From alt.pub.dragons-inn Sun Nov 5 10:24:19 1995 Xref: netcom.com alt.pub.dragons-inn:8854 Path: netcom.com!noc.netcom.net!news.sprintlink.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!cdc2.cdc.net!news1.cris.com!news2.acs.oakland.edu!newshub.gmr.com!news.ived.nec.gmeds.com!sun126!sz9njm From: SIMONJ@rh.wl.com (Jeff A. Simon) Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Subject: [Jake Shade] Chapter 5: Fortune's Hand (Repost) Date: 3 Nov 1995 22:28:14 GMT Organization: General Motors Corporation Lines: 925 Distribution: world Message-ID: <47e51u$f91@mloeff01.ived.nec.gmeds.com> Reply-To: SIMONJ@rh.wl.com NNTP-Posting-Host: sun126.hqs.mid.gmeds.com Keywords: Jake, Shade, Chapter 5, Fortune's Hand, repost ******************************************************************************** A mysterious outlander calling himself Jake Shade has come to Generica, bringing with him an even more mysterious unholy artifact. He has befriended a graduate student at the Academy, a young Mage by the name of Tadmaster. A young female thief - whose connection with these two remains unclear - has accidentally come into possession of a Talisman which is desired by some very nasty people. ********************************************************************************* "Death in the Tarot doesn't mean death as such," the young woman stated. "It generally means change when it's up and stagnation when it's inverted." "Tell me Miss," the man in black asked quietly, "Are you an expert on the Tarot?" "I know something about it, yes," she replied, unsure of the motive behind his question. "Is it possible that the original meaning of the Death Card WAS death?" he asked her, the contempt in his voice barely veiled. "Is it at all possible that the survival instincts of generations of Fortune Tellers led them to gradually alter the meaning of the card themselves, to avoid facing the rather unpleasant consequences which might arise from giving a dark reading to a powerful or wealthy client?" "Are you an expert in the Tarot, sir? the woman asked, her tone somewhat frosty. The man in black smiled. "No, Ms. Cooper, I am an expert on Death." - An Evening with Ms. Cooper Chapter 5: Fortune's Hand Business was slow that day. Rather than enjoying the relaxed pace, the wizened old Seer known as Futuria Crystalshard had been feeling something akin to dread all day. It was a mental sensation like the gathering of storm clouds just beyond the horizon, invisible but threatening all the same. Years of experience had taught Futuria what that sensation signified. A warning of great importance would be coming to someone before the night was over. It would be coming through him. Futuria was considering the merits of closing up early in an attempt to avoid that possibility when the bell over his door tinkled. Futuria looked up. Had the Seer had the use of his eyes, he would have seen a young woman of perhaps twenty push her way into the shop. The woman had hair of the darkest black and eyes of the bright- est blue. Her figure, although undernourished, held the potential to one day drive men wild with desire. Futuria was denied the vision of the woman's loveliness just as he was the sight of so many other beautiful things. But the wizened old man had other senses not shared by others, that allowed him to see other things. He knew the woman's story. He knew the story of her past, and he knew the story of her future. It was not a happy tale, but it was not one that was particularly uncommon, either. "What can I do for you, Yvette Anastel?" he asked the young woman. Yvette brushed her raven-black hair back from her forehead. "How did you know my name?" she asked somewhat fearfully. "If you came here believing that I can read the future for you, my knowledge of your name should seem a thing of comparatively little wonder." "That makes sense," Yvette conceded. "Can you read my future, Mister Crystalshard?" "Most assuredly, child. The question is, do you want me to do it?" "I wouldn't have come here if I didn't." Yvette pointed out with a smile. "That is true, child. Perhaps I should have asked if you will still feel the same way when I am done?" "I'm not afraid of what the future holds," Yvette said quietly. "It can't be any worse than the past." "That is something only someone very young would say." Futuria waited to see if his warning would discourage this young woman. It did not. He had not expected it to. "Very well then. Please take a seat." he said indicating a small table with two chairs. The table was covered by a cloth as black as night. The seer placed an ornate cask of dark wood on the table, removing a small velvet bundle from inside. Yvette leaned forward to see what he was doing. Futuria was amused by the young woman's curiosity. It radiated from her in waves, one of