I am Kalag, the first Kalag of what I hope will be many.  This is my diary.  Fellow thief, I dedicate its contents to you.  Read
on.  May what I write here help you along the Shadowed Path we've both chosen.
 

I came from nowhere you've heard about, nor is it important.  It doesn't exist anymore, like so many other villages that have been hit by the spate of recent plague years.  Without families to take care of the fields, there were no crops.  Without crops,
there was famine even among the farmers.  When famine came, the villagers had two choices.  Stay and die, griping to the bitter end; or leave for larger towns.  I chose to leave.

The obvious place to go was River Crossing.  Reputation had it that the place wasn't as stuffy as River Haven, or quite as large
(yet) as much older Lanival's Town, though growing fast.  An easier place, all in all, to make a start.  I ignored the idea of
hitting up the Elven and Dwarven communities.  The Dwarves I'd encountered were friendly enough to outsiders, but clannish.  The Elves offered less than that.

I arrived in River Crossing with a little training, a few tricks to barely stay alive and hardly anything to call my own.  I
expected to hang out and watch things quietly, doing a little scattered shoplifting and picking of the younger elements while I
bettered my combat skills outside.

As soon as I headed down a dingy little lane in the southwestern part of town I could see things weren't going to turn out as
planned.  Instead of marks with loose pursestrings I was confronted with an old man being assaulted by 2 young toughs.
One was a musclebound barbarian type with a twohanded sword, blonde and dark-skinned like many mercenaries I'd seen from the Wolf Clan.  The other was a pale spidery creature who looked like he'd fall over in a good breeze, even if he was wielding a short, nasty-looking curved blade.  Then he opened his mouth and grinned, and I saw that his teeth had been sharpened to fine points.  I no longer considered him a pushover.

They were hitting on an old man, like I said, kind of bent, his head covered with a few wisps of long white hair.  His skin was
more mottled and shrunken than a prune with sunstroke.  In his left hand was a badly repaired cloak, draped to fend off attacks. In his right hand was a pretty dagger, a gold-hilted thing surmounted by a fine emerald.

A derelict can die with a rusty knife in his hand, and no one thinks twice of the lump until the air starts to stink.  A
wealthy nobleman can die in battle, too, surrounded by a much better class of garment and weapon, and though he comes to a
better funeral it all seems just as natural.  But when a stick who looks like he's been working the begging trade for 65 years
tries to defend himself with an emerald toothpick, there's something curious there that raises my interest.

Curiosity has always led my fortune, both good and ill.  I took a step forward out of curiosity, here.  The barbarian immediately turned to face me while his shorter friend wove a web of bleeding scratches around the oldster.  I knew at once I had taken sides.

He came at me with a big, broad grin, swinging that piece of metal back like a summons to death.  Retreating slowly, I tripped
and fell.  I could see the helplessness reflecting back at me from the glint in his eyes as he moved in for the kill.

Then I sprawled back on my elbows and pushed hard, upwards and out, with both my feet.  They caught the barbarian right between the legs, mid-bulge.  No leather armor could cushion that kind of force, but then only a fool would rely on leather armor when using brute strength.  I doubted he'd do it again, as he collapsed with a hoarse cry.

There was little time for satisfaction, however.  His friend glanced around, first in alarm, then with a look of more
concentrated hatred than I've ever seen on anybody else since. He tore at me, tossing aside his blade.

I still had no weapon out.  I admit being surprised by his reactions; a mistake.  He was quickly on me, using nails and
teeth.  The pain was awful, like being gored by some wild animal instead of killed cleanly with a single blow.  I tried to push
him away, hearing screams that I dimly realized were my own.

Then just as suddenly he coughed oddly and shivered, and fell to one side.  No longer breathing, his eyes remained wide open, and blood dripped from his mouth and fingers: my blood.  A dagger stood out of his back, its pommel decorated with an emerald.  It was the last image I recall before fainting.

I came to on a wooden palette in a one-room hut built of caked earth and straw.  There was a woolen blanket around me--
discolored and tattered, but clean.  The old man whose life I saved was seated on a chair.  Watching me.  He nodded.

"How long?" I asked.

"Two days," he replied.

"I don't usually faint."

"You probably don't fight too many snowbeasts barehanded, either."

"Snowbeast?"

"An osaebraith, yes?  Maybe not."  He shrugged.  "Maybe the light deceived me.  Human or snowbeast, he was fury, and your death was written on his heart."

"So we're even, then," I said.

The old man peered at me quizzically.  "Even?  Oh-- you mean, you saved my life, I saved yours.  Yes, if you want to think of it
that way.  We're even."  He snorted and rose, then walked out of view.  I heard him rummaging around.

"We're not?"

"You're full of questions," he said, coming back with a mug in his hands.  It was half-full of something brown with red flecks
swimming in it.  "Shut up, if you don't mind.  And drink."

I took the mug and cautiously sipped the contents; then less cautiously, for it was amazingly good.  In fact, I ended up
gulping it down, and licked my lips.  He chuckled.  "Good, right? You'll sleep now.  We'll talk again later."  I started to ask him
what he meant about my sleeping now, but stopped because my body felt wonderfully warm and completely relaxed.  Maybe I'd just take a nap after all, and save the argument about who directs my actions until later.

When I woke the world in general seemed a much friendlier place, probably because I felt like I was still numbered among the
living.  Not that my body was in the best of shape after that encounter, but even the pain felt good when I considered the
alternative.  The old man was seated across the floor with his back to me, on a squat, heavily carved wooden stool that looked
filched from some rich merchant during its better days.  He scratched his rump absentmindedly, and fiddled with some
mechanical contraption.

"You have a name?" I said.

He didn't drop his intense scrutiny for a second.  Whatever he was working on issued a metallic pop.  "Call me Lyanothe.  You?"

"Kalag Ka'hurst.  What are you working on?"

I heard some tapping, and a couple of musical notes like chimes; then a long grating sound and a loud click.  "Nothing," chuckled
the old man.  He turned around, and held forth an elaborate contraption of springs, levers and pulleys.  In among these were
two small balloon-shaped bags with nozzles pinched by ragged-edged tines.  "You have never seen the like to this before," he
said, indicating the object in his hands.  I agreed.

"It is the prototype of a new trap, created by Xeros Monlinde for the Traders' Guild-- specifically Arnile Hanskwin.  Syndic
Hanskwin is a pushing man, and he pushes new methods to forestall thieves."  Lyanothe tapped the contraption with a long, thickly jointed finger.

"How did you acquire it?"

