The third part of this story can be found here.

The Emperor’s City was one of the world’s great wonders. As all rivers flowed into the sea, so all the beauty, wealth and power of the Orofino Empire found its way to the capital, making it the most lovely, prosperous and powerful city in the world.

Visitors to the Emperor’s City marveled at its walls and towers, parks and gardens, halls and palaces, avenues and byways, banners and statues. Of these statues, the greatest was the monument to the Emperor, His Excellency Cecil the Immortal. His image towered over the city: a silent promise of protection, prosperity and order.

The city was packed with refugees. Some had escaped the destruction of their homes by Jerem the Plague. Most had fled the creatures turned vicious by the Blight. The capital was the only place left in the Empire where the Blight had not reached. The Emperor had issued a strict edict: no animals were allowed into the city until they had been quarantined, inspected and approved.

The refugees were disdained by the city’s residents, who saw them as a burden on its economy and a blot on its society. With nowhere else to go, the refugees set up tents and shacks within the city walls. The strong and able worked whatever jobs they could find. The sick and weak begged. The dishonest and desperate turned to smuggling, prostitution and theft.

A few refugees claimed to have glimpsed Jerem the Plague, though their descriptions of him varied considerably. He was huge or small, ugly or handsome, pale or dark-skinned, bearded or clean-shaven, depending upon who told the story. The only detail on which all witnesses could agree was the color of his hair—a fierce, fiery red.

The Emperor had done his utmost to provide for the refugees. It was, as he told his advisers, like trying to divide a loaf of bread among a hundred guests. There was simply not enough to go around. Even so, most refugees held the Emperor’s name in honor and regarded his monument with pride. The statue of His Excellency Cecil the Immortal was the very image of majesty, strength and compassion. It stood like a colossal guardian, shielding the city and its people.

His Excellency Cecil the Immortal, Emperor of Orofino, was a pale, nervous, overweight man with shadows under his eyes. On the rare occasions he ventured outside, he confined himself to his garden. “Our Emperor is wise,” said his advisors. “He concerns himself wholly with his duties and expends no time or effort upon trifles like travel, leisure or social affairs.”

The truth was that His Excellency was afraid.

The Emperor ruled his Empire with the calm detachment of an expert card player. From the security of the Imperial Citadel he analyzed problems, considered solutions and took risks. Some risks paid off. Some did not. When he made mistakes, he never paused to contemplate their cost. His Excellency could not afford to be paralyzed by emotional attachments.

Thus the Emperor never ventured beyond the gates of his residence. He feared becoming too attached to any of his subjects. He feared confronting the cost of his mistakes.

Most of all, he feared Jerem the Plague.

The attendant entered the study to find His Excellency seated in an armchair before the fire. The Emperor’s study was his inmost sanctum, the most private place in the privacy of the Imperial Citadel. It had no windows, but a fireplace and a desk and shelves of books. Although His Excellency had reluctantly allowed flues to be installed for ventilation, even those tiny openings troubled him. There were times when he wanted to be completely cut off from the rest of the world, alone with his books and his memories.

“My sincerest apologies for disturbing you, Your Excellency,” said the attendant. “High Arbiters Sergio and Felix have arrived with your guests. We have seated them and served refreshments, per your instructions. They await your presence in the garden.”

His Excellency felt a stirring of hope for the first time in weeks. Although it was beneath his dignity, he grinned and pumped both fists in the air. Then, having regained his composure, he heaved himself out of his chair and followed the attendant out of the study.

The Emperor’s garden was a treasure kept in a locked chest: few apart from His Excellency were permitted to see it, and those who did never forgot its beauty. The garden was circular. Pavements ran like spokes in a wheel toward its center, where an exquisite fountain rose out of a pool. The water sparkled in the sun. Flowers nodded in the breeze. A few bees hummed to and fro.

The Emperor’s guests were lined up along one side of a long table on a shaded terrace overlooking the garden. His Excellency had provided formal attire for his guests: a satin dress for the lady and tunics for the gentlemen.