the most tangible aspects of her aura. He opened up the velvet cloth to reveal a large deck of Tarot cards. The blind Seer passed them over to Yvette. "Hold on to these cards for a moment. They must be attuned to your aura before I can use them to scry the future for you. And you must cross my palm with silver before I can begin. It is tradition." Yvette passed over a coin of silver without protest. She had known about that part. "How long will it take for the cards to attune to my aura?" she asked, unable to restrain her curiosity. "It is already done," Futuria replied, taking the cards back. Yvette was surprised to feel a sense of reluctance about giving them up. The Seer began to spread them in the traditional pattern, the way he had so many times before. When he finished, he put the remaining cards to the side, and began turning over the ones he had placed. Yvette inhaled sharply. "They're beautiful." Futuria glanced again at the young woman across from him. The cards were indeed beautiful. Few people had the eyes to see that. The Seer wondered if there was something to this girl that he had not yet been able to detect. "First we start with your past." Futuria told her, looking at the cards. "I know my past," Yvette protested, "I don't need to be reminded of it. I need to know what to do-" "Hush, child," Futuria cut her off. "These things must be done a certain way." Futuria already knew more about Yvette's past than the young woman could possibly guess. It was futile for her to try to conceal anything from a Seer. The first card was the Knight of Swords, reversed. Futuria raised his eyebrows. "This is behind you. A man of violence and discord. He marks the end of innocence." Futuria flipped another card. "Although this man is in your past, he still reaches forward to affect your present. . . ." ******************* The woman's scream seemed to hang in the air forever. Disgusted, Falchion continued to watch the sky as Grace finished up. The Watch Lieutenant emerged from the shadows, buckling his breeches as he walked. The tall swordsman ignored the low moans and sobs that continued behind him. Although he was a hard man, Falchion could not be so selective in his own hearing. "If you ever treat one of my girls like that, you won't live to regret it," he informed the Lieutenant grimly. "Why Falchion, old pal. That sounded remarkably like a threat." Grace had a twisted smile on his face as he spoke, but as he stepped closer to Falchion, his fingers brushed the hilt of his sword as he crowded the straw-haired Crimelord. The Lieutenant still hadn't learned that the Radj^o Man himself couldn't intimidate Falchion. Falchion locked his pale blue eyes on Grace's steely gray ones. He stepped in closer himself, until less than a foot of space remained between the two of them. "You can take it anyway you'd like, 'old pal'. You can even take it as a joke. Just don't forget what I said." "Don't worry Falchion. I won't forget." Grace promised. He turned and exited the alley. A snarl distorted Falchion's face before he regained control of himself. He followed the Lieutenant out of the alley, adjusting his stride to match the taller man's pace. "If you're finished putting business before pleasure, there is a message that I want you to take to Malfaedor." "It's about time," Grace told him. "The old wizard is starting to think that you're avoiding him." Falchion was silent for a moment. "Tell Malfaedor that the Talisman is still in the possession of the pair that stole it. Tell him that we've narrowed their probable location to within a few square blocks. We should have it back by tomorrow night, possibly the next." "I wouldn't take too long, Falchion," Grace warned. "Malfaedor's beginning to lose patience. I daresay he's even entertained the possibility that you might have sold him out." Grace smiled. It was obvious to Falchion which scenario the Lieutenant was promoting with Malfaedor. "I never break a contract," Falchion pointed out coldly. "So you say. I've assured Malfaedor that you don't have the guts to sell him out. Unfortunately for you, he doesn't always listen to me. I have the feeling he's about to turn this matter over to his own agents." The tall Lieutenant grinned as Falchion blanched. It wasn't often that Grace managed to get under the Crime Lord's skin. "Tell him I need two more days." Falchion repeated as they emerged onto one of the main streets. Grace smoothed his long black hair into place, then checked his uniform for blood. Satisfied that his appearance was immaculate, he responded. "I'll tell him what you said, Falchion. I hope for your sake he believes it." Grace adjusted the fold of his cloak, then turned to look his companion in the eye. "On another note. . . one hears a lot of things back at the Command Post. Just last night I