Soaked for ages in the rank perfume of fish scales and sea salt, the wharves of Silden seemed more likely a home for a race of fish men than the leather skinned sailors who trod its wooden planked docks. Traditionally the home of the less reputable, it was known for its shady transactions with the slavers of Greater Kesh.

Owyn surveyed the shop. Though he could see no perceptible evidence the shop's owner had placed any special wards around his inventory, he was dimly aware of something unnatural about the doorway through which they had passed. In the pit of his stomach, he knew that thieves would find themselves the victim of some magical unpleasantness.

Conversation within the room halted briefly as Locklear pushed his way inside the room, returning a nod from a rough looking pair of mercenaries who otherwise seemed engaged in a dispute over a lost bet.

Meet: JOFTAZ

The man scarcely acknowledged them.

"You look a sorry dog," Locklear commented, noting the long look on the man's face. "What troubles you?"

"Today I drink up the last winnings I ever made in lancers' tourneys," he said, watching the swirling contents of his cup. "From this day forth, I have to earn an unsullied day's living."

Locklear arched a brow. "I wouldn't call being a lancer a sullied profession."

"No," the man replied with a pained smile. "Not ordinarily. But I am beginning to advance in years and my strength is not all it used to be. At the last lancer's tourney, I bought a vial of Fadamor's Formula. Unfortunately, before the last joust of the day, I was discovered drinking it. My lord rescinded my bond and the master of ceremonies forbid me ever attending an other tourney so I may never again seek another noble employer." Reaching into his belt, he pulled out a small vial and slapped it into Locklear's palm. "All yours. I’ll be happy not to see another drop of it in all my life."

Locklear squinted. "Why give this to us?"

"I'm not specifically giving it to you," the man said. "You were just at hand when I decided to give it up. But to give you an understanding why I'm giving it up, perhaps I should show you something." Pulling up the hem of his tunic, he indicated a puckered scar which marred the flesh above his navel. "Several of the knights I defeated in the tourney gathered together and among them decided I should be taught a lesson. A hot iron shoved in to your guts can be a very convincing teacher."

The man grumbled.

Not sure whether the comment was an invitation or an indication they should leave, James approached the man cautiously. "Good day."

"Good day my arse. Damn madness, all this guild feuding," he spat, wiping ale from his lips with the back of his hand. "I had a regular job before all this madness began up in Romney. Now I have to do my job under the cover of night. If Arlie Steelsoul would come to the negotiations table with the rest of the Guilds, we could bring this idiocy to a halt!"

"Has anyone talked to him?" James asked.

"Who can?" the man replied. "He's got himself sealed up in his house near Sloop. None of the Duke of Romney's men have been able to get through to him. He won't even allow his supplies to be delivered to his door anymore, has them dropped off in a box. Serve him right if someone sent in a pack of rations that had been sitting in the sun a month or more, arrogant bastard. Know how much it costs me to harbor my flats now? 100 sovereigns every two weeks!"

Despite James's repeated attempts to steer the conversation in a more interesting direction, the man insisted in relating his docking fees at the various points along the river and the outrageous lengths to which he had to resort to deliver his goods unmolested. At last, the effect of his ale beginning to overwhelm him, he slumped against the wall and began to snore.

James paused.

Though he had thought to get the man's attention, he decided he was far more interested what the man was whispering to a mercenary who was seated nearby.

"...well, who 'as the Crawlers key then?"

The man shrugged. "Kivo dropped it in the scramble out the sewers. After they did in the Upright Man, none of us had the desire to stick about any longer. Mockers were right mad..."

"So, it's still in the sewers, is it?"

"Unless one of the Mocker's boys picked it up, I'd say so, yes. Not like it matters, what with the Crawler crawled away to the Sunset Isles..."

Disturbed, James slipped away from the conversation. Though it was possible the men were bandying about things overheard from a rumor monger, the demise of the Upright Man in Krondor would have far reaching implications both for the Kingdom and for himself.

James tried the lock.

He moved closer to examine the brass plated lock, but a group of sailors wandering by made him wary. "No sense risking a night in the lockup over this. Let's leave," he sighed.

Gorath watched the docks.

Behind him, James stood with his ear pressed against the door of the house, listened for the stirring of the Crawler or his men, but heard only the thumping of his own heart. The door was locked and as he reached inside his pack to search for his keys and picklocks, he saw a very small, very straight crack in the trim beside the door. Smiling at the old Mockers trick, he pressed his thumb against the trim and pushed down. The wood slid away, revealing a small brass key! Removing it from its hiding place, he jammed it into the brass lock, whispering his thanks to the old Mocker who had first taught him the trick. Within, the house was dim, but not so dark that James couldn't navigate by instinct alone. Creeping, he investigated the whole of the three room house, noting anything that looked out of the ordinary. Near the fireplace he discovered something that appeared to be a chest, but dismissed it as suspect, its location tagging it as a trap for less clever thieves.

On the far wall, he eyed a row of five colorfully lacquered pots, each spilling over with a tangle of violet colored tondill horns. Many times in Krondor, he had heard the Princess Anita lamenting over the fact the flowers were nearly impossible to grow in the salty soil of the coastal regions and required nearly constant sunlight. Located as they were at the rear of the house, however, they would undoubtedly receive very little light at all. Smiling, he upturned each of the pots until, at last, he discovered the hidden powder bag and made a mental note to thank the princess for her relentless efforts to civilize him.

Clutching his find triumphantly, he hurried outside to rejoin his very nervous looking travelling companions. Jimmy the Hand was still alive and well.

Gorath headed for the door.

"Not a good idea," James said as firmly as he could without drawing unwanted attention. "We managed to escape detection last time, but I refuse to push our luck any further than necessary. We have work to do."

The boat was at anchor.

Though he could see several sailors hurrying about on deck, he was unable to find the name of the ship painted on the hull.

Locklear shouted at the ship.

Appearing at the railing of the ship, a golden haired man waved down to them, then cupped his hands over his mouth. "Unless one of you are in need of a trip to the priestess on the Isle of Eortis, I can't help you," he shouted. "I've got to get the Mist Devil ready for sailing out within the week. Is one of you critical ill?"

"No, but..." Locklear spluttered, but was cut off by the first mate.

"Sorry, mates, the retreating man shouted, ringing a bell on deck. "I've got to get these swabs moving..."

Locklear shouted at the ship.

Appearing at the railing of the ship, a golden haired man waved down to them, advising them to stand clear of the net that was coming over the side.

"What ship is this?" Locklear shouted.

"The Mist Devil, this is," the sailor replied proudly, pounding the railing with a fist. "Only ship fast enough to have slipped away from Captain Trenchard! We're readying sail for the Isle of Eortis at the moment."

Locklear considered for a moment. How much for passage to the Isle?"

"30 golden sovereigns," the sailor called down. "Are you interested in making the trip? If so, come on up the gangplank."

Mysterious as the terns and plovers who made their homes in the stony cliffs of the island, the Temple of Eortis' origins were clouded in myth. Inhabited by a splinter faction of the Temple of Killian, the priestesses who took up residence on the desolate isle believed their prayers would one day summon the ancient sea god from oblivion.

Enter: Temple of Eortis