More about Linvin’s background.
Mandrean scanned the crowd.  “Will someone bring the Prisoners to their feet?”   An Imperial Guard stepped over to Linvin’s party and gestured with his sword for them to stand.  Having no choice in the matter, the elves complied.  Rander was speechless at what he’d heard so far.  Bander was totally confused.  Anvar’s eyes began to form tears.  Linvin, however, was enraged.  Anger poured from his expressions like a cup already filled with more liquid being added.  The fury caused his body to shake.  Anvar held his hand to restrain his nephew.  “My friends and guests,” Mandrean began.  “I present to you Bander, Rander and Anvar Greenlith accompanied by Dirk’s son Linvin Grithinshield. “Linvin, step forward,” Mandrean ordered.  Releasing his uncle’s hand, Linvin boldly walked into the middle of the map on the floor and harshly threw the nearby pawns out of the way.  He stood with his hands on his hips and a furious expression on his face.   The emperor observed him for a moment.  “Hmmm.  Somehow I thought you would appear more impressive.  No matter.”   Mandrean began reading aloud from the scroll.  “An assassin was dispatched to Valia. When he arrived Linvin had already left.  He did, however, learn a great deal about our distinguished guest.  After studying with Sedemihcra for a number of years, Linvin joined the Valian Army.  He served with distinction and advanced through the ranks at an unprecedented rate.  The half-elf Sedemihcra called his Greatest Student Ever became Supreme Commander of the Combined Armies of Valia.   “For years we had sent armaments to the Swamp Goblins in the Southern Marshes in hopes of destabilizing Valia.  Despite all our efforts including training their warlords, the man you see before you checked us at every turn with meager resources.  At one point the goblins even managed to lay siege to the capital, but Grithinshield dealt them a crushing blow with a minimal force at his command.  In all he won over a dozen major battles and earned the honorary title ‘Defender of Valia’.  After winning three startling victories to completely crush the largest invasion attempt to date, Grithinshield abandoned his men and resigned his commission.” Mandrean looked at Linvin in disgust.  “You were at the peak of your power and you quit?  It says here King Hardurian even offered to adopt you as a son and make you his heir.  Even then you refused and asked to be discharged.  For a man who is reported to be a genius on the battlefield, you certainly have no grasp of politics.”   Linvin remained silent in his rage, not seeking to indulge the inferior man addressing his character.  The twins gazed at Linvin in awe.  They’d never fully realized the scope of his accomplishments. Mandrean continued.  “By the way.  It says here they just completed your statue when my man left Valia.  It depicts you on horseback with a sword in one hand and pointing with the other as though you were giving orders.  The statue is on a pedestal in the City Square.  The whole thing sounds a little ostentatious for my taste but I suppose some people need their ego stroked more than others.  Pity you will never see it.”

And so it starts…
With all the commotion of daily commerce, the sounds of hoof steps from a galloping horse entering town went unnoticed.  The steed’s pace had become erratic.  It had thrown a shoe and was foaming at the mouth.  The animal was ready to collapse.  Pausing for a moment, once reaching the center of town, the rider produced a scroll.  He did not open it.  Rather, he merely read what was written on the outside and then tried to find his bearings in the unfamiliar place.  After turning his horse around several times, the rider determined the route he must take and headed down a street.  Soon, he stopped before a great redwood and checked the inscription on the door against the writing on the scroll.  The door read, Linvin Grithinshield - # 7 Spruce Lane.  Convinced he had found his destination, the rider dismounted and tied his horse to a nearby post. He briskly approached the door and rang the bell. Sounds of a chair sliding across a floor could be heard from inside.  The echo of footsteps was heard coming ever nearer to the door.  It swung open, to bring the resident and rider face to face. Linvin stood in the doorway, wearing a scarlet robe and a confused expression.  Outside, an exhausted young human boy was bent down with his hands on his knees in an effort to regain his breath.  He lifted only his eyes as the door opened. “It’s quite early to be running around like this,” Linvin said with a sympathetic smile.  “What brings you to my door in such a state?” The boy held out the scroll and said between deep breaths, “I come from the town of Fraylic; in the Human County.  An old elf there told me to deliver this to Mr. Linvin Grithinshield of Missandor by this morning at the latest.  Are you he, sir?” “He and I are the same,” Linvin laughed.  He took the scroll and noted the seal on the outside.  He was very familiar with the symbol impressed in the wax as it matched his own family ring.  Opening the note he found the following words:
Greetings and Salutations My Dear Nephew, If all has gone as planned you should be reading this on the morning of the ninth day of this month.  I shall be arriving in Missandor sometime in the evening of that day. I need to speak with you in person about some urgent matters, which will have a serious bearing on our futures. I send this message, in advance, in order for you to prepare.  First, tell those in town and at your store that you are going away on a long trading expedition for the company.  Tell them you may be gone for as much as a year.  Pack a mule with equipment and provisions for a long journey. I know this makes no sense right now my Boy, but do what I say and trust in me.  The time is at hand for the moon to come out from behind the clouds. I have never and would never lead you astray.