heard something that might interest you, Falchion." "And what was that?" Falchion asked reluctantly. "I heard that your old pal Jacobius Bunggarelli tried to strong-arm an outlander the other day. The WRONG outlander.Whatever that outlander did to Bungg, it scared him so badly that his mind snapped. I hear he's over at Saint Cuthbert's, laid out like a vegetable in the charity ward." Grace paused to savor the effect his words were having. "You'd best be careful, Falchion. If word gets out that you can't keep your best friend protected, people might start to think you've gotten soft. And we all know what happensto soft Bosses." Grace smiled at his companion, then stepped out onto the street. He strolled in the direction of the Seawall, continuing his tour of the Watchposts. Falchion's pale blue eyes followed him for a long time. There was ice in them. ************** Yvette sat back in her chair. She gnawed at her lip, hugging herself protectively. Her blue eyes had gone dark and unread- able. Futuria sighed. He had known that this was going to be a grim reading. "This card covers you now." he said, flipping over another card. "It represents your present." He frowned at the card momentarily. Although the Seer could not see the image depicted upon it, his other senses told him which card it was. Futuria had heard the card's image described many times, and knew it by heart. The card depicted the image of a youthful man with an arm full of flowers. He was gazing dreamily up at the sky while before him an abyss yawned, waiting to swallow him up. It was the Tarot commonly known as the Fool. "I see another man. This one is young, or immature. He is prone to make rash decisions that could bring great sadness to you." Futuria turned over another card, laying it over the Fool. "You must influence his decisions or his decisions will begin to influence you. . . ." ************* "I don't see why you gotta do this now." Kilborn complained as he finished wrapping Winder's wrists. The wiry teenager he spoke to made no reply, his mind occupied with what was to come. Kilborn sighed, and tied off the strips of leather carefully. "The 'Crawler's a big one this time, Winder. Thunder didn't go easy on you, that s for sure." Winder turned his head and spat. "I don't want that Cha-head to do me any favors anyways." Kilborn lightly smacked the smaller teenager on the side of his head, "Watch what you say Winder. If you're going to be a Baron, you don't criticize the Leader." Winder glare at his older friend, eyes blazing hot. Kilborn met Winder's glare evenly, not dropping his eyes. After a moment, Winder nodded in acknowledgement. The wiry teenager hopped off the table, inspecting his wrappings. "You did a great job Kilborn. How much longer until I'm on?" Kilborn squeezed his pal's shoulder. "Not long. Thunder wants to make a speech first." Thunder's fortress was an apartment complex that took up half a city block in the worst section of the Low City. All the doors leading to the streets had been sealed off, save for one. The courtyard in the interior of the complex had been converted to an informal arena. Here prisoners of war were brought to be executed. New recruits wishing to join the Barons were brought here to prove themselves. The interior of the courtyard was lit tonight by a number of torches. Bathed in the flickering light, scores of feral young men had gathered to hear their leader speak. They leaned out of second story windows and lounged on balconies that overlooked the courtyard. They waited with an excitement that was barely concealed. Standing on a massive platform at one end of the courtyard, Thunder looked down upon his kingdom, and saw that it was good. Thunder was a young man, barely out of his teens. He liked to go shirtless, baring his blockily massive physique to all eyes. That physique was criss-crossed with a multitude of white scars, souvenirs of the many knife-fights he had survived in order to become leader here. He paced the wooden platform like a caged leopard. Below him, nearly one hundred teenagers and young men waited for him to speak. They were young men like Thunder. Angry young men without homes, jobs, or prospects. Men without fear. The members of his gang were united by one thing. Hatred. Hatred for the rich, hatred for authority, hatred of life. Their hatred banded them together, made them strong. Made them an army. Thunder's army, the Threadpenney Barons. "Brothers!" Thunder' voice carried across the courtyard easily, heard by every ear. "We are gathered here today to watch the testing of one of our newest recruits. He comes to us young and untried. Society has no use for him. The city of Generica has no use for him. Life has no use for him." Thunder paused, looking out at his brothers with fiery eyes. He slowly spread his hands