off a set of even white
teeth as Kelain flashed him a cocky grin.  "If I'm wrong, I die. 
But I'll be in good company, for if the Mages' Guild has actually
decided to use quevas as a weapon, Aeonor help us all."  The
assassin laughed softly.  "It's been years since my skills have
been seriously challenged, Raak.  This will test me to my limits."
     "I pray it does not test you beyond them, my friend."  Raak's
homely face showed worry as he pulled his leather purse from his
belt and handed it to Kelain.  "You'll need this to buy her out,
and to keep you going until you can rejoin the Guild.  I don't
suppose Alun could cash your staters now."
     Kelain grimaced.  Any wealth of his that was not in weapons
and magick he generally kept in Guild staters, paper bonds that had
value only when vouched for by the head of a Guild.  Instead of
being comfortably wealthy, he was now a virtual pauper.  "Thank you
for the reminder, my friend.  And thank you for the purse."
     "No.  Thank you, Kelain."  Raak looked at him seriously.  His
brown eyes were huge and expressive.  "I know you're doing this for
my sake.  I love her, you know.  I know she isn't perfect, but
Cheltie's the only woman ever to accept me and care for me as I am. 
And you're the only man I trust to bring her back to me safely.  Be
careful, please.  For both of your sakes."
     Kelain clapped the tall half-ogre on one brawny shoulder.  "I
promise.  I don't fancy dying any more than the next fellow.  Less,
perhaps, since I've stared Death in the face so many times.  I'll
meet you at the Orc's Head."  
     He turned to go, then hesitated.  "Good luck.  Don't forget to
disarm all the traps before you go in.  Oh, the crossbow in the
privy nearest my room is armed, too; so I suggest you check it
before you step in.  The bolt's only tipped with greased cloth, but
you won't like the results if you trigger it."  
     In the close quarters of the underground Thieves' Guild, its
members often played outrageous practical jokes on one another to
pass the time.  The Guildmaster unofficially turned a blind eye to
the pranks as long as no one was seriously hurt, since he believed
that it helped a thief's wits to have to remain on the alert.  
     Kelain grinned and melted casually into the shadows.  "Take
care, Raak.  Especially with that privy."
     The ogre's deep, bass chuckle followed him all the way down
the alley.
XIII.


     
     He didn't have either the time or the equipment to work up a
complex disguise, but he did his best with what he had in his
pouches.  Extracting a few lumps of tinted putty and a small,
hollowed kysk horn filled with a swarthy-colored makeup, Kelain
applied these substances to his face and ears with deft and
practiced fingers.  
     He checked his results briefly in a tiny mirror of beaten
silver and turned away satisfied.  He had tried to approximate his
earlier disguise as closely as possible, but without the wig and
the rest of the prosthetics, it was a difficult job.  He only hoped
that he wouldn't have to come too close to the girl he had spoken
to earlier at the Lady.  She was uncomfortably sharp, and might be
inordinately curious if he didn't look like quite the same person. 

     Kelain decided that he would assume his foppish merchant
character for the negotiation, which could comfortably explain why
he changed hair color and makeup twice in one evening.  He grinned. 
If he were lucky, he might even be able to pass his long, fine
black hair off as an expensive wig and makeup job.   Hell, Kelain
thought, if I actually looked like the skagger I was disguised as
this afternoon, I'd damn well buy a decent-looking wig.  
     As he slipped the mirror back into one of his more spacious
pouches, his sensitive fingers encountered the inlaid wooden box
that he had been given at the Painted Lady as Cheltie's deposit. 
Kelain briefly considered using the undoubtedly valuable though
illegal goods to negotiate privately with the head of the house,
but he decided against it.  Raak had given him plenty of gold, and
the less complicated this transaction was, the better.  He fastened
the intricately carved staghorn catch on his purse and started on
his way to the inn.
     The entry hall to the Painted Lady had been done with a lavish
but tasteful hand.  Tones of aqua and green predominated in both
the plush carpet and the elaborate velvet hangings and tapestries
on the cream-colored walls.  The faint blue of magelight washing
down on the room from a row of expensive spelled globes on the
arched ceiling completed the impression of entering an underwater
palace.  
     A waft of savor from the delectable-looking appetizer trays on
the bar drifted tantalizingly into the hall, inspiring Kelain to
walk faster.  It had been some time since he had last eaten, and
the cuisine of the Lady was justly famed throughout Reshor.  
     Kelain stepped forward into the main room.  'Morphs and other
exotics of both sexes mingled freely with the mostly Human
clientele, exchanging conversation and flirtatious glances.  A 
stocky Human in a conservatively cut blue jerkin emblazoned with
the Lady's emblem stepped discreetly but firmly in front of him.  
"Can I help you, sir?"  There was a faintly disapproving look on
the man's face.
     Kelain wasn't surprised at the doorkeeper's less than
enthusiastic welcome.  The wiry half-elf was clad in loose,
fighting style trousers and a sleeveless black leather tunic that
showed his tautly muscled chest and arms to their full advantage. 
He looked quite formidable, but hardly formal.
     Kelain smiled politely, turning his hips subtly so that the
man could see the weight of his well-filled purse.  "I'm here to
see Mavin.  Is she in?"
     "She is.  Is she expecting you?"  The sour expression did not
leave the man's face.  