Your Loving Uncle, Anvar
 Linvin’s expression changed to a look of concern, heightened by anticipation. “Sir,” the boy interjected, “the old elf told me you would pay me ten gold pharrings for getting this message here by this morning.” Linvin looked at him inquisitively.  “When did you leave Fraylic?” “Yesterday morning, sir.” “That is a two day ride!” Linvin exclaimed as he observed the condition of the boy’s horse.  “You must not have stopped at all.” “Only for a moment here and there to rest my steed,” the boy explained as normal color returned to his face. Linvin reached behind the door and produced his money purse.  Opening the flap he began counting out money.  “Here are the ten pharrings you were promised, five more for your swift delivery, and another five to get yourself a room down the road at the inn, a good meal and a shoe for that horse of yours.” The boy was overcome by the generosity.  He thanked Linvin and then ran down the lane toward the inn, nearly leaving his mount behind. Linvin closed the door and returned to his breakfast table.  His eggs and ham lay unfinished on the plate before him.  Setting them aside, he read the letter over and over.  There was an ominous tone to the note, particularly the part referring to the ‘serious bearing on their futures’. While the letter made little sense to Linvin, he was sure of one thing.  He had the utmost trust and faith in his uncle.  If Anvar wanted those things to be done, he had a good reason.  That thinking alone was enough to make Linvin follow the instructions.

I was thinking about different blog topics today and decided to start lunch while doing so.  When I’m just feeding myself I usually go with something simple and comforting.  Nothing says that like a box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.  I looked at the box and thought for a moment.  While it is hardly gourmet cuisine I, nevertheless, always by Kraft.  I ate the off brands (especially in college) and they were just not the same.  Then I started to think about it.  There are some products where the name on them means nothing to me.  Other times I am convinced a certain brand is better.   My wife will even point out that certain products are nearly identical but my mind is made up.  Take some examples of products I am indifferent to the brand I am buying:  eggs, aspirin (or Tylenol type product), gasoline, motor oil, bread, milk, vitamins, mustard, ketchup, meat from the counter, fruit, canned vegetables, paper towels, computer paper, dental floss, pumpkin pie, cheese, wallets (not purses ladies, men’s wallets), trash pick-up (yes I have to pay to have my trash picked up), light bulbs, orange juice, pasta, sandwich bags, brake pads, ranch dressing and so on.  Now consider the items that I will stick with one brand on and at worst wait for it to go on sale: obviously Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, Oreos (there is no substitute), Nike shoes, certain lunch meats, Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream, Michelin Tires (to be fair I would also consider Goodyear if they made the right one for my car), Prego pasta sauce, Tostito’s Salsa, Doritos, Stouffer’s lasagna, Yoplait yogurt, Country Crock margarine, Diet Pepsi (I was raised on it and I am hopelessly hooked), Lays potato chips, Tostitos tortilla chips (Pepsico must love me), Calvin Klein Obsession for Men, Gillette shaving cream, Russell Stover chocolates, HP printers (you can always find ink), Sonicare toothbrushes (no cavities since I started using it 5 years ago) Quilted Northern toilet paper and La-Z-Boy rocker recliners (always had one, always will).  Are these products better than their competitors’ offerings?  Were the previous items of which I had no brand loyalty really negligible in their difference from other choices?  Sometimes I really do not think there is a difference.  They may be made in the same plant under the same guidelines and simply packaged differently.  If you believe that then there is no reason to pay extra for a name.  Mind you, it still baffles me that a manufacturer would make two identical products and sell one for less.  Still, it does happen.  Medications are a perfect example of it.  Other times people are convinced that say the Vicks brand sleep medicine works better than the store brand.  For that person I am sure it does.  