Upon reflection, His Excellency decided gentleman was too generous a term for two of his guests. One, a stout, hairy man in his thirties, was devouring pastries with considerable enthusiasm. The other, a lanky man with ginger hair, was lounging back in his chair with a glass of wine. They were the sort of people one expected to find in the shadier corners of disreputable pubs, and their formal tunics did not suit them.

The other two men at the table seemed much more refined. One was a young man who sat with perfect posture and ate with measured dignity. The other, a middle-aged man with gray hair, sipped a cup of coffee and gazed meditatively at the fountain in the garden.

The lady sat aloof from the men, eating grapes and giving a strong impression of rigid professionalism.

As His Excellency seated himself across the table from his guests, the High Arbiters took seats on either side of him.

“It is my honor to welcome you, friends of the Empire,” said High Arbiter Sergio. “I need not add that it is your honor to sit in the presence of His Excellency Cecil the Immortal. Few are so fortunate.”

“We are honored to serve His Excellency,” said the lady.

“Honored,” echoed the stout man through a mouthful of pastry.

“High Arbiter Felix and I have already explained the circumstances,” continued Sergio. “The Emperor tasked us with recruiting specialists for the mission at hand. Two he chose personally. The other three we selected after much careful consideration. I do not believe you are all acquainted with one another, and only two of you have previously had the honor of meeting His Excellency. This is an excellent opportunity for introductions.”

Motioning toward the stout man, Sergio added, “We begin with Theobald Loxley, known more widely as Mist the Plunderer.”

Theobald Loxley put down a pastry and leered amiably across the table at the Emperor.

“Forgive Master Loxley’s irreverence, Your Excellency,” said Felix quickly. “He cares little for authority. Indeed, he is perhaps the most notorious thief ever to disgrace the Empire. We concede, however, that his unique talents may be useful.”

“We obtained a pardon for him,” said Sergio. “Should he try to abandon the mission, his pardon will be revoked instantly and his sentence—execution by impalement, if I remember aright—carried out immediately.”

Loxley’s leer lost some of its jollity.

“The man beside Master Loxley is Nicholas Puck,” said Sergio.

The ginger-haired man put down his glass and inclined his head. “Just Nick, Your Excellency,” he said. “A peddler of information.”

“Silence,” snapped Felix. “Do not presume upon His Excellency’s patience.”

“Despite Master Puck’s inelegance, no one in the Orofino Empire—barring Your Excellency himself, of course—is better informed,” explained Sergio. “Master Puck is part of a vast network of informants spanning every city, town, village and outpost under Your Excellency’s command. When there is news, he is the first to know it.

“Next is Hector Fuori, a scout of remarkable experience and skill. He is young, but his superiors in the Imperial Army assure me there is no abler tracker to be found.

“This brings us to the two specialists whom you requested specifically, Your Excellency: Vivian Fey, the most distinguished Paladin in your service, and Malcolm Spike, whose exploits are legend.”

His Excellency Cecil the Immortal crossed his arms, grinned and spoke.

“It’s nice to see you, Spike.”

“I prefer the name Innocent, Your Excellency.”

Felix began to protest, but fell silent as the Emperor went on.

“You got it, Innocent. Shoot, I’ve missed you. It’s a relief to have you back.”

Innocent took a deep breath. “Forgive me, Your Excellency, but did you know High Arbiter Sergio threatened to massacre the residents of my town if I didn’t cooperate?”

“Why you—” thundered Felix, but the Emperor cut him short.

“Sergio was following my orders,” said His Excellency Cecil the Immortal. “I don’t think you get it, Innocent. We need you. There’s no way we’ll stop Jerem without you. He’s destroying this world. You know about the Infinity Manuscript, right? I didn’t have any choice. I didn’t want to execute anyone, but I would’ve if you hadn’t come quietly. You help us, you save this world. You don’t, the Infinity Manuscript burns and this world with it. What’s a town compared to that?”

Innocent was silent for a long time. “I don’t have any choice either,” he said at last. “I’ll help you. Then, perhaps, the Empire and the gods and the rest of the world will leave an old man alone.”

“Excellent,” exclaimed Sergio. “Now that the introductions are out of the way, there are but few things left for us to discuss. Your mission is to find and capture Jerem the Plague before he can destroy the final pages of the Infinity Manuscript.