Lyanothe tenderly lowered the device into his lap, and sighed. "Xeros and I have a long-running feud.  He claims he makes
unpickable locks.  I claim there isn't a lock that can't be picked, given the right tools and the right man.  Hanskwin knew
this, and turned the matter to his advantage.  He has a genius for that.

"Using the guild coffers, he required of Xeros a complex gas trap beyond any that has ever been seen, and beyond any that could ever be picked."

"Wait a minute," I interrupted.  Slowly rising, I sat hunched over.  "What," I continued after catching my breath, "is the
value of a chest you can't open?"

"The Traders' Guild hates roguery of all types, be it performed by pickpockets, cutthroats, or locksmiths.  Not unreasonably so, though they also employ such people for specific tasks.  Like me.  In any case, Hanskwin had the idea to create chests you couldn't disarm, and sell the device to the smarter creatures that lie beyond normal contact.  Imagine finding a box on a goblin or rock troll.  You try to open it, it explodes..."

"I must be dense.  What critter will place its belongings in something it can't open?"

Lyanothe grinned at me.  "Who spoke of placing valuables in such a chest?  Lad, the boobytrapped chest would be a hoax.  A scheme in concert between traders and creatures to kill as many greedy thieves as possible.  I don't doubt that the traders planned to make money off the selling of such a device, either."

I blinked.  "Do the traders hate those they call thieves that much in River Crossing?"

He pondered.  "No more than the thieves hate traders.  Some work well with thieves, like them personally.  Some hate all with
fervor.  Some save their anger for a select few.  Some seek to perform dispassionate deeds of malice when chance and the Gods permit.  Syndic Hanskwin is like that.  Developing new ways to harm those who live in the shadow of the town aids his chances at rising to the top of his guild.

"So he approached me with a proposition: disarm the chest successfully, and what was inside would be mine to keep.  Fail,
and I would assuredly die from the trap."

"You did not die."

"No.  And as for what is inside--"  Lyanothe delicately pulled open a small drawer in the middle of the trap, and lifted out a
large teardrop amethyst.  After a quick glance he placed it in his clothing.  I whistled low and slowly.

The old man shrugged.  "It will be our reprieve from death," he said simply.  "A short one, considering what life's fallen to in
this town right now.  But any reprieve is a good one, and such a pretty bauble can buy some decent time out of the jail when we get caught."

"We?"

His proposal was simple.  I was young, strong, but new in town and very green.  He was knowledgeable but getting on a bit.
Though he took forever explaining it, the thing boiled down to a mutual aid society.  "I'll teach you whatever your liver can
hold," he said.  "You'll protect our mutual belongings and run errands.  We'll split everything 75/25."

I chuckled briefly, until it started to hurt too much.  "Look, I may be green, but I'm not green enough to fall for an argument
like that.  I put myself in the way of every in-coming dagger, arrow or sword aimed at your heart, you teach me in safety, and I
get one cut to your three?  My father wasn't from Dartle Vale, you know."

"And I'm not a smooth-minded cleric, Kalag.  I'll do what I can in the defense of our fortunes, too; it's just that I can't do as
much as I once did.  As to the learning I can provide, this is not a meagre matter, I assure you."

"You've seen a sample of my wares," I countered.  "Let's see some of yours.  Give me your first lesson, a free one.  Then we'll
talk about partnerships."

Lyanothe nodded.  "Very well."  He removed a set of curious tools from a small, worn, discolored sack hanging from his tunic belt.

"Now we will also have a chance to see how good a student you'd make.  For I could relish teaching an apt pupil with a gainful
mind.  Truly, there aren't many about."  And with that, he started his first lesson.

It was an overview of lockpicking.  He started with the variety of chests and the purposes of traps.  Then the discussion
expanded into a broad summary of the currently available types of traps.  Poison traps, which combine ingredients when tampered with to release a sickly green cloud to gradually destroys health.  Acid traps that spray a powerful corrosive agent, eating into body and armor alike.  Gas traps that render movement uncertain and balance impossible.  Blade traps that are unsubtle but very effective against lightly armored locksmiths.  Lightning traps that have an opposite effect: they do the worst damage to those wearing heavier metal armor.  Flare traps that blind everyone in the area.  Explosive traps that generate a quickly expanding gas which does shock damage itself and propels shrapnel in all directions.  Stun traps that weak versions of these last, causing concussive damage which may be shortlived, or may create enough internal bleeding to lead to death.

"All these we will examine one at a time in our later lessons," Lyanothe continued, "along with the appearance of each trap, the
concerns regarding its removal, probable effects and strategies for lessening potential damage.  For now, it is merely necessary
to note the existence of divers lock trapping methods.  We resume."

Having considered traps, the old man turned next to locks.  He said that locks appeared alike to those uninitiated in the Craft,
and success at opening them seemed almost random.  In fact, locksmithing involved the use of several skills and personal
attributes, which in turn could be improved with hard work and rare implements.  These latter included different types and
strengths of lockpicks, from cheap pieces of stiffened wire to professionally designed lockpicks which were light, durable,
well-balanced, and capable of almost intelligent response to the touch of a wafer-thin plate or invisible hair.

"With all this arrayed against us, one might reasonably wonder if locksmiths shouldn't consider a simpler, safer profession,"
Lyanothe said, "such as cleaning the teeth of cougars, or soliciting marriage contracts from S'lai scouts.  However, danger
is abated by a steady hand, a good eye, and great knowledge; and the rewards for the successful locksmith can be worth the effort. We turn next to the contents of chests, and their appraisal."

It could have been a statement like, you'll find coins and gems in chests that make picking them worthwhile.  It wasn't.  It was
a discussion of the kinds of gems, and what they might appraise at in different shops, and whether the weight of certain coin
denominations were worth carrying around by locksmiths on the road-- which slipped into a discussion of encumbrance and its
effects.

"Greed is a failing that has killed more than one locksmith. Professional pride is understandable, but greed is a base
failing.  Pride may rely for its growth on a genuine estimate of increasing skill.  Greed has nothing to do with personal
attributes; it nullifies advantage; it whispers lies about personal safety.  There are stories about greedy locksmiths, and
they are without exception cautionary tales that end in death," said Lyanothe grimly.

So we briefly examined the encumbrance values of different pieces of armor, whether the use of each outweighted its drawbacks to locksmiths.  We considered the kinds of weapons that were lighter, took up less space, and could be wielded with less effort in sudden battle.