It could be they are right and there is a subtle difference.  It could also be the placebo effect.  In the end, it’s about getting a good night’s sleep.  If a person believes a product will do that for them and it does, who am I to argue?  Other times there is a clear difference in the name brand.  Perhaps they use better ingredients or have higher quality standards.  Maybe they simply have a recipe that no one else can duplicate exactly (Oreos) and the best a competitor can do is imitate it.  With name brands there is usually a trust factor.  The product has either worked well for you or someone who recommended it and you seek that same level of performance.  Let me ask you this; how many times did you stray from the brand you were loyal to for any given reason and found yourself dissatisfied with the results?  Maybe you tried the cheap ice cream and didn’t like it.  Perhaps you bought the inexpensive tires and they didn’t last.  Maybe you bought the store brand pop on sale and it tasted like battery acid.  Whether real or imaginary, we each have our own list of items we hold brandless and others we buy because of brand and we stand by those beliefs.  It is a shopping religion of things you believe in and things you don’t.

It’s raining outside and when I lean back in my office chair something about the tilt of it or the room makes it swivel around to face the double windows.  I watch the cars drive by my house and splash the small puddles of water as they go.  A conga-like drum beat emanates from the eves trough and rushes out the end of the drain just on the other side of the wall.  It is a glorious day to work…on writing.  Many people have this belief that writing is not work.  While I do enjoy it and that certainly makes it far more entertaining than any other work to me, it is still taxing.  Writing makes me tired and feel spent when completed for the day.  That sounds like work.  Back in high school I remember having a heated debate with my physics teacher when he asked the question, “If you hold a dumbbell above your head, are you doing any work?”  Naturally I took the position that the person was in fact working and he was set to prove me wrong.  In the scientific community according to Answers.com, work is defined as, “work-applying a force to an object and the object moving in the direction the force is applied.”  Since the object was not moving, from a scientific perspective no work was being done.  I think a lot of people look at writing in the same way.  A writer does not leave the house or commute to a job.  There is no office or factory and the workday is not set in stone.  Paydays are irregular at best.  When someone asks you what you did today or whenever and your answer is, “I wrote” they look at you as though you took the day off or did nothing when you, in fact, accomplished quite a bit.  The dumbbell may not have moved but you are still awfully spent.  Webster’s has a broader view of work.  They define work as, “Activity in which one exerts strength or faculties to do or perform something:   a   :  sustained physical or mental effort to overcome obstacles and achieve an objective or result   b   :  the labor, task, or duty that is one's accustomed means of livelihood   c   :  a specific task, duty, function, or assignment often being a part or phase of some larger activity.”  In this example writing is given its due.  It is not a phenomenon isolated to writers.  Other artists feel the same disrespect.  It is different, though, with writers.  Most of the time people can’t look at what you’ve produced in a single day and measure your labor.  Instead, all they have to go on is your word that you worked very hard on a long project of which they can see no tangible results.  It makes you see how our livelihood is so disrespected from an effort point of view.  We live in a society where people act like you must EARN the right to be tired.  To do so you must be able to show proof of your work.  That is not always so easy for a writer.  I think that’s part of the reason so few people make it as writers.  You have to be strong enough to be able to say to yourself, “Hey, I worked my tail off on this today even though I only accomplished x amount.  I know I worked hard and that is enough for me.”  Now I think I’ll watch the rain again.

We finally learn the truth of Dirk Grithinshield’s fate.