“Jerem, like His Excellency, is immortal. You cannot kill him. When we chose you for this mission, our plan was for Master Puck to gather news of Jerem’s whereabouts, Master Fuori to track him down and Master Loxley to apprehend him.”

“What about these Paladins?” inquired Loxley.

“Paladins Fey and Spike will accompany you in order to overcome any difficulties that may arise. The Empire is no longer as safe a place as it used to be. The Blight has made travel a dangerous business. We send along the Paladins as a safeguard against untoward circumstances.”

“Paladin Fey has been appointed to lead the group as His Excellency’s personal representative,” said Felix. “She will deliver the final verdict in all decisions. All other members must follow her orders; to do otherwise will be considered treason. Paladin Fey will also be responsible for handling the group’s money and maintaining communications with His Excellency.”

“This concludes our meeting,” said Sergio. “The attendants will show you to your rooms. You will depart tomorrow after making whatever preparations you need. If you have any concerns, report them to Paladin Fey and she will relay them to His Excellency. The gods be with you. Goodbye, friends of the Empire.”

As the guests were led out of the garden, His Excellency heard Loxley’s voice raised in strident commentary: “Did you hear how the Emperor talked? He didn’t sound at all dignified. Not a bit! How’d he get to be immortal if he’s so ruddy informal all the time?”

The Emperor smiled. Then, with a return of his usual anxiety, he hurried back indoors. It was high time he returned to his study.

The story continues with the fifth part, The Tale of the Survivor.

The second part of this story can be found here.

Much to his own surprise, High Arbiter Sergio liked the Hourglass Tavern.

True, the floor was covered in sand and the liquor was abominable, yet the establishment had its appeal. The back room, which Sergio had reserved for the meeting, was dim, cool and relatively clear of sand. After the banquet halls and elegant saloons to which he was accustomed, this decrepit tavern felt relaxed and comfortable.

Wood was an expensive commodity in Green Isle. The tables in the Hourglass were wrought of iron, topped with glass and laden with liquor jugs. Sergio noted with amusement that the tavern tables represented the whole of Green Isle’s industry. Apart from the export of iron and fire-nectar, the manufacture of glass was the only thing holding the town back from ruin.

It was a wonder that Green Isle continued to survive. It was a dull, dry, dreary town: a god-forsaken place, assuming the gods had ever shown enough interest in Green Isle to pay it any attention at all. Sergio had been surprised when the Emperor ordered him to visit Green Isle, and nothing short of staggered when the purpose for his visit was explained.

The Runaway Paladin had settled in Green Isle. Why a legendary warrior would choose such a miserable place to live, Sergio could not begin to imagine. The town had the rustic charm of decrepitude, but it was not a place in which anyone in his right mind would choose to settle permanently.

The door opened. A middle-aged man entered, lifting a tattered hat in greeting and glancing around the room.

“Welcome,” said High Arbiter Sergio, rising from the table and bowing. “We are alone, I assure you. Have I the honor of addressing Malcolm Spike?”

“Please call me Innocent,” said the man, taking the chair across the table from Sergio. “I’ve never liked Malcolm.”

“As you wish, Innocent. I would not deign to refuse an Imperial Paladin so small a favor.”

“Retired Paladin.”

Sergio smiled pleasantly. “You call yourself retired, but the Empire considers you a fugitive. May I remind you that Paladins cannot renounce their position without leave of the Emperor? You simply fled, leaving Orofino to mourn the disappearance of its greatest hero.”

“You flatter me, Favored Son of the Empire.”

“Please, Innocent, there is no need for formal titles. You may call me Sergio.”

“How very kind of you. Sergio, be honest. The Orofino Empire doesn’t miss me a whit. The desertion of Malcolm Spike was news for a week, then a new Paladin was appointed and that was an end of it.”

“The Empire has never forgotten Paladin Spike,” declared Sergio. “Tales of your valor are told from the taverns of the Emerald Coast to the palaces of the Emperor’s City. People everywhere speak wistfully of the Runaway Paladin, wondering why he deserted Orofino when her need was so great.”

A frown darkened Innocent’s face. This surprised Sergio. His extravagant compliments had been calculated to put Innocent at his ease, but they seemed to have done quite the opposite. Perhaps a different approach was required.