Just then we heard the watchman's sticks clatter together 8 times as he passed down the street.  I realized as Lyanothe lit a small oil lamp that we had been in darkness for sometime.  "Three hours," he said simply.  "I apologize for boring you at such
length."

"Your point's made.  I have a lot to learn, and you're the man to teach it.  But I have a counteroffer."

Lyanothe's eyebrows shot up.  "Oh?"

"Yes.  Good as you are as a teacher, I'm just as good a pupil. You teach me well and I'll be joining you in the business soon
enough.  Nowhere near as good as you, but when you add that to being the business' arms and feet...so let's say, 75/25 for the
first 2 months, then we examine my progress and renegotiate the terms."

"Three months.  You'll need at least that to make a barely decent locksmith under my daily tutelage, and you still won't have
experience-- just knowledge.  Maybe 3 months is too short a time."

I grinned.  "Three months it is."  We touched hands.  I stood up and stretched, feeling my wounds scream and glad to be alive.
Lyanothe removed the piece of moldy cheese, stale bread and watered wine that would furnish our feast to celebrate a first
night's partnership.

Then, there were the traders.  Always plenty of traders.  They came in assorted shapes and sizes, from Humans to talkative
Halflings, to snooty Elves and argumentative, friendly Dwarves.  They hung out a lot in the marketing district on the small east
side of town, beyond the Segoltha, but they also bought, sold and gossiped among non-merchant folk in the main western area.

If you watch anything you get to understand it better, and if you watch people you get to see a lot.  Sitting there, passing the
time in the shade of the Town Green, I saw rag children hand out leaflets, and criers singing the goods of their clients.  Hopeful
families, fresh from the country, gazed about in wonder.  Beggars died silently on the street, and were pushed into the sewers by passing guards or small armies of jeering boys.

I was also beginning to acquire a standing.  Regular inhabitants waved when they saw me take up my post.  Even a couple of the guards unbent sufficiently to nod.  I was "Lyanothe's Fetcher," but increasingly customers who needed a quick pick on a chest would drop it in my lap.  Some said they didn't want to wait a day.  Others said they liked watching me work.

One day a broad man in a purple robe lined with ermine swept through Uthmor Square when I was there, and stopped opposite me. "So," he said in a deep, powerful voice.  "Lyanothe's taken my advice.  Got himself an apprentice.  Good."  He motioned to a pair of large guards to halt and leaned forward, dropping his tone as close to a whisper as he could manage.  "Boy: learn well. Steer clear of your master's other interests, and you'll live long in the employ of your betters."  Without waiting for reply he turned away and continued on his business, his coin-heavy velvet purse dangling impudently in full view.

I asked Lyanothe that evening about the man I'd met.  "Arnile Hanskwin, Syndic of the Traders' Guild," he said without pause.
"Well-informed as usual, and passing judgement about things he doesn't comprehend.  Also as usual."

"Could these other interests he mentioned be tied to that little event which led to our meeting months ago?"

Lyanothe grinned faintly.  "They could be."  He pondered a moment.  "How shall I put this?  -Locksmithing is an honorable
trade.  But with so many locksmiths around, the competition is fierce.  Few patrons recognize the advantages appertaining to
craftsmanship.  They would rather hand their chests to rank amateurs and risk the loss of a small fortune, then pay a
pittance for the security my efforts bring.

"Necessity speaks.  I have to supplement my income.  In my spare time I'm a reasonably decent pickpocket, which few citizens suspect."

I nodded.  "Glad to hear that's all it is.  For a moment I suspected you were a spy for the Dark Hand or the Minatain
hordes."

Lyanothe snorted.  "Some would say the line of work we're in consists of nothing but spies and traitors.  We're needed, but
we're treated like dirt."

This wasn't a new argument to me.  I'd heard it from fighters, warmages, empaths, even wealthy traders-- every person's
occupation was the special target of the anger of the gods, it seemed.  Everybody else's was given preferred treatment.  I
sighed inwardly, and prayed that the gods were more forbearing than their worshippers.

"As it happens," I said, changing the subject, "I'm interested in pickpocketing, too.  Probably should learn some of that.  Might
prove useful someday."

"No, Kalag.  Not now, I think.  A second pickpocket in the family can only get us into more trouble with people we aren't equipped to handle."  By now I knew it was useless to argue with him in this frame of mind, so I decided to wait out the point.

"However," he continued, "now that we are building a reputation, I think we require more than youth and the image of competence for our defense.  No offense meant.  I trust to your street smarts and perceptiveness.  It's just that...well, a kick in an oaf's groin is one matter.  The methodical disposition of a clever adversary is another."  I had to agree.  My success
against the barbarian was still a sweet memory, but the scars on my back and shoulders refused to forget his smaller friend with
the claws.

"You can use some weapons training-- and I know just the fellow to provide it.  An old companion of mine, a wanderer who hates staying in one place more than a few months at a time.  We've been through some times together."  Lyanothe's features briefly took on a prouder, more concentrated countour.  For a moment his years fell away, and I wondered (not for the first time) at my partner's origins and identity.

Lyanothe stretched.  "Any other matters we need to discuss before calling an end to the day?"

"Yeah.  One.  It's been three months since we formed our partnership. Three months, and time to review the conditions of our contract."

I stated all I'd learned during that time from Lyanothe, and recited a list from memory of all the chests I'd picked.  You
understand, I wasn't one-quarter the locksmith he was, but I also furnished the legs for our operation, and the brawn (what little had been required yet) when that was needed.  I figured that, adding everything together, my contribution equalled Lyanothe's.

He figured the same, of course.  I knew it, and he knew I realized it.  We needed one another.  The old man protested, we
dickered, but in the end the terms of our relationship were changed.  I was now a full partner.

A couple of weeks later I came home to find Lyanothe standing near his workbench talking to another elderly Human.  He was
nearly as slim as Lyanothe, but looked a lot less fragile.  In fact he was built like a windhound:  broad in the chest, narrow
and long everywhere else and not an ounce of civilized fat on him.  His features were tanned and crinkled like a piece of old
parchment you'd crumple up and toss in the fire.

"That's him," Lyanothe said, pointing a thin pick probe at me. The unknown nodded, and advanced.

"Attack me," he said, simply.  I waited, but he didn't have any weapon.  "It's alright.  Draw your sword.  Attack me.  Give it
all you've got."

I did as requested, an overhand chop.  He avoided the blow easily, leaning to one side.  I tried again, slicing at his
midsection.  Strongly, I thought.  He bowed inward-- I must have missed him by an inch, but he didn't even blink.  Out of the
corner of my eye I saw Lyanothe grin.

