As he dropped the sword with a shout, it at last dawned on Reginald that when a merchant tells you something is cursed, do not buy it. The peddler certainly seemed sincere with his promises of certain glory, unparalleled riches, and ceaseless adventure. Even now, even after he knew he had been swindled, the young man felt his pulse race at the thought of taking an epic journey, testing his mettle against fearsome opponents and impossible obstacles. In hindsight, he could see that the merchant had picked up on his obvious excitement and pounced at the chance to rid himself of an unwanted burden.

"I should have stormed off. Straight backwards, without taking my eyes off the villain, if possible." He knelt next to the blade, flexing his hands as he prepared to grasp the handle again. "Because that will, without fail, be the one time that such charlatans deign to tell the truth." The vacant alley gave no sign that it had taken Reginald's hard-earned lesson to heart.

He sighed and closed his hand on the hilt.

"You idiot." The voice sprang to life in Reginald's head as his hand closed on the leather-wrapped grip. It sounded thick and gluttonous, as if voiced by a mouth overflowing with mutton. "I'm not cursed. Unless you count the curse of having to deal with sighing, whining morons for all eternity."

Reginald felt the beginnings of another sigh, but stopped himself just in time. "Moron?" he asked, his eyes searching his surroundings on the off chance that this was an elaborate prank foisted on a neophyte adventurer by a master ventriloquist.

"Oh, I'm sorry. You're a genius. It's a sign of great smarts, buying a cursed blade."

"I thought you said you were not cursed," countered Reginald.

"I'm not, but how would you know unless you bought me?"

"I thought...." He stopped. "Why am I arguing with a sword?"

"I told you. It's because you're a sighing, whining moron."

Reginald stiffened. "Guard your tongue, sword, or I will toss you into that dung."

The voice guffawed. Reginald shuddered with disgust. He could not help but imagine chunks of partially chewed food spewed forth by the unseen speaker's chortles. "Go ahead, your Lordship. That'll be a nice treat for you when you fish me back out five breaths later."

Reginald scowled at the sword's continued, taunting laughter. "Are you implying that I cannot rid myself of you?"

The voice stopped, mid-laugh. "Wow, nice guess."

Reginald was unable to keep his latest sigh from escaping. "So you are cursed after all."

"Cursed? Kid, with all the sense you've shown so far, I'm obviously the best thing that's ever happened to you." The voice chuckled fatly.

"Reginald. My name is Reginald. Not 'Kid," not 'Genius,' not 'Your Lordship.' Reginald." He relaxed his clenched teeth with some difficulty.

"All right, all right, don't get your trousers all twisted, Reggie."

Reginald closed his eyes and tried to calm himself as the sword continued to berate him. "I don't know why you're so set on me calling you 'Reginald' anyways. It's probably the stupidest...."

Despite his best efforts, calm eluded the young man. With his eyes closed, he could not help but envision the mocking voice and the derisive words coming from anything other than an appallingly obese man. He would not allow himself to be insulted by such a disgusting figure.

"Silence, Fatman!" ordered Reginald, oblivious to the no doubt ridiculous sight of a dandy screaming "Silence, Fatman" to an empty alley. "If I cannot discard you, I--"

"Fatman?" asked the voice in Reginald's head. "Fatman. Ha! I like it! That's good, kid. That's good!"

"It was not meant as a compliment," he snapped.

"Kid, I've been called worse. Justice, Light's Edge, Fearfang. Would you believe a lady even more pampered than you once called me 'Graceful Leap'? I'm a sword, for crying out loud, not a dance step. And besides, I'm not too stuck up to admit that I am on the hefty side for a sword."

Reginald studied the bared blade. Wider than his spread hand, he had commented to the peddler that the sword seemed unusually bulky; the man had in turn assured him that many, if not most, swords were even wider. The young man shrugged, finding his temper shattered by the sword's acceptance. "Very well. Fatman it is." He slid Fatman into his scabbard. "Do I have to keep you out, or is being in your sheath acceptable?"

"The sheath is fine. It wouldn't be much fun for me if it weren't, what with me being a sword and all."

Reginald pondered the edge of bitterness in the mocking response. He shook his head, deciding that he had more important issues to deal with than a dissatisfied enchanted sword.

"If we are to be inseparable, Fatman, what do we do together?"