“I beg your pardon, Innocent. Have I said something amiss?”

“Not to be rude, but you’ve slipped from polite flattery to sycophantic nonsense. As you were so thoughtful to remind me, the Empire considers me a fugitive. I came tonight expecting to be threatened, apprehended or possibly beheaded, not to be praised.”

Sergio smiled, this time not so pleasantly. “If you would like to be threatened, apprehended or beheaded, I am happy to make necessary arrangements. I was simply under the impression that you would prefer praise to the other outcomes you mentioned.”

Innocent struck the table with the palm of his hand. The glass cracked.

For just an instant, Sergio was afraid.

Innocent withdrew his hand slowly from the table. His momentary resemblance to a fierce Paladin had faded. He was just a tired old man again. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’ve spent four and a half years pretending the Empire doesn’t exist. It was a nasty shock to be confronted so suddenly with a High Arbiter. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”

Sergio had regained his composure. “No, it is for me to apologize. It was never my intention to upset you.”

“Enough,” exclaimed Innocent. “We’ve had enough empty formalities. This may be difficult for you, but try to tell me the truth. Sergio, High Arbiter of Orofino, Favored Son of the Empire, et cetera, why in the name of all the gods have you come to Green Isle?”

Sergio had not achieved his position without a good deal of shrewdness. He knew it was useless to flatter Innocent further. Appealing to his sense of patriotism would anger him; giving vague hints would exasperate him; offering wealth or fame would irritate him. Perhaps the worst course was to threaten Innocent, for that would only make him laugh.

No, this was one of the rare cases in which the best course was to tell the truth.

“Very well, Innocent. You shall have the truth—all of it. First, shall we have a drink?” Sergio lifted a leather case onto the table and withdrew a bottle. “The liquor at this tavern is fit neither for man nor beast, so I took the liberty of bringing some wine. Ah, here are the wineglasses. The wine is a Delicia Red, three years old. Will you join me?”

“No thanks,” said Innocent. “I don’t drink liquor, except for the odd spoonful in a cup of coffee. The apothecaries say alcohol does unspeakable things to the liver.”

“It is not poisoned,” said Sergio. He filled both cups and took a long drink from one. “You are far too valuable to the Empire to be poisoned.”

Innocent laughed. His good humor seemed to be returning. “Well, I guess that sort of compliment is better than the ingratiating bunk you were spewing a few minutes ago. Even so, I prefer coffee to wine. Give me a minute to call the tavern-keeper, and then I’ll have the truth out of you.”

The tavern-keeper came and went. Innocent sipped his coffee, and Sergio began telling the truth.

“Five years ago, the Empire conquered this petty kingdom and put its royal family to death. A few of the locals rebelled and tried to drive us out. They were quickly neutralized. With the insurgents gone, the Emperor established Consuls throughout the land and declared it a province of the Orofino Empire.”

“History I have tried to forget,” said Innocent.

“Of course you have, Paladin Spike.”

“Innocent.”

“Are you? I seem to remember the locals bearing quite a lot of animosity toward you. After all, you led a division of the army that conquered their precious little kingdom.”

“You promised the truth, Sergio, not old history.”

“Very well. I will pass quickly over your desertion. Exactly six months after the execution of the royal family, you disappeared—something no one in the Imperial Army had ever done. Few had even tried. The penalty of failure was too steep. Deserters are put to death.”

“Yet here we are drinking at the same table. What a strange world the gods have made.”

“You are a special case, Innocent. I admit that under usual circumstances you would be tried and executed for the crime of desertion. However, the Orofino Empire is willing to grant you full pardon—”

“I assume this generous offer is conditional.”

“Not at all. You have already been pardoned.”

Innocent started.

“Yes, the Emperor signed your pardon himself. I have it here. He gives you your freedom as a gesture of goodwill, hoping you will be willing to render him a small service in return.”

“What service?”

Sergio leaned over the table. “Innocent, I am about to impart perhaps the most dangerous secret in existence. Whether or not you accept our request, you must never repeat anything I say here tonight. Do you agree?”

Innocent agreed.