By now I suspected nothing I could do would touch this stranger, but I wasn't about to give up so easily.  I launched a series of
attacks in quick succession, circling him and weaving about.  I dropped suddenly to the ground, shooting my sword out in a
splayed arc.  I lunged at him.  Nothing seemed to make a difference.  He hung there, dodging without effort, not even
breathing hard while I huffed like a musk hog.

Suddenly a blade appeared in his hand.  His eyes opened impossibly wide, and with a tearing scream he jumped forward.  I
went on the defensive and watched him warily.  Nothing else happened for a few seconds; then he scanned me, frowning
thoughtfully, and backed away.  His blade vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"Well?" asked Lyanothe.

"He's strong," replied the other man.  "He'll never be very fast, but he's out of shape and could become quicker with work.  He
overuses his arms, and he thrusts his head forward like a shield, which is stupid.  He forgets the rest of his body most times.  He
dodges badly.  He thinks his enemy is a stationary target. Still, he kept his temper when he couldn't hit me; that's
important.  And when I attacked he behaved smart, wasn't surprised."

"That's because I've been surprised once and paid the price."  I grimaced.

He shot me a glance.  "So?  If you've learned a lesson and lived, all the better.  Ditch the short sword; with your strength, it
stinks.  I'll bring you another weapon when we start training.

"That'll be tomorrow at six calls, for one hour.  Theory and practice.  Again at twenty calls, one hour, strategy and
practice.  We'll meet at the ferry sight on the western bank of the Segoltha.  Don't be sluggish, and don't be late.  Fair
warning.  I enjoy giving pain."  He showed the first emotion I'd seen since his arrival, an unpleasant, lopsided smirk.

With that he nodded curtly to Lyanothe, and left.  "Your friend?" I asked.

"My friend.  His name's Sevant Teal."

"He sounds like he knows his business."

"He was expert at it when I first met him, 22 years ago."

"What exactly is his business?"

"The perfection of his technique-- I think."  Lyanothe carefully placed his lockpicking tools away in a stained purple chamois
pouch.  "Truthfully, I never asked, nor thought it important."  He stretched, massaging his joints, and turned up the small tira
stove we used these days to warm our meals.

"Should I take him as seriously as he takes himself?"

The old man glanced up as he unwrapped a parcel of meat and dalato dough.  He peered at me quizzically.  "La, yes, Kalag,
take him very seriously.  Teal is a cruel man.  He enjoys the suffering he can cause others.  I've seen it.  But he's as
disciplined as they come, and saves his pleasure for his opponents.  He's loyalty itself to his friends."

"And you're numbered among his friends?"

The pungent aroma of frying lamb began to fill the place. Lyanothe shrugged.  "As much as anybody could be, I suppose.  All
I know is, if a band of mercenaries decided to single me out for their sport I'd like no better company than Teal, and require no
more, either."

I met with Sevant Teal the next morning and evening, and the next, and the next...every day without fail.  That first week's
end I replied with concern when he said we'd meet the following day.  He just snickered and asked whether I'd like to lose a
finger up to one knuckle in exchange for a regular day off.

And I'll give the man credit.  Before I met Teal, I could hold my own against the other low-blow streetfighters...mostly by
watching and practicing the things I'd seen on the streets of River Crossing.  But it was only after I'd trained a few weeks
that I began to realize there were systems to fighting.  You didn't just run up to a critter and whack at it with whatever was
handy; well, you didn't if you wanted to keep the critter from dying in a laughing fit.  You sized up your opponent, knew well
your fatigue level, skills, goals and number of adversaries.

I saw that different weapons demanded different approaches.  I learned to respect them, the same way I respected Lyanothe's
lockpick set-- maybe more.  Lockpicks could possibly keep me alive, someday, if I needed a trade in an unknown place.  Weapons would keep me from dying.  All the difference in the wide, wonderful world.  Even the cheapest, most ordinary weapon and armor deserved to be looked after and repaired from time to time. Anything else was damn foolish.

But for all the instruction that Teal supplied, it was talk on his part, performance on mine.  I never once got to see him in
action-- that is, until about about four months into our lessons. It was another morning appointment, and when I arrived at our
meeting place Teal wasn't there.  Five other men were.

They turned swiftly and drew weapons as one, advancing on me without a word.  I drew my katar (which Teal had provided) and fell back slowly, keeping everyone in sight.  There was no bravado here, just death waiting with perfect calm.

The next second something large and grey whirled past me.  Four of the men lie gasping out their lives on the muddy earth.  The fifth was missing a right hand, which a grinning Sevant Teal waved teasingly at him.  The man ran off whimpering into town.

"Nice job," I gasped, as Teal casually flipped the bloody thing into the river.  "You think maybe Hanswkin sent them?  The
traders aren't fond of us."

Teal stared at me, expressionless.  "Hanskwin paid for half your tuition."

I blinked.  Syndic Hanskwin?  "The other half?" I said.

"Lyanothe."

"Not so," I countered.  "We share the books.  I'd see any money spent like that, unless..."

"Lyanothe paid on the installment plan.  In friendship."  He sneered.  "Come on."  He trudged away without glancing back.  "We have most of our lesson time left if we don't chatter.  I hate wasting time."

From then on Teal announced the next training site at the end of each lesson.  We continued in this pattern for another 5 months, until something happened which prevented me from making it over on time.  I arrived an hour late, and Teal wasn't there.  Nor did he ever appear in my life again.
 
 

I've already gone into detail about a few incidents in my first few months in River Crossing.  Maybe it bored you a little; if
so, too bad.  It was important to make you understand how I first got some of my training, because buried in me are your
beginnings, too.  Annoyed at the amount of time it takes you to train today?  Whatever it may be, I'll wager it's a damn sight
swifter than the catch-as-catch-can training of my youth.

See, I didn't have it easy like you.  There weren't a couple of thieves always around town, willing to teach a skill.  That held
true for most of the guilds, the warmages, paladins, empaths, barbarians and above all the traders; but what we call "thieves"
today weren't a guild back then.  We weren't even a group you could point to.  We were just ordinary citizens with a bunch of

different interests.  No one thought much about passing along more than their own little fund of knowledge to a few select
friends or brats.

I'll move quickly over the next five years by just giving you to understand it was more of the same.  Lyanothe and I gradually
built our locksmithing business up to such an extent that we added 2 assistants-in-training.  I continued to learn a lot about
locks from the master, but with more time on my hands, it seemed like a good idea to branch out.  An elven bard, down on his luck, taught me pickpocketing in exchange for regular meals and liquid refreshment.  A ranger (part of the newly formed guild, created to scout the wilds and make the countryside safer in these troubled times) showed me how to hide, stalk and ambush.