wide above their upturned faces in a silent benediction. "The Threadpenney Barons have a use for him. No one else has given him a chance, but tonight WE will! A chance to prove that he belongs. A chance to prove that he has what it takes to become one of us. One of our family." Excited murmurs rose from the crowd below the platform. Thunder paused in his speech, pacing from one side of the wood stage to the other, looking at this assembled army. The leader of this urban clan knew how to put on a show. He was pumping them up, reinforcing a sense of esprit de corps that would bind them to each other; bind them to him. "You all know that not everyone can become a Baron; a Lord of the Streets. We have no place for the weak here. Those who are weak weaken US. They weaken our legs, they dim our eyes, they slow our sword arms." Shouts of agreement rang out here and there in the courtyard, as some of the more excitable Barons gave voice to their surging emotions. Thunder stalked back and forth, pumping his fist as if in anger, locking eyes for a brief moment with numerous members of his tribe as if to signify that they were worthy of special attention. The Gangleader's militant rhetoric never failed to strike a chord in the souls of these angry young men. "That is why no one may stand amongst us until they have passed the test. For how can we stand against those who wish us ill, if our brothers cannot stand tall at our sides? Those who wish to stand with us must earn that right!" Thunder stopped his pacing and stood still, surveying his army. They looked back at him with shining eyes, adoring him. Thunder breathed in the tension . . . and loved it. They were ready. "Bring out the Worm!" Thunder commanded. Below him, three of the Barons heaved a disheveled teenager out a doorway and into the courtyard. It was a member of the Nightcrawlers, a rival gang. The young man got to his feet with bared teeth and wild eyes. At the other end of the courtyard, a door opened slowly. "Let him stand forth; he who would be one of us!" Thunder roared. In the shadows behind the door, Kilborn turned to Winder. "You're on, pal." ************ Yvette was puzzled, confused by the reading. She leaned forward, knowing that the future would come next. The old Seer observed her sorrowfully. His patrons never knew how to separate what was important from what was unimportant. He reached for the next card. Futuria's hand froze as it came in contact with the Tarot. He struggled to keep his face expressionless. The card was cold to the touch. Ice cold. Something unearthly was afoot. He turned the card over. It was the Hanged Man. "This just keeps getting better," Yvette observed darkly. "You are mistaken child. This card is not a bad card, as such." Futuria spoke to Yvette gently, trying to focus her attention on what was being revealed. "I see a third man, one that you have not yet met. He is the one represented by the Hanged Man. This card represents wisdom, often learned at a great cost." Futuria did not mention that this was the critical part of the reading. For some reason he was reluctant to go any further. "Tell me more about this man," Yvette demanded, as Futuria had feared she would. "Very well. It requires that I deal five more cards. . . ." ***************** Tad awoke to a host of new sensations. There was a pounding in his head, a throbbing in his jaw, and a roiling in his stomach. The world was spinning past his eyes at an alarming pace. No, not spinning. It was sliding sideways. Tad turned his head and saw that he was hanging over the shoulder of his new friend, the outlander who called himself Jake Shade. Jake was walking briskly over one of the many bridges which spanned the Ceruputhon. Presumably he was taking Tad back to the Academy. "Please put me down," Tad requested. Jake stopped walking and turned to look at his passenger. "Hello there, Tad. You feel up to walking already?" "No it's not that. I think that I am going to be sick." The speed with which Jake set him on his feet did nothing to settle Tad's stomach. Jake grabbed him by the collar and marched him briskly over to the side of the bridge, bending the young Mage over the railing. He completed this action at the precise instant that Tad lost his struggle against the irresist- ible tide surging against his lower esophagus. "I remember my first beer, too." Jake said in a commiserating fashion after Tad's upheavals had subsided. "That wasn't my first beer." Tad protested miserably. "Looked like your first ten beers to me." Jake told him. The out- lander's smile was the smarmy grin that only a sober man in the company of one truly hung over can possess. Tad silently vowed to kill the outlander at some future date. "How come my jaw hurts so badly?" he whimpered, watching the river carry away his hurled