“Excellent,” said Sergio. “You have doubtless heard rumors that the Orofino Empire is on the brink of collapse. The Blight is turning flora and fauna into monstrous hazards. There have been an unprecedented number of natural disasters: earthquakes, floods, tsunamis, volcanic eruptions and still stranger catastrophes. Many citizens have become refugees. Many refugees have become criminals. The Empire cannot deal with so many crises, and one crisis looms above all others.”

“Jerem the Plague.”

“The other crises are symptoms. Jerem is the disease. Let me explain. The gods made the world long ago, as the priests tell us.”

“I’m a little skeptical on that point, but don’t let my theological views hinder you.”

“The gods created the world by writing in a book. Like builders constructing a house brick by brick, the gods constructed our world word by word. The skies, the mountains, the oceans, the celestial lights—”

“The rhododendrons, the platypuses, those funny flowers shaped like shoes—”

“Yes, these too were written in the book of the gods. All existence depends upon that book. It is called the Infinity Manuscript: the book that holds the world.”

“A fine theory. If any of this is true, what happened to the book?”

“The gods entrusted the Infinity Manuscript to a wise man, who separated its many pages and hid them throughout the world to prevent their destruction. The book itself did not need to remain intact. Only the pages needed to be saved.”

“Where are the pages now?”

“That,” said Sergio grimly, “is what Jerem wants to know.”

Innocent was silent for a long time. “He’s burning the pages, isn’t he?” he said at last. “The Blight is spreading, natural disasters are tearing apart the world—it’s because the Infinity Manuscript is being destroyed bit by bit. If he burns all the pages, everything falls apart.”

“Thus the Orofino Empire extends forgiveness and friendship to its greatest Paladin,” said Sergio. “We are responsible for the fate of the world. Jerem must be stopped, and only a hero can stop him. You see, Jerem, like our beloved Emperor, is immortal.”

“The Emperor isn’t immortal,” protested Innocent. “That’s propaganda. ‘The Emperor lives forever’ is just a patriotic slogan.”

“Doubt the Emperor’s immortality if you will, but take it as fact that Jerem cannot be killed. He can only be captured, which is why the Empire is sending an elite team of specialists instead of an army. We plead with you, Innocent. Lead the search for Jerem.”

Innocent shook his head. “It’s absurd,” he said. “There’s no pattern or reason in anything you’ve told me. The Emperor and Jerem are immortal, you say. How exactly did they manage to attain immortality? Jerem wants to destroy the Infinity Manuscript, you say. For what purpose? Your story is full of holes.”

“It is what it is,” said Sergio, allowing just a little anger to seep into his tone. “I concede its peculiarity, but I stand by its legitimacy. Will you help us save the world?”

Innocent seemed to be thinking. “You’ve cleared my criminal record. You could’ve intimidated me with the threat of execution, but you gave up your leverage when you pardoned me.”

Sergio laughed. “Did I give up my leverage? Think about it, Innocent. Think about the Empire you once served. What do you think will happen if you leave Green Isle, hide in some other small town and resume your game of pretending to be just an innocent citizen?”

Innocent bowed his head. He looked more tired than ever. “There’s an army waiting to raze Green Isle, isn’t there?”

“You may have been pardoned, but this whole town is guilty of harboring a fugitive. The Emperor is willing to spare this god-forsaken place and its filthy residents on the condition you cooperate. If you do refuse to cooperate, Jerem will destroy the Infinity Manuscript, thereby ending the world. This town perishes either way. There is only one way for you to save it.”

Innocent finished his coffee and put down the cup.

“Well, I guess I’m in.”

The story continues with the fourth part, The Tale of the Emperor.

The first part of this story can be found here.

The Hourglass Tavern had little in common with its namesake, except in one respect: it was full of sand.

When a visitor to the Hourglass complained about the sandy floor, the tavern-keeper only shook his head and replied, “We tried keeping the Hourglass clean when we first opened it up, sir, but it was like plowing the sea. Every grain of sand we swept out blew right back in, don’t you know. Plowing the sea, sir.”

The Hourglass was one of two taverns in Green Isle. As a gesture of goodwill toward the citizens of the town, the Imperial Consul had sponsored the opening of a tavern called the Sea of Gold. Due to its high prices, the Sea of Gold catered exclusively to the upper class of Green Isle: a tiny clique of merchants, municipal officials and Imperial visitors.