Linvin’s eyes grew large and his mind began to race.  The picture was becoming all too clear.  “Now this Grithinshield fellow was a man of some importance in Sartan and through his connections had long since possessed the staff and key I sought.  Though the staff held some importance, Necromancer assured me it was the key I needed to open the chest.  Grithinshield had them since before the War of the Unclaimed Territory and had been searching for the chest for more than ten years.  “It was a difficult situation.  My agents searched his work with no luck but his house was like a fortress.  A break-in there would create undesirable exposure.  The last thing I wanted was another war with Sartan.  If a theft from or the murder of one of their most prominent citizens were to be traced back to me, I could forget about Romadon.  So long as he was in Sartan, we could not touch him.  “Then we devised a way to coax him into coming to us.  Word was sent that the chest was in Ravensburg and its owner would be willing to part with it for a fee.  Knowing he would be traveling through the Territory, we put every bounty hunter and bandit on alert with a price on Dirk Grithinshield’s head.  He took the bait and was captured by some bandits in the Eastern Forest.  Much to my dismay, however, Dirk had not brought the staff and key along on his journey.  Since the bandits killed him during his capture, it was impossible to interrogate Grithinshield. “Being highly frustrated, I sent a team of assassins to Sartan to research the matter further and attain at least the key.  They could use whatever devices they wished so long as they could not be traced back to the Empire and me.  Gathering all the information they could, they reported Grithinshield’s widow, Jelena shut herself up in their estate and was exceptionally difficult to reach.  Her brother, Anvar Greenlith, lived on the edge of town and was her lone visitor.  Figuring Dirk to be a cautious man they determined Greenlith would be an unlikely custodian of the artifacts. “Then a piece of intriguing news came to our Team Leader’s attention.  Grithinshield had a son named Linvin.  He was sent away right after Dirk obtained the staff.  At first we thought it was banishment of an embarrassing offspring but we soon discovered otherwise.  He was sent to study in Valia with Sedemihcra, the Master Teacher of Warfare.  It was proposed the boy had been made the guardian of the items and we may have better luck exploring that direction.”

Welcome to Missandor.

The morning sun poked curiously over the horizon.  It painted the sky in a dazzling display of vibrant colors.  The brilliant star seemed to pause for a moment, while taking its first look at the world, to which it was bringing light.  The majestic, glimmering light brought a caress to the silky spring clouds.  They would continue to carelessly banter about the sky, riding winds where they led. As the dark of night retreated, a dense fog still stubbornly held the land in a cloak of disguise.  Such a spiteful deed by its dark counterpart, seemed to displease the sun.  It resolved to rise steadily into the air and shine brightly down upon the usurper with all its might.  Being no match for such luminance, the night reluctantly withdrew its misty blanket and released the land to the dawn. As the haze dissipated, it gracefully revealed treetops where one might expect the ground to be.  With more and more of the air clearing, the trees spread out in all directions.  It was a great forest of redwoods, which seemed quite normal at first glance.  Upon closer inspection though, it could be seen that the trees were twice as wide as houses and were spaced out evenly, most certainly in a deliberate pattern.  It was not just a forest, but also a town. The trees were actually the town of Missandor. The spacing of the giants formed a grid, which created streets through the town. There were no houses there in a conventional sense.  The inhabitants lived within and upon the trees. Missandor was a community of elves. The swarthy skinned folk with brown hair and eyes were slightly more modest in height than their human counterparts. As a whole, it could be said that elves were a friendly and kind people but also intensely proud and distrusting of other races.  In Missandor, however, the population was known to be accepting of different cultures and races, making for an atypical elven town. The quiet streets soon erupted with the sounds of the market opening for business.  Stands, carts and stores of all types were opening.  In a matter of minutes, the town had gone from a simple forest to a merchant conglomerate. Sounds of children playing all around, blended with the haggling taking place at the vendors.  It created a symphony of sound, which was pierced on occasion, by the ringing of a bell on the local water wagon.  It was pulled by two horses and driven by a kindly old elf that had been delivering this precious commodity to homes since he was a child.  He would most likely continue his task until his eventual demise.  He was a constant in the ever-changing township.