offering. "That's the 'Medal of Merit' you were awarded for defending a barmaid's honor," Jake told him. "Lyssa," Tad remembered with a goofy grin. Jake shook his head in disgust. "Well, let's get you back to the Academy, Master Tad." "That's Tadmaster," the young mage said absently, still thinking about the copper-haired serving wench he had met earlier that night.. His reverie was cut short by the sound of a woman's scream. Tad and Jake both whirled to see a young woman being accosted by a tall man about one hundred paces away. Jake cracked his knuckles thoughtfully as he started up the street. "It never ends in this town," Shade bitched to himself. **************** Futuria carefully dealt the first two cards of five into the prescribed pattern. As he was about to place the third, two cards slipped from the deck and fell to the table. Yvette stretched out her hand to retrieve them. "Don't touch them!" Futuria snapped. He indicated the cards, one of which covered the Fool. The other fallen card covered the Knight of Swords. "The cards that are dealt must remain, no matter how they come into play." he explained. "Otherwise the meaning of the hand will be obscured." Futuria turned over the first card that he had placed. "This is what covers the Hanged Man." he told her. The card showed a man in robes, before a table upon which were a cup, a sword, a staff and a pentacle. The man's belt appeared to be a serpent; the head biting the tail where the buckle should have been. It was the Tarot known as the Magician. "This card indicates that the man you will meet is a man of skill and decisiveness. He is easily able to translate ideas into action." Futuria leaned back and stretched his hands over the spread Tarot cards, feeling the interwoven energies of their combined auras. His expression was one of wary concentration. "What's wrong?" Yvette asked him, trying to hide her concern. "It is unusual for a fortune to have so many of the major Arcana cards involved in it." Futuria told her, his mind miles away. "It could be that events of great importance are about to pass. Apparently they may touch upon you." Yvette sat back, her emotions in turmoil. The reading was far what she had hoped. It had revealed little, at the same time hinting at much. She was already sorry that she had come. Futuria flipped over another card, reciting the words "This is behind him," as he did so. The card showed a great tower with a turbulent sea behind it. Lightning flashed in the black sky overhead, and flames billowed from the structure. "The Tower," Futuria breathed. "Another of the major Tarots. This tells us that the man comes from a place of destruction and chaos." Futuria did not tell the girl that all the cards since the Hanged Man had been cold to the touch. She would not have understood the significance. He flipped the third card. "This is what he brings with him. The Page of Pentacles. A young person, serious and scholarly, with a respect for new ideas." Futuria frowned, unable to sense how the cards fit together. "What about the two cards that fell?" Yvette asked. Futuria flipped over the card touching the Fool. It showed an armored skeleton marching beneath a black banner. The device upon the banner was a black poppy with blood red leaves. On the horizon behind the figure, the sun was setting behind a sinister looking castle. "The Death card!" Yvette gasped. "Yes. One of these two figures will bring death to the other. Whether the Fool brings it to the Hanged Man or the reverse, I cannot say." "I've seen enough." Yvette told Futuria abruptly. "This serves no purpose. I can't imagine what I was thinking, coming here." She stood and gathered her cloak about her, preparing to take her leave. "Once begun, the reading cannot be stopped midway." Futuria protested. Yvette misunderstood him. "Keep the silver." she told him, and hustled out the door. Futuria listened to the tinkling of the bell as she left. His blind eyes stared at the remaining card for a long time. He put the tips of his fingers to it; it was ice cold, as he had known it would be. Sighing, he flipped the last card over. The Seer bolted to his feet in astonishment. "This is not possible!" ****************** Yvette let the door slam behind her. She angrily wiped the tears from her eyes. 