     Kelain grinned easily.  "She should be.  I'm here to buy one
of her girls.  And I do mean buy her.  For good, you know."
     The doorman looked faintly surprised.  "I see.  Please wait
here; I'll bring her down."  He made his way up one of the spiral
staircases to the upper level.  
     Kelain didn't feel like waiting in the entry hall, as lavish
as it was, so he stepped into the main room.  He surveyed the 
nearest silver tray, which was laden with delicacies.  Thick slices
of a rich cream cake decorated with sugared violets vied for space
with chocolate truffle squares so dark they were almost black,
sprinkled with bitterbean shavings and plump redberries. 
Translucent slices of deep blue nightblossom melon covered with
thick clotted cream and honey lay on sticky, pale circles of
layered pastry on the center of the tray.  Kelain was tempted, but
he moved on to look for more substantial food.  
     His patience was quickly rewarded when his nose led him to the
long tray that was sitting on the polished rosewood bar.  It was
laden with savories of the most appetitious sort, and it was
constantly being replenished by tastefully clad serving slaves. 
Small boneless game birds wrapped in lemongrass and stuffed with
pearl-white grain and tiny sour berries steamed deliciously on the
tray.  Chunks of wild chevral swimming in a tart green sauce were
nestled delectably in small boats of puffed pastry.  One entire
section of the tray was devoted to grilled duck breasts, sliced and
artistically fanned, garnished with fresh herbs and walnuts and a
roasted apple-garlic chutney.
     Kelain smiled widely.  This was more like it.  Picking up one
of the carved wooden plates on the bar, he began to collect and
sample the succulent morsels.  He ate neatly and quickly, and
managed to finish his modest repast before the doorman returned.  
"She'll be down when she has time," he told Kelain pointedly, and
sniffed.
     Kelain dipped his deft fingers into Raak's purse and came up
with a silver orii piece.  He flipped it to the stocky Human, who
snatched it out of the air with practiced ease.  "Thank you for
your time, my good man.  I do hope my attire isn't completely
unsuitable, but the swordmaster I hired to teach me just insisted
that I couldn't wear my best robes to learn in."  Kelain giggled,
shifting completely into his `foppish merchant' persona.  "So I had
a copy of the famous gladiator Hargal's costume made for me to
practice in.  You know, the fellow with the simply marvelous
jeweled sword.  I thought that since I had to dress like a
gladiator, I might as well dress like the best."  
     In reality, Kelain did affect the dress of an arena fighter,
primarily because of the freedom of movement it afforded.  However,
he was not quite fashion conscious enough to dress like any
particular one.  He was betting that the doorman was not the sort
to be a regular attender of the pit fights.  "I've just come
from a lesson, you know, and I decided I rather liked the way the
outfit looked on me."  Kelain struck a self-admiring pose for a
moment, then leaned forward confidentially.  "I even bought a
potion from a cleric to make my arms look like a real fighter's. 
Worth every gold, too, even though it'll only last another week or
so."
     The doorman's expression unfroze by a few degrees.   Perhaps
this fellow was foppish and eccentric, but he had clearly
established himself as one of the wealthy elite.  "Perhaps I could
check again with the Madam.  I shall return shortly."  He began to
ascend the second of the twisting spiral staircases with a slow,
dignified walk.
     Below, Kelain smiled wryly at himself.  For once he was glad
that his ogrish friend wasn't here to back him.  Raak would never
have let him live this one down.
     The doorman returned shortly down the elaborately carpeted
stairs, followed by a tall, slim woman with silver-streaked hair. 
She was either in her late twenties, or had paid some cleric a fair
sum to appear that way.  Kelain strongly suspected the latter. 
"What can I do for you?" the madam asked politely.
Kelain gave her his best foppish smile.  "I was simply delighted
with one of your 'Morph girls, and I decided that I just had to
have her.  Her name's Cheltie.  Is she here?"
     Mavin blinked.  "No, she's not here right now.  Have you
bought her out before?"
     Kelain thought fast.  Chances were, Mavin would have checked
out the valuable exotic to the clients personally, and might
recognize who had and had not seen her before.  "No, I met her last
night after the men who bought her out left her all alone in a
perfectly dreadful alleyway.  I, uh, took care of her and saw to it
that she got back safely.  I'm afraid that I've become simply
enchanted with her.  How much for her contract?"
     Mavin remained expressionless, apparently with some effort. 
"She's no longer available.  She's already been spoken for.  We do
have a few other 'Morphs here, however."
     Kelain began to bluster.  "I reserved her with one of your
attendants just this afternoon!  How dare you sell her out from
under my nose!  Tell me who's bought her, and I'll buy her from
him!  I'll pay you twice as much for her contract."  
     The woman's face took on a closed, frightened look.  It was
obvious that she was hiding something that terrified her.  "I'm
terribly sorry for your inconvenience, but I simply can't give out
that information.  Perhaps I could interest you in one of our other
girls?  I'd be glad to check one out to you for the evening, on the
house, of course."
     Kelain had planned to keep complaining, but something stopped
him.  "Weeell," he drawled craftily, "Perhaps I might try another
at that, since you're offering so generously.  Cheltie was the
first 'Morph I've tried, you see.  Are they all as good as her?"