One thing I have always prided myself on is never having writer’s block.  To be fair, I don’t usually sit down to write unless I have something ready to go.  I tend to have this thing I will call writer’s neutral.  It’s the strangest thing.  I know exactly what I want to write and what I want to say.  It is all storyboarded and thought through.  Then something comes up and I have to take care of it right away.  Then something else does.  Then I remember something I was supposed to do.  When all is said and done, I sit down in front of the computer and stare at the screen.  The words are there in my mind but I’m stuck in neutral.  I can’t bring myself to write the words down.  For me (to extrapolate on my music analogy from yesterday) writing is like dancing a waltz.  It is a slow, methodical display of passion carrying one away to somewhere else.  It’s hard to get ready to waltz when you know you will have homework to help with or a family outing soon or even your spouse wanting you to spend that time with them.  So you are left not with the time for a long piece by Strauss but rather a quick hit from the Beatles.  Both are great.  But they are two different types of dancing.  So you are left with this short window that started later than you wanted or ends earlier than you would like or both.  There is that blank screen and you think to yourself, “If I start writing now I’m going to be interrupted and lose my train of thought or else keep telling the other party to wait and risk creating an awkward situation.”  Neither prospect is pleasing.  Thus you stare at the screen in neutral.  The words are there.  The question becomes whether there is the time and conviction to get them down.  I have played both sides.  I have been the person locked in the computer room writing with all my heart for days if not weeks.  The next thing I know I am an alien to my own family.  Plans have been made of which I am not a part and decisions have been made without my input.  It is a lonely, isolated feeling.  On the other side of the coin I have taken part in all sorts of activities and been involved in all the plans.  Then my writing comes to a complete stop and is totally ignored.  Either way, a little part of me dies inside.  So I try to be all things to all people and find myself stuck in neutral in front of the computer with the kids about to get home from school.  That will not work.  So much is in my head screaming to be written.  My mind wants that long waltz.  Sometimes I guess you just have to take turns deciding what part of your life to indulge.

The list of things we take for granted in this world is longer than any blog I could write.  I will not try to give thanks for everything we fail to appreciate as this piece would turn into nothing more than a list.  Instead, I want to focus on one thing I am thankful to have in my life.  (This is in no way meant as a slight to my family or loved ones.)  In speaking in terms of a non-person, the most important thing I am thankful for in my life is my ability to write.  One night when I was a child I was sitting with my mother watching PBS during what I liked to call one of their “Beggathons.”  In between the pleas for money they would show concert pianist playing everything from Chopin to Gershwin.  I had just finished listening to my favorite Beach Boys cassette (Yes, I came to the party late but still know the value of a good four part harmony) and had no taste for the piano pieces my mother closed her eyes and drifted away during.  She was appalled when I heard “Rhapsody in Blue” and said, “Hey, they’re playing the United Airlines song!”  My mother buried her anger as a former music major in college.  She told me to watch the pianist.  To my amazement, he was not even looking where his fingers were going.  They just danced across the keys like some magic puppeteer was controlling them.  It was like the music was coming out of him and not the piano.  Then she told me to close my eyes and just feel the music.  I did as she asked and it was like a wave flowing over me.  In that instant I had a sudden appreciation for a great performer.  He made the music come to life.  Some time later my cousin played “Rhapsody in Blue” on the piano and she was very good.  What I heard though was a collection of notes and not the wave of music I had been so amazed by.  We have all read good writers and not so good writers.  When I sit down at the computer with an idea and no one around to disturb me, I feel like that concert pianist letting the words flow in a majesty of diction.  It is not often but sometimes I can get on a roll.  When I am done I look at the screen and stare in wonder at what I have just created.  Perhaps no one else will like it but to me I have made something that transcended time and space if only for that briefest of moments.  I will be proofreading my work and come to that part.  I pause and smile every time.  The memory of that pianist comes to mind and I cannot help but grin.  I am not an arrogant or vain fellow but I know when I nailed it.  That is the greatest feeling in the world.  So today, I am thankful for writing.  This is my stage.  Let the words flow.

The pieces start to come together.

