Stepping onto the first stair, Tanaros paused. “You didn’t put the Lady Cerelinde in such a place, I hope.”

“No.” Torchlight made a bearded mask of the Staccian’s face. “She’s our guest, cousin, or so his Lordship would have it. Her quarters are as fine as my own; more so, if your taste runs to Ellylon gewgaws.”

“Cood,” Tanaros said shortly. The winding stairs were slippery and he took them with care, one at a time. It would be a bitter irony indeed if he slipped and broke his neck here and now, in the safe confines of Darkhaven. Something moved in the reeking darkness below; there was a sound of chains rattling, a phlegmy cough. “Tell me of the prisoner. He was captured in the Weavers’ Gulch?”

Behind him, Vorax wheezed with the effort of descending. “Trussed like a goose in spider-silk and glaring mad at it. He bolted like a rabbit when the Thunder Voice challenged him at the Maw. They let him go to see how far he’d get.”

In the darkness, Tanaros smiled. “You put him to the questioning?”

“Aye.” Vorax bent over, resting his meaty hands on his knees. “Some of Hyrgolf’s lads gave him a few love-taps when he struggled. Otherwise, we held his feet to the fire.” Seeing Tanaros’ expression, he straightened. “Only the usual, not enough to cripple. He might be missing a few fingernails.”

“And?” Tanaros waited mid-stair.

“Nothing.” The Staccian shrugged. “Says he’s a Midlander, a horse-thief. Says he’s here to offer his service. Doesn’t appear to be mad. We waited for you, otherwise.”

“My thanks, cousin.” Descending the final steps, his boots squelched in the damp. There must have been an inch of standing water on the floor, seeping through the dungeon’s foundation. Tanaros crossed the cell and thrust the torch into a waiting sconce. “Let’s see what we have.”

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Wavering torchlight reflected on the standing water and the dark, moisture-slick walls. On the far wall, a single prisoner hung, knees sagging, resting his weight on the chains that held his arms upraised. Under Tanaros’ regard, he hauled himself upright, his blistered feet disturbing the stagnant water. “General Tanaros Blacksword.” A broad Midlander accent placed his origin in the fertile territories south of Curonan. He was young, not out of his twenties, with light brown hair falling matted and greasy over his brow. “A fine welcome you give those who would serve you.”

“Count yourself lucky for it, boyo,” Vorax muttered, making his way to the bottom of the stair, one hand on the wall for balance. “The Tordenstem Fjel could have killed you as easily as not.”

“Lucky me.” The prisoner smiled crookedly. His lips were split and swollen, one of his front teeth a ragged stump, broken by a Fjel love-tap. “What do you say, General? Could you use one such as me?”