     Mavin nodded eagerly.  She seemed more relaxed, now that it
was obvious that he wouldn't insist on finding out where Cheltie
had gone.  "Oh, yes, my lord.  'Morphs are quite a special
experience.  There's another Vul I could recommend, if you wish."
     Kelain thought for a moment.  "What about an Urs?  Cheltie
mentioned that she had a badger 'Morph friend.  I might want to try
her."
     The silver-haired woman trembled imperceptibly.  "I'm afraid
that our only badger is taken for the evening.  But I'd highly
recommend Sacha to you for a truly unique experience.  She's one of
our other Vuls, and she's very well trained."
     "But the badger will be here tomorrow?  Perhaps I could come
back then."  Kelain watched closely for her reaction, which was
painfully obvious to the trained assassin.  Mavin was tremendously
frightened and doing her best to conceal it.
     "I'm afraid I can't extend the offer of a complimentary date
to tomorrow evening," Mavin said smoothly.  "If you'd like to try
someone like her, Candi is available for the evening.  She's a
lovely, half-blood wolf 'Morph, voluptuous and not too tall."  
     Kelain could hear a slight tremor in her voice, and marked the
grief that lay beneath it.  So it was Cheltie's friend who died in
the alley.  I thought as much.  His grim suspicions confirmed,
Kelain replied.  "Oh," the disguised half-elf said easily, "I
suppose I'll try the Vul.  If she's as good as Cheltie, perhaps
I'll even buy her.  It's a shame I couldn't get the one I wanted
right away, but I guess it's for the better.  Maybe I should sample
a few more of your 'Morphs before I settle on buying one."
     Mavin nodded, relieved.  "That's a tremendous idea, my lord. 
We've also some Elvatuar, full and half breed, if you'd like to try
one of those."
     Kelain deliberately refrained from wincing.  "No, I think I'll
take the fox."
     "Very well, sir.  I'll bring Sacha over right away."  The
well-built madam walked purposefully to one corner of the room, and
talked quietly for a few minutes to a fashionably dressed female
Vul.  The fox-woman rose to her feet and began to approach him. 
Staying firmly in his "foppish merchant" character, Kelain began to
preen ostentatiously.
     The fox 'Morph looked at him appraisingly with hard, yellow-
green eyes.  "I hear we have a date, j'yasha.  Do you have a room
here, or are we going out?"
     Kelain forced himself to smile.  "I'm getting a room in
another inn.  We'll go there."  He turned to Mavin.  "Well, thank
you kindly.  I think she'll do just fine.  I'll have her back by
noon tomorrow, of course.  Do you need a deposit on her?"
     "Well, if you would.  Ten gold is the usual deposit for a
first-time customer without sponsoring by a formal creditor." 
Deftly, Mavin took the gold he counted out of his pouch.  Kelain
did not miss the fact that the 'Morph's eyes marked the heft of his
purse with avid eyes, and made a mental note to stay especially
alert.  
     Although thievery was supposedly the exclusive domain of those
who gave fee to his Guild, it was common enough practice among some
whores to quietly lift some extra coin from such customers as they
thought could afford it.  Since businesses of vice paid dues to the
Thieves' Guild already, this was officially ignored.  Kelain would
remain wary.
     "Shall we go?"  He extended his arm to the pretty 'Morph, who
took it possessively.  Together, they exited the inn.
     "So what inn are you staying at?  Don't tell me, it must be
the Dromedary," she said, naming the most expensive inn in Reshor. 
She gave him a look that was so cute she had to have perfected it
in front of a mirror.
     "Afraid not, my pet.  You see, I'm an adventurous sort, as I'm
sure you can tell.  Do you like the gladiator's costume and the
muscles?"  Kelain preened inanely.  "You wouldn't believe what I
paid for them.  Anyway, I thought I'd, you know, dress kind of
rough for awhile and see how the other half lived.  We're getting
a room at the Orc's Head."
     She grimaced.  It was not a pretty expression on a 'Morph with
a long, delicate muzzle and sharply pointed teeth.  "You're
joking," she stated uncertainly.  Kelain shook his head.  "You're
crazy.  You'll be robbed in a second."
     "Not to worry.  I've had training from the best swordmasters
money could buy."  Kelain smiled confidently.  Actually, the
half-elvish assassin had had his instruction from the best
swordmasters that money couldn't buy, as part of his extremely
thorough Thieves' Guild training.  "Shall I hire a wagon for us?"
     Sacha looked at him dubiously.  "That's a good idea." 
Privately, she wondered just how eccentric this man was.  Mavin had
warned her that he might be a bit strange, but this was ridiculous. 
"Do we actually have to spend the night there?"
     Kelain shrugged.  "Nah.  We can go back to the Lady in a few
hours.  Do you want to smoke a stick?"
     "Sure.  You got some?"  Her eyes brightened.
     He leaned closer to her and spoke in hushed tones.  "I got
better than that.  I'll share it with you when we get there." 
Kelain's conscience pricked him more than a little at the idea of
encouraging anyone, even a hard-bitten whore, to use drugs.  
Predictably, his more pragmatic side won over.  If she isn't an
addict already, I'll eat the stuff myself.  And I can't afford to
have her remember me too clearly, he reminded himself. There's more
than one life at stake here.   