'I should be used to disappointment by now,' she thought. She headed down the avenue towards the Low City and home. With her head hung low, she did not notice the man blocking her path until he seized her by the arm. "Hello, pretty." The voice had an electric effect on the girl. Yvette's head whipped up to look at the tall swordsman who had waylaid her. "Grace!" "So you remember me after all," the Lieutenant laughed. "It must be true what they say about a girl's first love." "You bastard!" Yvette produced a stiletto from somewhere under her cloak and struck with the speed of a striking snake. Her blade streaked straight for the Lieutenant's throat. Fast as the girl was, Grace was faster. He leaned away from the wicked stroke, and dealt her a vicious back-hand blow. The stiletto went flying, and the young woman slumped into near unconsciousness. "Affectionate as ever, I see." Grace remarked. He leaned over Yvette's semi-conscious form and violently ripped her tunic down the middle. Something gleamed in the moonlight, momentarily distracting him from the glory of her exposed breasts. "The Talisman!" he cried in amazement. ************** Tad staggered to his feet and followed after the out- lander, intent on helping anyway he could. Shade was moving quickly, he had to hurry to catch up. The man assaulting the girl heard them approaching, and turned towards them with a glowering countenance.. He yanked the girl to her feet by her wrist. A nasty bruise discolored her left cheek. Shade felt a shock of recognition as the woman's brilliant blue eyes - now dazed and unseeing - met his. It was the girl from the Fortune Teller's. Suddenly the girl's eyes cleared. "Please help me sir, he's going to kill me!" she sobbed in terror. Shade turned and regarded the man holding her. Her attacker was much taller than the outlander, at least six foot four. He had the long arms and a ropey musculature that Shade recognized as the perfect build for a swordsman. The man had long black hair bound up into an immaculate ponytail. His gray eyes looked at the outlander with a mixture of annoyance and disdain. "Uh, oh." Tad gulped, recognizing the man. Shade ignored him. "Having a little trouble finding a date tonight?" Shade inquired politely. Behind him, Tad hissed loudly, trying to get his friend's attention. Grace looked at the outlander in anger. "This is official Watch business. Move along, citizen." Shade showed no sign of obliging. "Is that an 'official' bruise on her cheek?" he asked curiously, stepping closer. "If you're a member of the Watch, why aren't you wearing one of those pretty costumes I always see them mincing around in?" Shade continued the interrogation, gradually moving ever closer to the Lieutenant. Grace looked at Shade in disbelief. "Do you know who I am, maggot?" "I'd say you're a leprous bag of pus who's going to be minus a hand if you don't let go of that girl." Shade was about to expand further upon this theme when Tad's constant hissing finally got his attention. "Would you excuse me for a moment?" Shade asked the tall man. He turned away and joined Tad in a private consultation before the man could answer. "What is so goddamned important that you've been imitating a punctured air-bladder for the last two minutes?" Shade demanded, highly annoyed. "That's Grace!" Tad whispered urgently. "He's a Lieutenant in the Watch. He's also a bad-ass in the first degree when it comes to blades. He's killed thirty men in quasi-legally sanctioned duels. We do not want to mess with this guy!" Tad was relieved that his sometimes hot-tempered friend seemed to be getting the message. Shade's eyes were wide; he was obviously impressed. Tad watched as the outlander turned to apologize. "My friend says that you really are a member of the Watch." Shade informed Grace solemnly. The Lieutenant nodded, his gray eyes slitted. "My friend also says you've killed over thirty men in legal duels." Shade continued, as if he could not believe the enormity of his own folly. Grace nodded again. "That's right. If you don't want to be the thirty-first, I would suggest you find someplace else to be." the Lieutenant growled. Sure thing, Officer." Shade acknowledged, turning to go. Yvette sobbed, her brief hope of rescue dashed. Then Shade turned back towards the Lieutenant. "My friend also said you put on a dress and turn tricks in a brothel after your shift is over. Is that true too?" "Oh, shit!" Tad breathed, backing away from the scene. Grace let go of the girl and drew his sword in a move so smooth and rapid it was almost invisible. "I'm going to enjoy cutting that tongue out of your mouth," he told Shade. Now that Shade had Grace's full attention, he was once more the picture of wide-eyed innocence. "It's just a rumor we heard!" the outlander protested, his hands spread wide. Grace closed the distance between them with two sliding steps. His sword pricked the stocky man's chest through the outlander's tunic. Tad turned and ran away as fast as his legs would carry him, weaving slightly. Shade watched him retreat with a saddened expression. "It looks like your friend is wiser than you are," Grace observed with a chuckle. "Apparently so," Shade agreed in a bland voice. He turned his attention back to the Lieutenant. "What puzzles me is how you could have amassed such a dangerous reputation by