The Cobbler, a toothless old man who lived on the outskirts of town, was one of many to complain about the Consul’s tavern.

“He must suppose we’re all rich folk here in Green Isle,” he told his friends, the Tailor and the Weaver, as they drank together in the Hourglass. “If the Consul’s trying to flatter the good citizens of our town, he’s making a fair mess of it. It’s only making poor folk feel poorer. You know why it’s called the Sea of Gold? A thirsty man needs a sea of gold to buy a drink there, that’s why.”

“Right you are,” said the Weaver, peering mournfully into his tankard. “I’m out of fire-nectar. Hand me the jug, Tailor.”

Grain being scarce in Green Isle, only two kinds of alcohol were readily available. The rich drank wine from the vineyards on the edge of the oasis. The poor—most of the inhabitants of Green Isle—drank fire-nectar, a rough liquor distilled from the sap of the cacti that grew in the desert. The Sea of Gold specialized in fine wines and boasted the best varieties of fire-nectar as a kind of local delicacy. The Hourglass served only fire-nectar.

The Cobbler, the Tailor and the Weaver, known in Green Isle as the Three Old Men, were patrons of the Hourglass. Little was known of them, though much was guessed. The Three Old Men did not have families or homes anywhere in the Empire. They had simply drifted to Green Isle, like battered driftwood to the beaches of a barren island, and become local curiosities.

Wherever they had come from, they had left their names behind them. They were addressed by their trades. Each of the Three Old Men performed his trade competently and made a comfortable living. When the day’s work was done, they left their workshops and took their usual place in a corner of the Hourglass.

The tavern-keeper liked the Three Old Men and the air of mystique they brought to his establishment. It was an unwritten rule of the Hourglass that the table in the back corner, the Table of the Three Old Men, was not to be occupied by any other customer during any hour of the evening.

The Tailor took a sip from his tankard. “I hear tell there’s a High Arbiter in town,” he remarked.

“I’d have thought it a false rumor, but I actually saw the bloke up at the Imperial Palace,” said the Cobbler. “Wonder what he’s here for. Green Isle’s not of any use to the Empire, except for filling her sandbags and hourglasses.”

The Tailor set down his tankard and addressed his companions solemnly. “It’s the Blight, it is,” he said. “Has to be. There were rumors of blighted wolves and vultures and cacti down southwest a ways.”

“Cacti?” inquired the Cobbler, grinning toothlessly. “The Blight’s turning cacti fierce, is it? I haven’t seen any wild cacti running amok here in Green Isle. Have you, Tailor?”

“There was a dispatch from the Imperial Laboratories yesterday,” said the Tailor. “The Blight’s affecting certain flora—that means plants, Cobbler, in case you didn’t know. Plants that get blighted fill with poison and grow thorns. Cacti, being a spiny sort of plant to start with, get a dashed lot spinier. Whatever poor bloke is pricked by a blighted plant dies in agony.”

The Weaver took a draft from his tankard. “I pray the Blight leaves our fire-cacti alone,” he said. “The gods alone know what the Blight would do to fire-nectar.”

“It’s alarming,” continued the Tailor, ignoring the Weaver. “It used to be the Blight just turned animals fierce.”

“Fierce ain’t nearly strong enough a word,” exclaimed the Cobbler. “I think brutal more apt. Animals that get blighted turn, well, unnatural. Their teeth and claws and spines grow. They kill anything that breathes. Not to put to fine a point on it,” he concluded cheerfully, “beasts that get struck by the Blight turn into monsters.”

“Wonder what started it,” said the Tailor. “It’s been near three years that we’ve suffered the Blight. It started two years after the Imperial Conquest, I think.”

The Cobbler stopped grinning. “Aye, just two years after the fall of the Old Kingdom. I miss those days, lads, back when a king ruled over us and Imperial Consuls didn’t infest every town. The Empire’s a hard mistress.”

“Please let’s not talk about hard mistresses,” said the Weaver. “I’ve had enough of them to last me whatever life I’ve left.”