     Kelain flagged down a passing kysk-drawn wagon, and it slowed
to a halt beside them.  The two beasts hitched to the wagon's stiff
wooden traces were small for their breed, only about fifteen feet
from nose to tail.  Still, Kelain could see the corded muscles
rippling under their grey, scaly hides as the six-legged reptiles
effortlessly supported the heavy wagon.  They were about the height
of ponies or small horses, with the characteristically knobby,
small-horned heads of most draft kysk.       The Mages' Guild had
originally bred a dozen or so different species of the lizards,
including the savage war kysk and an empathically enhanced,
intelligent breed that served their chosen mage masters as steeds
and familiars.  However, only a few species were currently in
popular use.  Draft kysk were the most common, since the incredibly
strong though stupid beasts remained a cheap and effective means of
transport.   Few of the war kysk and fewer of the intelligent mage-
steeds were bred nowadays, since they were thought to be too hard
to control.  Certainly, they were more dangerous.
     The driver was a squat and ugly Human who appeared to be
missing a foot.  It hardly handicapped him in driving the wagon,
though.  "Fee's a copper to get on and five bits a mile.  That's
for each o' ye.  Good enough?"  The man held the reins in one
clenched hand, and Kelain noticed that it had only three fingers. 
     He looked at Sacha and spat noisily over the side of the
wagon.  A grey glob of phlegm plopped disgustingly on the cobbled
stones near the fox-woman's silk-shod feet, looking like an opened
oyster.  Kelain drew back dangerously, and the woman glared, but
the man offered no open comment.  "Are ye getting in, or wat?" he
demanded impatiently.
     The half-elf stared him down with eyes of hard bright emerald. 
"You have dirty habits, driver.  I don't want to see them while we
travel.  Is that clear?"  His voice was quiet and final.  For just
an instant, his soft merchant facade dropped away to reveal the
face of a killer.  
     The driver shuddered.  His instincts told him that this was
not a man to cross.  "Right.  Where ye going?" he asked as the two
of them were climbing into the padded back of the wagon.
     "Orc's Head.  Put us behind it, not by the front way."  Kelain
handed the man two irii.
     "Right enough."  He snapped the reins, which were ingeniously
run through a series of welded steel rings on the wooden traces. 
The kysk felt the familiar signal and began ambling forward.
     Sacha snorted as loudly as she dared.  "Veterans.  They think
that every 'Morph fought in the damned Wars.  I spent the Wars as
a wealthy mage's mistress, not a soldier.  And I was well content
to be so."
     Kelain was mildly disgusted, but he gave no visible sign of
his emotions.  "Why are you not there still, my lady?"
     The Vul tossed her delicate head.  "He died.  'Morphs killed
him and `freed' me, only to sell me back into slavery when I
wouldn't fight in their army."  She shuddered.  "I hate fighting
and violence.  It's so messy and uncivilized."
     "Let's not talk about that, shall we?"  This time, Kelain
could not restrain a sigh. 
     Sacha nodded readily.  "Okay.  What's your name, anyway?"
     "Trevor Marcellani.   My father's a Merchant Prince of the
Guild."  Kelain used his prepared identity as a rich merchant.  
     Predictably, Sacha was impressed.  "Oooh, a head of the
Merchant's Guild?  And what do you do?"
     Kelain looked slightly abashed.  "Well, I help my father,
sometimes.  I've been on two voyages to Revan."  The near
legendary, faraway desert continent was almost impossible to reach
safely without the most modern of ships and equipment, not to
mention a mage or two on board.  
     The wealthy and powerful Merchant's Guild, which spanned three
continents and was instrumental in the governing of a number of
large cities, had a near-monopoly on the only regular trade to
Revan.  This was a widely known fact.  What was not widely known
was that the Thieves' Guild had a small base on Revan, in the port
city of El Jhazeer.  
     The Guild had some interests in the legitimate merchant trade,
as well as a market for the information that could be gathered in
the city.  So they maintained several of their own ships in Reshor,
albeit with a tacit approval from the Merchants' Council that was
helped by substantial yearly bribes.  Kelain had actually spent
some time at the Revani Guildhouse, and had learned enough about
the desert culture to support his identity as a member of the
Merchant's Guild.  
     Sacha smiled and wrapped her tail around him invitingly.  "So
what's a Merchant Prince like yourself doing in Reshor?  Other than
slumming."
     "I don't think of it as slumming, sweet lady.  I think of it
as an adventure."  The wagon was just pulling up to the back
entrance of the dimly lit tavern.  The noise and reek coming
through the door competed for their immediate attention, neither
quite gaining the upper hand.   
     Sacha wrinkled her black velvet nose.  "Some adventure," she
muttered under her breath.  More audibly, "Shall we go in?" 
Dodging an unidentifiable lump of detritus that came flying out the
door, they made their way into the tavern.
     Kelain wended his way over slumped bodies and spilled beer to
the sturdy but plain-looking bar.  A broadly grinning, homely man
greeted him warmly.  "What'll it be, my friend?"  Oversized canines
protruded fearsomely from his sloping jaw, and the fierce shock of
long, black hair that draped down over his massive shoulders
rivalled a griffon's mane.
     Kelain had seen some exceptional Orc pelts decorating tents in
merc camps now and then, but this one's skin could have hung there
with the best of a soldier's trophies from the wild Orc tribes. 