I remembered everything I was taught, and I practiced it as often as possible.  Not for me, lounging about and passing time in idle chatter.  I worked hard at my skills.  Did I mention that I once caught that ranger's hand in my pocket?  I hid and stalked him outside the town, then tapped him on the back of his skull with the hilt of my katar.  We chuckled about it afterwards, but he stopped teaching me.  It didn't matter.  He had nothing left to offer.  His woodlore was way beyond my knowledge, but I figured out more about melting into the background and targeting a quarry than he'd learn in a lifetime.

We shifted locations, too, after the hut we'd used all this time was attacked in the middle of the night by a small band of thugs.
Nothing was lost, except our sense of security-- well, Lyanothe's sense of security.  I'd never felt good about the place.  After
hammering at him a while the old man saw the sense of shifting our operations.  We had a disagreement about its location,
though.

"The sewers?" he said, blinking several times.  "Why, in Damaris' name?"

"Almost no one ever goes there."

"They have reason."

"Well, I've gone there, and I can tell you that it offers some perfect defenses against attack.  Do you know that there are
miles and miles of sewer tunnels underground?"

Lyanothe shook his head.  "I'm not trying to establish a kingdom of rats and stink, Kalag.  I want a shop."

"And the authorities won't give you a permit for a real shop," I said, pressing my point.  "So we can't locate in a decent section
of town where there's adequate security, even though we can pay the damn fee.

"If we remain here, you know what it'll mean: more attacks. Stronger ones, next time."

The old man thought a bit.  "But how will a sewer location help us?"

"We'll still be able to take in business on the road, like we do now.  Only instead of coming back here, we'll just drop down
beneath the nearest hidden grate, and find our home in perfect security."

"Surrounded by rabid rats."

"Rabid rats are nothing compared to beserking barbarians who think you picked 5 coppers off their kid sister fresh from a
convent.  Listen, Lyanothe.  It will work.  Trust me."

Of course he did.  It's just that the idea took him some getting used to.  Lyanothe's nose was keener than mine, and he hated
nasty smells.  Not for the first time I briefly considered the mystery of his origins, and quickly gave it up.

We managed to find an area which was higher and less damp than most, well aerated and hidden.  Here we based our operations. And from here, we expanded dramatically in the years to come.
 

Over the years I've developed a reputation for foresight, but it isn't true.  I simply deal with whatever opportunities are at
hand, and I try to build solidly.  That's the way it was with the school.  Our first apprentices, Siff and Moosky, were eager to
learn all they could about lockpicking from Lyanothe.  I'd also received an increasing load of requests to personally teach the
subject.  It made good sense to combine the two, and invite students into a separate area of the sewers where all could learn
at once.

(You understand, we weren't afraid of competition, not with the reputation we had by now.  Besides, it was a good draw for a
novice lockpicker to hang out a shingle saying LOCKSMITH TAUGHT BY LYANOTHE, and acknowledge the master.)

We spread the word and quickly had as many applicants as we could reasonably handle.  All students were expected to cough up some kind of payment, be it coins, supplies, or services rendered in kind.  That part worked out as intended.  But what we didn't expect was that after instruction our students would hang around and start teaching their additional knowledge to one another. The class would break up, and then start to reform in small groups.  Soon, nearly every person was giving and receiving teaching once more.

What they taught and learned were always the same skills. Weapons.  Armor.  Hiding.  Pickpocketing.  Backstabbing.  On a
whim, I suggested that Lyanothe fail to show up one day.  The students took the opportunity to separate into their accustomed
non-lockpicking skill groups for training, and remained until long after the Scorpion crept over a darkened horizon.

It didn't take a genius to realize from this that we had the makings of a new profession centered around these skills.  A
profession drawn from those who live in the shadows, who know its ways and used it for their protection.  A profession that, for better or worse, could only be summed up by the word other people used half out of contempt: "Thief."

After several years of watching the classes swell in size and frequency I broached the idea to our students.  They required
little persuasion to move from a school to more tightly knit concept of a guild, with its pride in ownership, location and
status.  Most were openly enthusiastic.  The small businesses that were scattered all over River Crossing and already engaging
in "thievish" activities took much longer to convince.  They all had only one purpose: turning a profit by exercising a
specialized skill.  River Crossing was dotted with these beggar societies, protection rackets and black marketeers.  In the end,
though, many gave up a part of their authority to join our guild, for fear of missing a good thing on the rise.

Getting the Town Hall of River Crossing and the other guilds to recognize our legitimacy was a very different, much larger
problem.  Individually, they made use of our skills, but all distrusted us.  Some even hated us.  Approaching them for guild
recognition would be like casting fire shard at a barrel of tar. It was going to require a lot of organization and preparation on
our part, so that the first negative reactions didn't send my more timid members reeling back forever into commoner status.

I had extensive plans drawn up for all this when events forced a change of course.  Almost overnight our problem shifted from how the other guilds viewed our presence in River Crossing, to how we saw ourselves.

At first it was nothing you'd notice, because there were too many small things happening in isolation.  An empath dies from
overwork, and no one is available to take their place.  Scraggly vegetable gardens are planted inside the husks of abandoned
houses.  The trading quarter is gradually abandoned as contacts with the outside world decline and roads fall out of repair.
Farms and crops vanish, dams crumble, spring floods and sickness become an annual occurrence accepted with resignation.

It became progressively harder to get reliable information about the outside, and what we did hear wasn't reassuring.  Tales of
swamps, iceflows and volcanoes appearing magically, armies on the march, great doings in far off places.  The bards had a field day.  No one else was thrilled, but most people discounted the rumors in the same way they probably always have.

That these tales were not completely idle chatter became clear in my 15th autumn spent in River Crossing, just after the copperleaf trees acquired their yearly sheen.  One day, a few refugees appeared from the west.  The next day, there were more.  Within a week we had about a hundred worn out, terrified folk-- all that remained of the ten thousand or more who had occupied the first city of Zolaren, Lanival's Town.

It had been older and larger by far than either River Haven or River Crossing.  I'd never seen it, yet those who had, mostly
traders, spoke of its beauty and power.  No longer.  It had been overrun, every building in it systematically torn down and burnt. All who remained, died.  So the survivors said.  No one doubted them.

A month later reports drifted into town of a huge army on the move, far to the west and heading slowly in our direction.
Strangely enough, little was done in preparation, and business continued as usual.  In hindsight, it was as though the town
government and guilds lacked the will to acknowledge a challenge and meet it.