beating up women." Grace twitched his wrist and the tip of his rapier flicked up with invisible speed. Shade felt the side of his face soak with blood from the cut. Grace had slashed his cheek to the bone. "Draw your weapon," Grace instructed him, "and you will learn first-hand how I earned my reputation." "Why would I want to fight you?" Shade asked, bewildered. "While you've stood there posturing mightily, the girl has made her escape." Grace whirled to discover that the outlander's statement was true. He cursed, spinning back towards Shade. His face was livid with rage. "Well, what the hell did you expect?" Shade asked, wiping blood from the side of his face with his sleeve. "Maggot, you just cost me a lot of time and effort," Grace informed him. "You'll pardon me if I have to kill you to make myself feel better." "Why Lieutenant," Shade replied, his tone sardonic, "Is this an 'official' murder?" As Grace raised his blade to cut the outlander down, both men's attention was suddenly attracted by a tumultuous mob which suddenly broiled out into the street. At its head was a certain silver-haired Mage. "There they are!" Tad shouted to his friends, pointing to the pair of them. Grace backed away from the outlander as the crowd drew near. Nearly a score of men and women swarmed around the two men, muttering angrily. All of them were armed to the teeth, their hands near the hilts of their weapons. From the look of their armor and gear, Grace guessed them to be adventurers from the Dragon's Inn. "I got help as fast as I could," Tad told Shade breathlessly. The Mage bent over with his hands on his knees, sucking in air as fast as he could work his lungs. Shade patted him on the shoulder, looking around with a puzzled air. A tall man with angular features stepped forward. Swirling about his shoulders was a cloak that appeared as if woven from living flame. "We hear you've been overstepping the bounds of your legal authority again, Grace." he said in a tone that indicated no great surprise. Before the Lieutenant could retort, a medium-sized man in leather armor and a beige tabard stepped forward. His beard was woven in a series of complex knots. A woman with hair of strawberry-blond and a sword tattooed on one cheek flanked him. "Maybe it would be best if you moved along, Grace." the bearded man suggested. The woman tapped her sword into her palm suggestively. Grace stood his ground, glaring at the crowd that ringed him. For a moment it looked as if he were considering taking on the lot of them. Then, bowing to the inevitable, he resheathed his sword. He looked at Shade - who was enjoying some private joke - and caught his eye. "We'll meet again, outlander." he promised. The Lieutenant turned and shouldered his way through the crowd. Tad and Shade watched as Grace stomped off. When he had disappeared from view, the crowd of bold adventurers surrounding the two of them began to shimmer and take on an oddly transparent look. They continued to fade slowly, then abruptly vanished. Tad looked at his outlander friend and grinned. "Say goodbye to our rescuers." Shade was impressed. "That was very smart thinking, Tad." The young Mage grinned sheepishly and sketched a clumsy bow. "What's the good of being a Dreamweaver if you can't cook up an army of illusionary vigilantes now and then?" "I especially liked the lady with the sword tattoo," Shade commented. "She looked pretty tough for a broad." Tad clucked his tongue in disapproval. "Jake, your unenlightened and prehistoric attitude regarding women is bound to get you in trouble here in Generica." Shade grabbed the young Mage and put him into a ruthless headlock. "You are the last person who should be lecturing me about women and trouble, Master Tad." The outlander applied a vicious knuckling to his young friend's head before releasing him. "That's Tadmaster," Tad reminded him. Laughing, the two of them headed off in the direction of the Academy. From the shadows of a nearby doorway, Yvette watched them with thoughful eyes. "Say Jake, you didn't think I'd run off and abandon you, did you?" Tad asked suddenly. "Not even for a moment," Shade lied. ********************************************************************************* Jake Shade and all the other characters in this story with the exception of Futuria Crystalshard are copyrights of Jeff A. Simon, 1995. All rights reserved. Any resemblance in the illusionary mob to real characters found in the Dragon's Inn was completely intentional, but you'll never prove anything. The reprinting of this or any other Jake Shade tale for profit is strictly prohibited without the express permission of the author. This chapter dedicated to Jon Mason, who's positive feed- back was appreciated. *********************************************************************************