Grog was carpeted in a coarse black hair that crawled from the
backs of his knuckles to his thick neck.  He was notably clean-
shaven in the facial area, though; which provided an interesting
contrast.  Of course, he was nowhere near as furry as
even a 'Morph quarterbreed, but for a natural humanoid, he was
exceptional.
     "A room, if you please."  Kelain laid six pieces of tarnished
copper on the bar.  The hirsute proprietor scooped them up with a
practiced hand.  
     "I'll give you numba two.  Dat will be anodda foah as a
deposit on de room."  Kelain handed him another stack of coin in
exchange for a rather battered-looking room key and a sputtering
oil lamp.  Grog spoke Common as well as any Human, save for a few
sounds that he had difficulty pronouncing because of his
characteristically Orcish palate.
     Kelain casually tossed an extra coin onto the bar.  "I've paid
a porter to carry in my baggage, so you can send him right up when
he gets here.  Shall we go?"  The last statement was addressed to
his 'Morph companion, who was already looking slightly faint.  
     They climbed up the ancient staircase to the room that the
proprietor had indicated.  When Kelain opened the door, he heard a
faint groan from his companion.  Apparently, she had never seen a
room in such an inn before.  The bed, if one could call it that,
was a small cot with a ratty-looking bundle of straw ticking piled
haphazardly on top.  The washbasin was a leaky, 
slatted bucket half-full of a brackish substance that might or
might not have been water.  The privy pail looked nearly identical
to the washbasin.  In fact, Kelain was quite certain that at the
room's last inhabitant must have gotten their functions mixed up at
least once.  
     The slender fox 'Morph looked queasy.  "Do we really have to
stay in this dreadful place, Trevor?"  She attempted a smile.  "I'm
sure we'd have a much better time somewhere else."
     Kelain was feeling more than a little disgusted himself, but
he mastered his nausea and replied.  "Think of this as an
adventure, my lady."  She looked unconvinced.  "Besides, once we
light up a stick, you'll never notice the room."  
     At that, her eyes brightened.  "Sounds good to me.  How much
have you got?"
     "Plenty," he said confidently, reaching into his largest
pouch.  It belatedly occurred to him that he didn't actually know
what was in the box, other than some small, random packets of
powder that someone had considered valuable enough to take as a
deposit on the return of an exotic slave.  Still, Kelain felt
confident in assuming that there would be something both relatively
harmless and suitable for loosening the tongue and blurring the
memory.  
     He pulled out the small, beautifully carved chest, and Sacha
watched eagerly as he opened it.  A neat row of tiny packets
containing a fine, reddish-brown dust made up the top layer of its
contents.  Kelain nearly groaned aloud.
     The 'Morph made a small, pleased sound in the back of her
throat.  "Oooh, redhype.  If we do some of that, we'll really be
burning it.  Is there anything else?"
     Kelain's mind was working swiftly.  Redhype?  He had never
heard that name used for the potent combination of quevas and sweat
salt before, probably because the drugs had never been sold
together before.  The fact that it now had a street name told
Kelain a frightening story.  
     Hype, also known as sweat salt for its characteristically
salty taste and its tendency to dehydrate the user, could boost a
person's strength and speed to superhuman proportions for the space
of a few hours.  Quevas allowed the inner resources of mind and
body to be called forth and spent, with the potent side effect of
making the user intensely susceptible to suggestion.  Both drugs
debilitated the user tremendously, depending on how much the drug-
increased abilities were used.  Both drugs made 
their user an unimaginably deadly foe.  The effect of the two
together was frightening to contemplate.  
     Kelain held his breath as he rummaged quickly through the
multiple layers of packets.  Dragonweed, laced heavily with scarlet
grains.  The dried, milky juice of the takh pod, dyed crimson with
the addition of raw quevas.  And finally, grey, feathery strands of
dreamdust, apparently untouched by any of the deadly red taint. 
Carefully, he removed the dust and closed the box on the rest of
the packets.  "You've used redhype before?"  Kelain kept his voice
casual.
     Sacha shook her head.  "No, but I've heard about it from some
friends.  I hear it really makes you fly.  You can do anything."
     Kelain coughed.  "Maybe we'll do some of that later.  For now,
we can do some dust.  It isn't wrapped on a stick, but we can
breathe the smoke from a dish or something."
     The fox 'Morph prostitute looked interested.  "Raw goods, huh? 
Are you a dealer?"
     He shook his head briefly.  "Do you know any other dealers?" 
Kelain began to dole out the soft lumps of powder onto a battered
clay plate that a former occupant had left in a corner of the room.
     Sacha shook her head, but Kelain caught a hint of uncertainty. 
Taking a slightly bent black candle from one of the small silken
pouches at his waist, he lit it in the flame of the oil lamp and
touched it to the plate briefly.  He held it under her muzzle so
that she could breathe the potent smoke.  A shame to waste a mage-
blessed spell component on this filth, Kelain thought, but I'm not
exactly in the habit of carrying a smoking-pot.  
     "Come now."  The half-elf put all of his talents of smooth
persuasion into his words.  "If you know about redhype, you must
know a dealer or two."  He touched the candle to the dish again,
sending another cloud of sweet blue smoke up towards her face.  