So nothing much occurred until a a fateful day when a huge war ogre strode into town carrying a white flag of truce at the end
of an iron pike.  Clad all in white shining leathers he was, and his armor glowed with a dark energy that seemed to drain the
color from whatever surrounded it.  The creature did not make for the City Hall as we initially suspected it would, but went
instead to the Official Announcements posting board that stood out front.  There, with a heavy fist, it pounded in four nails
around the following parchment:
 

"Zolaren is not yours.  Zolaren is ours.  It was given to us by the World Dragon long ago when the Elves were only puking children by the sea, and the Elotheans were no more than blue sticks sniffing herbs in moldy caves.

"We have come to reclaim our heritage.  The shadow of the adventurer Lanival and his posturing band of comedians will be banished forever from this realm.

"Your choices are clear.  Submit your lands to our rule within two passages of the sun, permit the occupancy of our Theocrat Crakhan and the destruction of your blasphemous temple.  Or we shall burn down your walls, your houses and shops, with you and your children in them.  Not a stone will be left to proclaim where River Crossing once stood, not a soul will be left to tell of its final hours.

"In the Name of the World Dragon, in the Name of Sh'kial, in the Name of Oss-Magaim and his devout servant Crahkan, what was, is, and ever shall be!  The True Religion of the Dragon has returned."

We were in our makeshift Guild Hall, a long, sparsely furnished underground chamber where the stones sweated less frequently and the stink was almost imperceptible.  I was there, quoting the Dragon Priests' message from memory.  Hearing me, along with Laynothe, were 30 other thieves.

They were a motley audience of beggar chiefs and would-be princelings; proud rag-covered crones and shifty youths with
barely enough age to bear a beard.  Some thieves came armed to the teeth.  Some brought their weapons in the form of huge
bodyguards.  Some came armed only with the power they wielded over parts of the city or groups of citizens.

This bunch held but three ideas in common.  They were all thieves; hard times were coming; and today's meeting was going to have weighty consequences whatever we did.

I started the meeting with a brief summary of recent events. When I finished, and there was silence.  I took a deep breath.
"We've formed a guild, so we no longer have the luxury of reaction and blaming others for the results.  We need a policy.
We need some kind of response to the written demand.  We need a plan of action.  But above all, we need a policy."

"Well, if it's policy we need first, shrewd policy will oppose all those who seek to dictate to us.  This was always the flaw in
Moliko the Balance's idea of United Rule," said Lyanothe, sighing.  "Revealed for all to see, alas, too late.  United rule
devolves on the strongest and most ruthlessly efficient, not the most righteous or best suited to govern."

A one-eyed Dwarf with a look of the angry warrior about her spat. "Pah, there's a sewer grating that leads into the paladin's guild if I want to debate philosophics," she snarled.  "We got a fullscale invasion coming that's going to smash up everything we
built, and it's up to us to defend it."

"I'd remind you, Birna," said a soft voice belonging to an Elf dressed all in colorful silks, "that your *we* refers to your
clan, your territory, all the clients who pay your protection fees.  The *we* of the Aes-Halan is a different one, and includes
4 members whose deaths you haven't paid the restitution fee agreed upon for 3 years."

"Alsharbi, they've been bad years, as you know."  Birna glowered.

The Elf nodded.  "They'll be worse still until you pay us."

"We're here," I interrupted, "not to discuss territorial disputes.  If you both want to argue the matter anew, fine, we'll
do it later.  This Council's called to consider what means we must use if any to defend the town."

"What means we must use to defend their town, you mean."  That, from a stocky, well-armed Human who insisted on attending with four personal bodyguards.  His name was Stouthe.  He'd erupted into the southeast area of River Crossing down by the ferry this past year.  I'd been doubtful about bringing him and his in, given reports of his heavy-handed tactics and attitude, but a few of the others said it was better to influence than ignore him.

"Their town," he repeated.  "A town of marks and suckers.  Golden snot meant for us to suck dry.  Who cares what happens to them?"  He chuckled loudly.  His bodyguards followed suit.

"We make our living off those marks, as you call them," said Lyanothe.  "When they find chests, we open them.  When they stock their shelves, we empty them.  When their pockets are full, we pick them."

Stouthe leaned back and propped up his feet on the table.  "So what's the problem?  If they're killed, more suckers will show
up."

Birna shook her head vigorously.  "That's not the way it works. Look at Lanival's Town.  It's gone."

"I don't believe it," sneered Stouthe.  "That's all propaganda just to get us frightened and worked up.  I think Lanival's Town
just caved into demands from these Priests and is doing fine, and the scum that floated out were on the losing side.  No, what I
suggest is this.  We send an ambassador in secret to this army and offer to cut them a deal.  Use of our guild for their
temporary headquarters, free access and complete knowledge of our tunnels.

"Then, when they take over, we become the guards.  We run the place for them.  You think they're going to want to hang around here much?  No way.  We'll be forgotten as soon as they continue their advance...then we'll run the place the way we want.  So what do you think?"  He grinned and settled back while his bodyguards nodded enthusiastically.

"It wouldn't be a good idea if the Priests were just another mercenary army," commented Lyanothe matter-of-factly.  "As it is,
they're much worse, and so is your idea."  Stouthe jumped to his feet but before he could speak another voice, deep and detached, made itself heard.

"The idea could be adapted to fit our needs, perhaps."  The speaker was a short, massively muscled Human whom everyone called simply The Block.  "What does it matter whether we keep all of the city, or just some of it?  We should strive for a reasonable settlement, not surrender.  Offer them a portion of the town...then help them secretly occupy it...then rule it.  All the
while we can play loyal citizens among the other professions and man the defenses."

"That," snarled Birna, "is the most disgusting thing I've yet to hear."  The Block chuckled at her with a rumbling hum.

Stouthe slammed his fist on the table, booming his call for attention around the echoing Guild Hall like a hailstorm.  "Do
what you want, then.  If you're not going to show any common sense, me and my boys are.  We'll go to the Priests as
emissaries of the real Thieves' Guild, and when they take over you can expect to be taking your orders from me."

"No way."  I spoke very loudly but calmly.  All eyes turned to me.  "There's only one Thieves' Guild.  It comes out of the
school we built over the years and the ideas we have.  It's here with us.  It doesn't leave with you, though you can leave it. And
if you go to sell us all to the Priests, Stouthe, I'll personally denounce you before the Town Council."