The crowd mumbled at the utterance of the name.  Linvin and his company were immediately at attention.  As the noise grew to a crescendo Gramlick once again addressed his master.  “That is a bedtime story, My Lord.  Please tell me you don’t think you’re going to find it and lead our armies to victory?” Mandrean nodded to Fendri.  The Housemaster abruptly stood and disappeared into the hall from which Lord Mandrean arrived.  Moments later, he returned followed by two Imperial Guards carrying a stone chest the size of an anvil.   Strange letters were carved along its entire gray surface.  The lid was clearly separated into two equal sides.  Each was held closed by a latch forming a keyhole.  The soldiers set it on the ground before the Emperor.  They stepped away and Fendri returned to his seat.  Necromancer could barely remain seated as excitement took hold. Mandrean addressed Gramlick again.  “I don’t need to find it.  The Red Sapphire is in the chest before you.  I am currently the most powerful man in the world because of my position.  I will soon be the most powerful individual because of my abilities.”   Gramlick was dumbfounded.  “You mean to tell me the Legendary Red Sapphire, not seen since the Dark Ages, sits before your feet in that chest?”  Mandrean held out his hand toward Fendri who quickly filled it with a scroll.  “The writings are ancient and can only be read by Necromancer,” the Emperor answered.  “He assures me the Red Sapphire is in the right side of the chest.  The left side I presume to be some sort of a trap.  He is completely sure it is in the right side.  Is that correct, Necromancer?”  The eager Court Magician answered, “It is clear, My Lord.  The Red Sapphire is in the right side of the chest.”  “How did you come by this chest?” Gramlick asked in amazement.  “Have a seat, Old Friend, and I will tell you all.”  He opened the scroll and read silently for a moment.  Then he addressed the court again.  “Let me tell you all a story you will find most interesting.  Several years ago one of our iron mines found this chest deep within a section of solid rock.  It was not buried there.  It was completely surrounded as though the rock formed around it.  After the chest was sent here Necromancer told me the Red Sapphire was contained within and its master would command fantastic power.  The problem before me was that this was the end-piece of a puzzle.  The writings spoke of a staff and key that were the other components of the mystery.   In spite of all Necromancer’s efforts, even he could not open the chest.  The only way to gain the gem was to locate the other pieces of the puzzle.  “So I sent out agents around the world and they made an amazing discovery.  It would seem there was a merchant of some note in Sartan who also sought the Red Sapphire.  His name was Dirk Grithinshield.”  

Things behind the scenes are going south in a hurry for Linvin’s family.
Summer turned to autumn and the rainy season followed in turn.  When the clouds lifted after the winter months, they revealed the robust spring for which the region was renowned. Though Fraylic was immense and wealthy, not all areas of the city shared in the prosperity.  A dilapidated warehouse district occupied the south side of the city. Buildings that once were prized property, had fallen into disrepair and lack of use.  Even the roads in the district, that once were paved of the finest stone, had degraded to such a state that their former greatness seemed more fantasy than reality. It was a moonless night.  Only the occasional working streetlamp lit the area in which the sun had given its merciful daily reprieve.  The cloak of darkness enveloping the area hid a multitude of evils.  Even the Town Guard, usually diligent in their duties, turned a blind eye to the region.  Theories ranged from payoffs to a simple fear of the vermin on two or four legs. Regardless of the reason, the area was scarcely patrolled and became a haven for those not wanting to be found or bothered. The quiet blackness was disturbed by the sound of shoes walking along the street.  Their pace was erratic. At first, they were steady steps, but as the figure in the darkness neared an illuminated area, the steps came to a halt.  Then slowly, the sound returned, as the person went to great lengths to remain in hiding.  After traversing a seemingly short distance over a long period of time, the hidden figure neared an alley with a working street lamp at its entrance. Out from the shadows, stepped a young human woman wearing a cloak over what appeared to be a servant’s uniform.  She looked apprehensive as she pulled the cloak tight and peered about.  There was no movement on the street.  She sighed without seeming particularly relieved and turned down the alley. Refuse lined the sides of the passage and rats of ever increasing size scurried near her feet.  Her steps were taken more and more slowly.  Even so, as she looked behind, the light on the roadside looked distant and hardly discernible. When she turned back to her original direction, she stepped squarely into a man of great size who had emerged from the darkness.  Startled, she jumped backward and ran directly into a second person.  Before she could react, the second person grabbed her arms and prevented her from moving.  The assailant in the front, pressed a blade firmly against her throat. “Scream and you die,” said the voice of a man in the front.  The woman did not flinch.  