     "Well, there's Kai."  The dealer on Delphi pier, Kelain
thought.  He kept listening.  "And Morgan, I guess.  He's a wharf
rat."  Sacha's eyes were half-lidded as she luxuriated in the
smoke.  She opened them and looked at him directly.  "Aren't you
going to have any?"
     Kelain grumbled mentally.  Part of his long and intensive
training as an assassin had included familiarity with poisons and
drugs, from the most common to the obscure, from supposedly
harmless to deadly.  He knew enough about most street drugs to
convince him that there were very few which were entirely harmless. 

     Dreamdust was notorious for having long-term effects on a
user's memory, which was definitely not something that Kelain
wanted to risk.  Neither a professional assassin nor an even
occasional user of Force Arcane could afford to have his memory
impaired, and Kelain was both.  Luckily, a substantial part of his
training had been devoted to making him immune to many of the drugs
and poisons an assassin might be expected to use.  
     With feigned eagerness, he took the dish in both hands and
pretended to inhale, pushing out his tightly muscled chest
impressively.  Kelain actually breathed as shallowly as possible,
trying to avoid the smoke.  "Here, you can have the rest of this
batch.  I've already had plenty."  Kelain affected a contagious
giggle, and the 'Morph's eyes lit up with avarice.  There had to be
at least an ounce of the grey powder left on the plate.  "So about
Kai and Morgan - do they sell redhype?"
     Her face bathed in pungent pale smoke, Sacha nodded and
giggled hilariously.  "Yes.  They get it from some mage person.  He
sells 'Morphs, too."  Her long tongue swiped out of her muzzle and
scooped up a mound of powder that had not yet been touched by the
flame.
     This was a new one to Kelain.  Although 'Morph slavery had not
been entirely outlawed, very few merchants dared to sell them
regularly.  'Morph clans tended to be militant about challenging
the legality of the capture or enslavement of any of their kind,
necessitating long and expensive battles fought not with swords,
but in the city's courts. 
     Less than a decade ago, the battles were not bloodless. 
During the 'Morph Wars, bands of savage, combat-bred 'Morphs waged
a vicious guerilla warfare against the Mages' Guild for their
rights and freedom.  Innocents were slaughtered in numbers and
cities put to the torch until the powerful Guild finally
capitulated on the issue of 'Morph slavery.  The Merchant's Code
was hastily amended to make it illegal to enslave 'Morphs without
fair judicial cause, and the Mages' Guild placed a general ban on
the making of new 'Morphs for sale.  
     Currently, the only 'Morph slaves were First Breed and
sentenced criminals, of which there were relatively few.  'Morphs
were occasionally captured illegally for private sale, or for
shipping to other continents, where the Merchant's Code did not
rule.  But on Heth Aamon, 'Morph slaves were hard to come by.  "Is
he a slaver, then?"  
     Sacha giggled, apparently finding Kelain's remark unbearably
funny.  "No, he's a mage.  He makes 'Morphs, I think.  The son of
a bitch."  Again, she laughed uncontrollably and took another lick
off the plate.
     Kelain wasn't laughing.  A mage powerful and resourceful
enough to gengineer 'Morphs on his own was no one to interfere with
casually.  Although he certainly wasn't a Guild mage, since no
wizard blood-bonded to the Guild would be making more First Breed,
he would be a foe to reckon with.  
     Sacha's revelations tied in neatly with what Kelain already
knew.  Chances were good that the mage called Vasht, who was
apparently a key supplier of the wharf's drug dealers, had claimed
Cheltie.  Chances were even better that he had made her in the
first place, which would explain why she was a slave.  Kelain had
thought it unlikely that the innocent, ebullient 'Morph girl could
have committed any crime serious enough to warrant judicial
slavery.  If she was First Breed, she would still be legal
property.  
     Inwardly, Kelain groaned.  If Cheltie was First Breed, that
would create even more serious problems for her.  If he let the
Mages' Guild deal with the renegade, chances were good that Vasht
and all his works - including Cheltie - would be destroyed.   His
only chance to save her would be to deal with Vasht himself.  
This was hardly an easy task by itself, but it also seemed that the
head of the darkest Order of the Mages' Guild was somehow involved
as well. 
     Kelain had never considered himself a hero.  He was an
assassin and a thief, hardly a moralistic profession.  But his code
of honor and his loyalty to his friends was unshakable.  For the
sake of his friend, and his Guild, he was resolved to do what he
could for Cheltie, no matter what it cost him.  Or anyone else.
     "What's his name, Sacha?  Is it Vasht?"  Kelain asked with
some urgency, knowing that the 'Morph woman would become completely
incoherent within the hour under the influence of the drug she was
breathing.  He intended to get as much information as possible out
of her before he left her to sleep it off.
     "Vasht.  That's right."  Her words were uncertain, punctuated
by giggles.
     Kelain shook her.  "Are you sure?"  She nodded solemnly. 
"Where could I find him?  Where is Vasht, Sacha?"  
     There was a long pause.  "He always uses wharf rats.  They
sell for him."  She chuckled.  "No one sees Vasht.  He's too busy
playing with his pets.  He makes them all grown up so he doesn't
have to wait.  Cheltie...."  Her voice trailed off and her eyes 
were beginning to glaze.  Too late, Kelain noticed that the dish
was almost empty.