“You’re a dirty, dissolute scoundrel, Weaver,” said the Cobbler, grinning again. “I don’t know why the Tailor and I even let you drink with us. It’s bad for our reputation to be seen with such a notorious philanderer.”

The Weaver, who was accustomed to such insults, merely took another draft of fire-nectar.

“So the Old Kingdom fell to the Empire five years ago, and two years later the Blight started turning animals bad, and now it’s spreading to the plants,” said the Tailor. “I hear rumors of floods and earthquakes and gods alone know what other disasters rending the Empire. It’s a nasty state of things, to be sure.”

“You forgot something,” said the Weaver. “Jerem the Plague.”

The Cobber and the Tailor nodded. “Aye, he’s the worst of all,” said the Cobbler.

There was a screech of rusty hinges as the door to the Hourglass opened, admitting Innocent Freo and a sprinkling of sand.

“Innocent!” cried the Tailor, waving a hand. “Over here! Come and have a drink with us.”

The Three Old Men were divided in their opinions about Innocent. The Tailor liked him, believing him to be a fair-minded constable and a virtuous human being. The Cobbler thought of Innocent as merely a decent man. The Weaver, who was slightly afraid of Innocent, disliked him.

“It’s kind of you,” said Innocent, drawing up a chair.

The tavern-keeper, who shared the Tailor’s good opinion of Innocent, was at his side in a moment. “How may I serve you, Constable?” he asked, bowing.

“A large cup of coffee: three spoonfuls of milk, two of sugar and one of liquor. I could do with something strong this evening.”

“You seem on edge, my friend,” said the Tailor as the tavern-keeper scuttled away. “Is there anything the Three Old Men can do for you?”

“Just keep me company while I drink my coffee. I have to meet someone soon, but I’d rather not face him until I’ve had something to brace my nerves. Now, friends, please don’t let me interrupt your conversation.”

The Weaver glared at Innocent and said, “We were just talking about Jerem the Plague.”

“The Red Demon,” said the Tailor pensively. “The Paragon of Hell. No one has seen Jerem and lived to tell the tale, yet we have hundreds of descriptions of him. His body is said to burn with a red flame.”

“He has a beard of fire,” said the Weaver.

“I heard it was just his eyes,” said the Cobbler.

“No, it’s his beard,” insisted the Weaver.

“It’s probably his beard and eyes both,” said Innocent soothingly. “Please go on, Tailor.”

“They call Jerem the Plague because he wreaks devastation wherever he goes. Towns burned. Villages destroyed. Mountains of corpses. A real plague couldn’t do more harm than he.”

“They say Jerem is immortal,” said the Weaver.

“Nonsense,” exclaimed the Tailor. “Only the gods are immortal. No, Jerem is just a sorcerer with some kind of hell-magic.” The Tailor lowered his voice. “I have a theory,” he said, only to be interrupted by the arrival of the tavern-keeper with Innocent’s coffee. “I have a theory,” he repeated, glowering as the tavern-keeper retreated. “Jerem’s first crime was committed a little more than three years ago. The Blight appeared almost exactly three years ago. Do you understand? I think Jerem is the devil behind the Blight. He’s the bloke turning animals into monsters and plants into menaces.”

Innocent nodded gravely. “Perhaps,” he said, and sipped his coffee.

The Three Old Men continued chatting, only dimly aware that Innocent did not seem to be listening. At last Innocent finished his drink and stood.

“Thank you for your company,” he said. “I have a question for you before I go. I have a young friend looking for an apprenticeship: eleven years old, extremely good with his hands, takes great pride in his work. Do any of you have need of an apprentice?”

The Cobbler and the Weaver shook their heads, but the Tailor looked thoughtful. “Perhaps,” he said. “My old hands are getting a little shaky. I could use some help, provided he doesn’t need much pay.”

The necessary arrangements were made and Innocent prepared to go. “Must be waiting for me in the back room,” he murmured.

“Who’s waiting?” demanded the Cobbler.

Innocent smiled, though he looked a little shaken. “Just someone with whom I have business,” he said. “Good evening, friends.”

Innocent departed.

“Probably a woman,” muttered the Weaver.

The story continues with the third part, The Tale of the High Arbiter.