"Not if you're dead," he sneered.  Stouthe snapped his fingers and his four hoods jumped at me, swords drawn.

They were well-muscled, dangerous men, but I was no longer a new arrival with a trick or two to stay alive.  I quickly tossed a
chair at their legs and drew my katar.  Stepping to one side I slit open the belly of a foe as he stumbled past, and dropped a
second with a sharp swipe to his unprotected bull neck.  I looked up to see a scene which remains in my memory to this day: Birna astride the table, double-handed axe in release, the head of a third bodyguard frozen briefly in midair as blood sprayed
everywhere.  The fourth bodyguard lay at the feet of The Block, his head sitting at an odd angle.  The Block grinned and flexed
his huge hands.

"Stouthe," I said.  Lyanothe pointed to the door, and I hurtled through it.

There was no need to rush, however.  A scant dozen paces down the corridor lay a dazed Stouthe, bleeding badly all over his scalp. He must have glanced back for signs of pursuit while sprinting ahead.  You should never sprint through narrow, low sewer corridors while distracted.

I trussed his arms and legs with his own red sash, then went through his pockets.  There were coins, a stiletto, and a
medallion.  Without giving him another thought I returned to the Guild Hall.

Younger thieves were removing bodies and wiping up the mess when I arrived back.  I ignored them, and threw the medallion onto the table.  It landed with a hollow thunk and slid halfway down.

"It would seem friend Stouthe has been lying," I said.  "He's already been in touch with the Dragon Priests."

The only S'kra Mur in our group, an ancient rackets master from the northeastern town quadrant by name of S'dec, hobbled forward for a glance at the thing.  He hissed loudly.  "By Ushnish.  This guaranteess ssafe passage," he said.  "To Thievess' Guild Leader Stouthe."

I nodded soberly.  I couldn't read it, but I'd guessed something like that.  "So Stouthe was planning betrayal in any case," said
Lyanothe.  "He'd already contacted the Priests in the name of the Guild, posing as leader."

"Planning to become leader, perhapss," ventured S'dec.  "Typical of Humanss."  There was muttering from the Human thieves in our group.

"Come to terms, we must come to terms," boomed The Block, "if the Priests win, we will be in fine shape."

"We'll be in finer shape if we support the other Guilds and defend the town successfully.  Otherwise, we'll be hated by all
the peoples of River Crossing whatever the result," I added.

The Block shrugged, a massive thing like a mountain shifting.  "I care about no man's hatred."

"Begging your pardon," said Laynothe.  "No man's hatred bothers me as long as I deserve it.  But I don't care to receive hatred for something I did not do."

"Hatred is wasted on the dead.  We make terms, or we die."

"Coward's talk," Birna spat.

The Block grinned.  "I am a coward?" he asked.

"The Elves," said Alsharbi in a strident voice, "will never help these damned bloodthirsty Dwarves."

"I think," pondered S'dec aloud, "that we should postpone any dessision until we can think it through calmly.  Calm headss are
good headss."

I raised my hands and my voice at the same time.  "There's no time for calm heads, now, S'dec, though normally I'd agree with
you.  Alsharbi, your complaint against Birna's Dwarves-- you've never put it to arbitration by this Council, have you?"

"That is correct," the Elf replied stiffly.

"I will give you my word as guild leader that if you set aside this quarrel now, it will be dealt with speedily after the
current crisis ends.  I will ask S'dec to personally head the panel, if he will agree."  The old S'kra Mur rose and
ceremoniously bowed.

Alsharbi considered this.  "What if the city be overrun, and all forced to flee or die?"

"Corpses make poor litigants.  Will the blood money truly matter then?"

Alsharbi took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.  Then I had a thought.  "Fellow thieves," I said, "each of you has a position
which is of greatest benefit to your own group and in your own eyes.  You have heard the proposals of others, and disapproved of each.  Were we to take a vote, here, now, on each proposal, none including your own would receive more than your party's support.

"Let's take a vote, then, on the proposal you'd favor second, behind that of your own.  Whatever wins, let's agree to implement that." There were a few raised eyebrows, but the consensus was favorable.

The first ballot was unanimously in favor of my proposal for defense of River Crossing alongside the other Guilds.

So we had a policy: resistance.  The plan for war would follow. In the meantime, I dealt myself with the response to the Priests
later that night.  A couple of my Gor'Togs quietly dumped Stouthe, tied and bleeding, in front of their camp, and returned
without incident.  Like as not the Priests were so confident they never figured on a visit from the over-awed citizens.  Stouthe
never gave the alarm, because he was gagged with his own medallion.  We never heard of what became of him, nor did any of
us care.
 

If the next two days were a madhouse of preparations in town, they were even more intense down in our tunnels.  Above ground, the defenders went about building and shoring up defenses, training, preparing for battle openly and with tense excitement. Down below, there was an added requirement of secrecy.  We could not rely upon support or information from above.  Nothing we did could become known, or we'd risk a second attack front from our traditional enemies who could imagine no good of our efforts.

What we decided was this.  We'd set up a series of three patrols along the main sewer corridors that ran the western, eastern and northern borders of River Crossing.  Individual runners would check every few minutes with all three patrols for signs of attack. When an attack was spotted by any patrol, half the forces of the other two patrols would rush to join them, boiling out of the grates and our secret entrances as soon as the attackers had occupied a specified area.  We would meet the enemy while they were engaged, the element of surprise being at least briefly on our side.

We had supplies enough to last us through the crisis, meaning that we'd live as long as our friends above.  Meanwhile we kept
up our spirits by constant training, encouraging advanced members of the guild to teach people they'd never met before.  Old
arguments between cliques were temporarily thrust aside.  It didn't matter if your neighbor never saw a mountain, or hissed.
When the battle began their sword or crossbow maybe your only way of cheating death.

Two hectic days.  We actually felt relief when those days had passed.  Now it was no longer a matter of "what if."  It was
simply a question of a few minutes or hours.  Many of us awaited the Dragon Priests with a kind of expectant joy.

The attack came quickly, and (so our scouts said) from the west. In their arrogance, the invaders decided to thrust everything at the Main Gate and its surrounding area.  Their rock trolls cast spells that brought down sections of wall.  Their war ogres
lashed slave armies that hadn't been fed in days and looked upon the defenders not as enemies, but as food.

How long has it been that you're reading this account since it was written?  Fifty years?  Two hundred?  Your towns are
certainly bigger, right?  To you, an army of 4000 strong may seem like nothing, a minor incident.  Well, let me assure you that a
great deal hung upon the outcome of this little battle between 4000 attackers and 1000 defenders.  The Dragon Priests had
already wiped out a city older, larger and more important than River Crossing.  With us gone, the south would be open to them. I've read somewhere that small matters can make a big difference; here, in River Crossing, that was a lot hanging on the outcome of a single battle.