     The half-elf swore.  He should have monitored her intake of
the drug more carefully.  He'd rarely seen anyone ingest the dust
directly, and he had apparently miscalculated its effects.  He
slapped the side of her muzzle sharply, but she hardly blinked. 
"What about Cheltie?  Tell me about Cheltie."  Kelain commanded.
     She stared at him sleepily.  "All grown up.  Always knew a
mage did her.  He's got her now.  Killed Rissa."  A faint giggle. 
"Poor Rissa."  Her yellow eyes closed, and Kelain could get no more
out of her.  
     Still, what he had gotten would have to do.  He wouldn't be 
able to question her in the morning, when the memory-destroying
drugs had worn off.  He didn't want to risk anyone finding out
about his judicious inquiries.
     Kelain checked her pulse with strong, slender fingers at the
base of her russet-furred throat.  He peeled her eyelids back and
passed a candle flame near them to peer at her widely dilated
pupils.  Finally satisfied that the woman had taken no serious harm
from the overdose of the drug, he left her where she lay and began
his methodical study of the room.  
     It did not take him long to determine that the boarded walls
were rough enough for him to climb with ease, and enough slats and
cross-boards supported the ceiling to give him an excellent
footing.  The presence of a trapdoor on the ceiling suggested
either an attic or storage area, either of which might prove
invaluable.
     Kelain reached into his largest belt pouch and removed a pair
of thin, tough gloves of black lizardhide, handling them
delicately.  The rare and valuable pieces were made from the skin
of a creature that lived on almost inaccessible, sheer mountain
cliffsides.  Kelain valued them enormously for their special
properties.  
     When magickally treated and preserved, svath-hide had
thousands of rough, wickedly barbed scales that would bite and grip
hard into any surface they were pressed to.  It took special
training to use the climbing gloves with any degree of skill, as
they had to be placed with the correct amount of directional
pressure to grip and could only be safely removed by mirroring the
same motion that had placed them.  Kelain had owned this particular
pair of gloves for almost three decades, and he had learned to use
them quite well.  Like a great black spider, he swarmed up the wall
and crawled rapidly along the ceiling until he reached the
trapdoor.  
     It was the work of a moment to unlock the simple catch that
held the door shut.  His sensitive fingers tapped over the metal
tumblers with practiced skill, and it opened almost at once.  He
didn't even need to resort to the extensive collection of lockpicks
that he habitually carried in one of his belt pouches.  He moved
silently into the small loft.
     After assessing its contents, Kelain could see why the
innkeeper had not seen fit to put a more costly lock on the attic. 
Stored here were a few extra mattress bundles, some rusty buckets,
a coil of rope, and some moth-eaten and dirty blankets.  The simple
lock, which might sell in a trading store for perhaps five copper
orii, was likely to be the most valuable item here.  However,
profit was not Kelain's current motive.  He tugged the coil of rope
between his hands to check for fray, and when he was satisfied, he
threaded it through a beam and left it there.  The slender half-elf
tossed an extra mattress bundle and two blankets down the trapdoor,
and presently he followed them.
     The 'Morph was still asleep on the floor when he returned. 
Kelain continued his painstaking survey of the room, checking each
board in the floor, walls and ceiling for creaking, memorizing the
location of each object in the room and setting up a minor obstacle
course between the door and his bed.  An inexperienced assailant in
the dark would have a good chance of 
stumbling on the chipped plate, the buckets, the broken chair or
the clay mug that he had carefully arranged on the floor.  The more
serious traps he would set elsewhere, since he had no intention of
actually sleeping in that bed.  These small precautions would warn
but not harm an unskilled attacker.  
     Kelain had no stomach for killing students, although many of
them would not return him the same courtesy.  Fortunately, actual
slayings within the Guild were rare.  Few made it to high rank
without the active support of other ranking members, and most
Guildmembers were aware that assassination always invited reprisal. 
However, in every crop of new trainees, there was almost always at
least one brash and ambitious recruit willing to try for the
coveted title of Weapons Master.  
     Kelain in particular was resented, because he was halfbreed. 
He had an inborn talent for magick, a longer lifespan and swifter
reflexes than any Human could hope for.  The advantages that
allowed him to rapidly outpace most of the Humans in the Guild also
insured that he would be resented by those he surpassed.  The
highly skilled half-elf had had many decades to learn his craft to
perfection, and he had wasted none of these long and lonely years. 
Kelain was hated and feared for his prowess as much as he was
respected for it.
     Kelain had always preferred to frighten rather than kill, if
he could.  A few times, there had been Guild members good enough to
force him to a real fight, and these incidents always scarred him
deeply.  He had once been forced to kill a man whom he had begun to
consider a friend.  Early in his career, he had killed a young
woman who had tried to garrotte him as he slept.  She was a Human
no older than twenty, and no match for him.  She was skilled enough
to surprise him, and his reflexes had done the rest.  He had barely
known her, but her death stung him all the same.  
     Kelain resolved that there would be no more unnecessary
deaths.  Taking a ball of greased black thread from one of his
endless belt pouches, he began to lay it delicately about the room
and through the broken-paned window.  