There was silence, as the blade pressed so tightly against her skin, blood began to trickle from her neck.  Even as the blood ran, she did not move. “People say there could be frost this spring,” the man with the knife stated. “Not in the south,” she said firmly. The blade was removed from her neck.  She immediately kicked the instep of the man holding her and elbowed him in stomach, then she turned her wrath on the man with the knife.  She kicked it out of his hand and with a spin, kicked again, this time colliding with the side of his head.  The man staggered but did not go down.  He lashed back surprisingly fast and struck her in the jaw with his fist.  The man from behind joined the fray and the three ferociously exchanged blows. “Enough!” yelled a voice from the dark end of the ally.  With that one word, the three participants immediately ceased hostilities and stood panting.  “You are all professionals,” the voice called, “act like it.” The woman gave one last kick to the shin of the man who had held the knife to her.  “You cut me Two!” she snipped as the blow landed. “If you hadn’t answered the question right I would have shown you a real cut,” Two answered while rubbing his shin.  “What’s your problem Six,” the man who had held her arms said.  “I’ve had worse cuts shaving my face.  Of course, you probably have too.” Six turned to him and kicked him in the groin.  He fell to the ground and she stood over him.  “Come now, Three,” she chided.  “I get worse pain than that from wearing these shoes.” “I said enough,” the mysterious voice called again.  He was joined by two other figures from the blackness.  “On this mission we work as a team, not individuals.  Our target is not in this ally.  The next person to step out of line will become my target.  Clear?” Five voices answered in unison, “Clear One.” “Alright then,” One said as he approached Six. “What is the status of the target?” Six stepped forward and gave her answer, “I have steadily increased the dosage of the poison in her food as planned.   Her condition has deteriorated to the point where she should be dead by now.” “Does anyone suspect anything other than natural causes?” One asked. “It is unclear,” Six answered.  “She has been increasingly attended by physicians and others.  The poison is very difficult to trace.  The symptoms are ordinary in nature.  It would take a knowledgeable doctor to detect the poison.” “With the finances at her disposal, we must assume that she has such a doctor,” One concluded.  “Is our presence suspected?” “Not that I can tell,” Six answered.  “I made sure the final doses would be administered by unknowing servants.  Not being there when she died, I would never be suspected.” “Let’s get to the point,” interrupted Two.  “Did you find the prize?” Six looked sheepish as she sought the proper words.  “I located it two weeks ago under her bed.  Each day I checked to make sure it was still there.  It was there this morning when I took her breakfast, but when I left this evening, it was no longer under the bed.” The other five voices started to murmur in despair.  One stopped the bickering once again.  “Quiet!” he said.  “If she was as bad off as you say, I do not think she would have had the strength to hide it.  Correct?” “No Sir,” Six answered confidently. “Then someone else must have taken it,” One surmised.  “Did she have any visitors today?” “The doctor came in the morning but he did not have it when he left,” Six answered.  “It would have been impossible to hide.” “Anyone else?” pressed One. Six was quiet for a moment, then she spoke quickly.  “Her brother came to visit this afternoon.  I…I did not see when he left.” “What do you mean?” Two demanded.  “How could you not see him leave?  Did he take the prize or not?” “I said that I don’t know!” fired back Six.  “It’s not like I could just sit there and watch the door all day. How inconspicuous would that be?  In order to maintain my cover, I had to see to chores.  When I went back to check on her, he was gone.” “And that is the point where you noticed it was missing?” One asked. “I did not have the opportunity to check until the end of my shift.  At that point, I noticed the prize was gone.” “Maybe it was hidden somewhere else in the house,” Five said. “If it was,” One surmised, “there is no way to search it with her now being dead.  The mansion will be crawling with Town Watch and investigators.” “So we are foiled!” hollered Two.  “Great.  All these months of work blown in one day!” “Shut up!” Six snapped.  “You would have fared no better.” “This arguing is pointless,” One affirmed.  “The most likely fate of the prize is that the target suspected foul play and gave it to her brother for safe keeping.  If that is the case, then there are two destinations we are most likely to find him.  Either he will be at his home on the other side of town or he will have gone to his nephew’s in Missandor.” “So do we split up?” Five asked. “No,” answered One.  “We will search faster together.  First, we will tear the brother’s house apart.  If we do not find it there, then we will move on to her son. Failure is not acceptable in this mission.  Now everyone move.  We will not sleep this night.” As they scurried down the alley, Two could not help but jab at Six again.  “It figures you would blow this for all of us.” “We will have the prize soon,” Six answered back, “but if you say one more thing I will kill you where you stand.” “Save it for our new targets!” yelled One as they entered the street.