The carnage was awful on both sides, but the Dragon Priests had the larger forces and did not care about their loss.  Slowly they pushed back the paladins and barbarians who formed the first line of defense.  Within a few hours they had made it past the gate, and the fighting spread out into a series of pitched battles that spanned the streets of River Crossing.

In many areas the local forces held, for here they were on their own ground.  They knew the roads, and they fought with
desperation.  They had the support of rangers and bards sniping from nearby buildings, with clerics and empaths easily within
reach.  Larger numbers were also less of an advantage while wedged in deadend lanes or down narrow byways.

But large numbers couldn't be effectively resisted, either, not when always new, fresh opponents climbed over mounds of dead
carcasses to continue the attack.  The line first began to falter on Larikan Street; and that's when we decided to strike.  On my
command hundreds of thieves jumped out, ambushing the hordes.  We took the enemy (and our fellow citizens) by surprise, and stemmed the advance.

It was awful that day.  The concentrated stink of fear and corpses was far worse than the sewers.  No paladins yelled
stirring cries.  There were just grunts of effort and cries of death everywhere.  Skill didn't count.  It was slash, duck, and
breathe if you could before you were killed.

At one point several hours later I found myself just south of the Gate, on top of a mound of dead bodies, fighting back to back
with a doughty mace-wielder against all comers.  There was a brief lull in the fighting, and we both turned.  Staring back at
me was the face of Arnile Hanskwin.

His furs and satin were gone, his entire body covered with chain mail.  Blood saturated him from head to foot, but most of it
didn't appear to be his own.  "Syndic," I gasped.  "Pardon me for not bowing."

"Ah, Kalag.  I had forgotten you and your school."

"So you knew about that?  Our guild, I mean."

He nodded, chuckling wearily.  "Your guild.  Agreed."  Exhausted as I was, I felt a thrill when he said those two words.  It was
an admission of sorts.  It was more than that.  It was an important voice on our side for Guild status.  If River Crossing
survived.

We turned to look out over the hills to the west that lay beyond the Gate.  The enemy was contained or killed inside the city, but outside they remained in force-- not as many as before, but more than enough to crush all opposition by sheer force of weight. The Dragon Priests themselves sat impassively atop huge steeds, not unlike varna bonebats but bigger, waiting to see whether their magic would be needed.

Just then the entrance to the street spewed forth more enemy chattels, waving sickles, longswords, whatever they had or could
find.  The volume of battle increased from a tide's roar to a seacoast storm.  We lifted our weapons against the enemy's
assault and forgot all else for a time.

It lacked one hour of sunset when next I had a chance to gaze about.  Our forces still held but we were reduced, four hundred
perhaps clustered around the Main Gate, a few thousand of the slave army outside.  Our rangers and bards had long since run out of ammunition, and switched to handheld weapons.  The paladins and barbarians were dropping from fatigue.  Some empaths died from overhealing.  It couldn't continue like this, and as the enemy regrouped for another assault, I think we all knew it.

Just then we saw a second army appear over the horizon, from the south.  My initial reaction was, great, they've decided to
quickly finish us off.  They couldn't do it with the troops they had, and that's a tribute of a sort.  I looked around, and saw
Birna leaning heavily on a badly notched axe.  She grinned back tiredly and said, "Well, we'll die game."

Then as they approached we saw they weren't Dragon Priests, after all.  They bore the blue banner of River Haven; and it was people like ourselves, not monsters, who were swiftly approaching, unnoticed by the slaves of Crahkan.  They uttered a loud, wailing war cry, and dived into the Dragon Priest army which slowly tried to swing about and meet this new threat.  Sensing our opportunity we uttered a howl in return, and drove fiercely outside the Gate.

Caught between the two armies, ours and River Haven's, the Dragon Priest leaders hesitated.  It was their downfall.  Like a vise our forces closed in from opposite sides, slicing up all opposition.  The ogres and trolls died killing their slaves, who
panicked and tried to flee.  The Dragon Priests themselves proved more formidable, having not taken part in the battle thus far;
but River Haven's warmages and a small group of moonmages from legendary Shard held them at bay.

Suddenly, the Dragon Priests turned their lumbering beasts and fled west simultaneously, as if in private concert.  We had won.
We had won.  We couldn't believe it, but we had won.
 

In coming days there would be much congratulation, sorrow, healing and rebuilding.  Before the Town Council I announced-- I
did not propose-- the existence of the Thieves' Guild; and though some faces scowled, Arnile Hanskwin stood up (once again decked out in his sleek furs) and spoke briefly but firmly to our defense.  Others followed who had seen us in action or merely
lacked courage to speak out before.  It was sufficient.  The Thieves' Guild of River Crossing was an acknowledged reality.

But at the moment, right after the battle, my first thought was to check on old friends and comrades, and one in particular.
Last I had seen, Lyanothe was being targetted by a grinning war ogre with a mattock.  The press of fighting had parted us, and
he hadn't been seen since.

Searching, exhausted, among the dead bodies that night was not something I wanted to consider, so I headed back instead to the Guild.  It was nearly deserted but Lyanothe had a private, hidden room here where his few odd sticks of furniture were stored.  He called it home, and it was where he worked and slept when his teaching and lockpicking were done for the day.  I pressed the stone panels in their proper order, and entered.

There was no Lyanothe, but there was a note on the desk.  The ink on it still glistened slightly.  It was in Lyanothe's spidery but
refined hand.  I read:
 

"Friend Kalag, I hurt myself rather badly a short while ago, and decided to rest up a bit down here.  While doing so, it occurred to me that a vacation might be in order.  There is no disguising that my years lengthen, and the dampness of these sewers do little for my outlook or joints.  Do not seek me.  You cannot follow where I've gone.

"Kalag, you have made something of yourself since we first met, haven't you?  You are clearheaded, a voracious learner, a leader on par with any paladin or proud trader-princling.  To you the glory goes for the School, and for the Thieves' Guild.  Perhaps, who knows, some of the praise for the battle's success as well. Had you not carried the meeting, the thieves would have remained divided.  Many more citizens would have perished.  River Haven's
line might have cracked before a River Crossing already claimed by Priestly fervor and flames.

"Friend Kalag, lead well, be of strong heart.  If I know my Kalag, what he has begun is only the foundation of so much more."