     Translucent helmfish scale, the notoriously tough  alternative
to the more fragile and expensive glass, was very difficult to
break.  However, an earlier tenant of the small and unpleasant room
had apparently managed the feat.  Kelain pushed bits of blanket and
straw from the mattress into the hole in a vain attempt to preserve
the fading warmth of the room.  There was a fireplace of sorts, but
he preferred not to use it.  Warmth was a luxury, but darkness
might be a critical ally. 
     The window was well laced by the time he was done.  Kelain
left a long end of thread trailing into the middle of the room.  He
would have a use for it later.  
     As he was finishing his task, a knock and a low grunt sounded
at the door.  Kelain recognized the voice at once and went to let
his friend into the room.
     The half-ogre was stooped under the weight of the heavy chest
and slung leather bag.  With more delicacy than most observers
would have expected, he placed the items in front of Kelain and
grunted again, casting an oblique look at the sleeping 'Morph. 
Although the sensitive half-ogre was usually able to talk in front
of nonhumans, it was obvious that he had decided to be prudently
wary.  "We're private here, Raak.  She's dosed out on dust and
won't wake till late tomorrow."  
     Immediately, Raak began to speak, worry and concern in his
face.  "Who is she?  And where's Cheltie?"
     Kelain sighed deeply.  This was not going to be fun.  "She's
not at the Lady.  The madam told me that she'd already been bought
out for good, but she wouldn't tell me who.  She was scared
spitless of something, or more likely someone.  I got this one to
pump her for information."  Kelain paused, not really wanting to
continue.
     "Damn it, man, where is she!"  Uncharacteristically for the
normally gentle half-ogre, real anger suffused his countenance.
     "Do you know anything about a mage named Vasht?  From what I
could get out of this one -"  He indicated the furry form slumped
next to the cot.  "I think he's got her.  Cheltie was originally
part of the shipment that I intercepted, according to the message
she was spelled to speak.  I assumed she'd only been bought out for
the evening, but it looks like I was wrong."  Kelain stopped and
eyed his friend warily.  "Raak, did you know she was First Breed?"
     "I suspected.  Now I know."  Raak looked serious.  "But it
doesn't change the way I feel about her, Kelain.  She'd never hurt
me, or anyone else for that matter.  I don't think she has any
special powers anyway."  Lines of worry etched themselves deeply
into his homely face.   "I only pray she's safe."
     "I'm sorry."  His apology was heartfelt.  "I should never have
let her out of my sight.  I swear I'll do everything in my power to
find her."  Their eyes locked and held for a long moment, pale
tourmaline to liquid brown.  "Do you think you were followed?"
     The half-ogre grunted.  "I probably was, but I didn't see
anybody."
     Kelain swore blasphemously.  "Piss of the gods.  A clumsy
student is one thing, but someone who could shadow you might be
trouble."  The lean half-elf wasn't being sarcastic.  Raak had the
rare and useful ability of being frighteningly alert and aware of
his surroundings while presenting the appearance of being
completely dull and oblivious.  Only a superbly skilled assassin,
or one cautious to the point of paranoia, could fail to
underestimate the supposedly stupid half-ogre.  "You'd better go. 
Stop at a few other places before you get back to the Guild.  It'll
help throw them off, if anyone did follow you."
     Raak smiled grimly.  "I'll lead them a wild chase.  Do you
mind awfully losing the chest and bag?  You can keep the contents,
of course."  His roving eyes cast around the room.  "I'll need to
stuff the bag.  How badly do you need this bed?"
     "I hadn't intended on sleeping in it myself, but I did intend
to keep it in the room as a decoy.  I'll be spending most of my
time upstairs."  Kelain pointed at the trapdoor with a slim finger. 
"A fortunate discovery."
     A frown creased Raak's craggy face.  "I'll need some long
pieces of wood to stuff the bag with, so it still looks like I'm
carrying the same load.  Is there anything up there I can use?"
     In reply, Kelain donned his black climbing gloves and moved
easily up the wall, gracefully sliding his lithe form into the
narrow entrance.  After a few minutes of quiet shuffling from
above, parts of another wooden cot bound up in thick rope appeared
on the edge of the trapdoor.  Raak intercepted the bundle as it was
lowered to the floor.  "This will do nicely."  He grunted,
stripping the long poles and slats from the frame neatly and
efficiently.  
     While he worked, Kelain was busy rigging another rope harness
for the heavy chest.  Both chest and bag were drawn up into the
small attic and lowered empty to the floor, where Raak promptly
refilled them with parts of the long-defunct cot.  He shouldered
his burden easily.  "I'll be hiding them near the Pits as a dead-
end for any trailers.   Hopefully, whoever's following will assume
that you'll be coming to pick them up."
     Kelain smiled grimly.  "And they'll watch the hiding place
until the end of the next moon-cycle, if luck is with us.  Good
thinking, my friend."   
     "If luck is with us," Raak echoed.  Lines of worry etched
themselves deeply into his homely face.  "Let's pray that it is." 
He turned and left the small room without another word, knowing
that each moment he stayed was a danger.  
     Kelain began the familiar preparations absently, his mind
racing ahead as he tied knots, wound springs and strung wires in a
dozen intricate and deadly ways.  He would sleep in the well-
protected loft tonight, but not quite yet. 
     Kelain changed his disguise thoroughly and expertly, using the
extensive resources of his thieves' kit.  It didn't take him long
to finish his tasks and depart through the narrow window for the
wharves of Reshor.