"You're the one with legs, Reggie," Fatman said, again with a tinge of bitterness. "If it was up to me, I'd want a drink or four."

"And some food too, I would wager."

"Enough with the fat jokes, kid."

Reginald frowned. "No, I meant that I...."

"I know what you meant, kid. I'm only messing with you."

"A-ha. Well, then... to the tavern?" Reginald asked.

"Lead the way." This time, Reginald had the sense to chuckle.

#

Not even the heavy oaken door and sturdy log construction could keep the tavern's boisterous noise from escaping into the otherwise silent street. Reginald was nearly deafened by raucous laughter and unintelligible shouts as he heaved the door open. His nose was similarly assaulted by the stale reek of unwashed bodies, the thick and pungent spiciness of tavern stew, and the deep hickory smell pouring forth ceaselessly from the fireplace. Dazed, he collapsed into the nearest chair, set before a thankfully unoccupied table.

"I take it taverns aren't exactly your strong suit," observed Fatman.

"I cannot even hear myself think, but somehow, your voice cuts through everything," muttered Reginald.

"If it helps, I can't tune out your whining either," said Fatman.

"Oh yes, that is a great comfort, knowing we will each drive the other crazy," mocked Reginald.

Reginald slumped his head down and put his hands over his ears, oblivious to the many drunks in the tavern who exhibited an identical posture. His groan completed the unwitting imitation.

"Order a drink, Reggie. You'll feel better."

Reginald snapped his head down to growl in the direction of his scabbarded companion. "Fatman, the only thing that could make me feel bet--"

He halted midsyllable as his eyes picked out an island of serenity amidst the bellowing, brawling cacophony of the tavern. A barmaid approached him, her form curvy and her movements lithe as she weaved around spilled ale and groping hands. Her hair was pulled back, but a few strands had slipped out to fall in front of two teardrop eyes that met the gaze of every ogling drunkard. She favored each of her customers with a brilliant smile that evaporated the moment she moved to the next table. When she at last directed her smile towards Reginald, he felt a broad, toothy grin spreading on his own face.

Fatman, of course, interrupted his trance. "I'll say this for you, kid. You've got good taste in flesh."

"Shush," he growled through his smile.

"I'm sorry?" asked the barmaid, her expression perturbing further at the overheard admonishment.

"Not... er, I mean... I meant...."

"Ale?" she asked.

"Keep your trap shut and nod, kid," advised Fatman. Reginald complied, his head bobbing up and down and up and down and up and.... The barmaid looked at him askance.

"Stop nodding, you idiot!" said Fatman.

She shrugged one shoulder in response, which made her loose blouse to slip down, revealing nearly a hand's width of soft, alluring flesh. She readjusted her shirt as she turned and moved back towards the kitchen.

"So you're even better with the ladies than you are with taverns." Fatman's laughter echoed in Reginald's head.

"How am I supposed to think with you riding my back ceaselessly?" the young man asked.

"Kid, if it's riding you're interested in, just shut up and do what I say."

"What? Riding? I do not understand."

"Obviously. Just trust me, all right? When she comes back, give her a nice, big tip."

Reginald considered, and decided that the advice was sound, despite Fatman's lecherous chuckling. Chuckling that intensified as the barmaid reappeared from the kitchen, pewter mug in hand.

"Quiet," whispered Reginald, careful this time to keep his voice beyond the woman's hearing.

"Here," she said, setting the mug on the table. "Four kips."

His eyes locked on hers, Reginald fished in his coinpurse, his fingers searching for the large coin he knew was buried beneath the smaller kip coins. He lit up as he finally located it, her face similarly beaming when he pulled forth the gold talon.

"For you," he said in his most debonair voice. He placed the coin on the table, barely able to withdraw his hand before she snatched it up.

"Aren't you a doll?" she said, rewarding him with a wry smile. "If you need anything, I'm Elisa." Before Reginald could offer a response, she turned to her other tables.

Reginald leaned back in his chair, surprisingly worn out. Fatman's voice sounded in his head. "Not bad, kid! You should have handed the coin to her, but not bad at all. Do that a few more times, and we might have something here."

Reginald deflated. "Unfortunately, that needs be a one time performance. I have naught but a few kips left." He sipped his ale, finding it bitter and on the wrong side of palatable.

Fatman groaned. "Reggie, you've got to pace yourself. You can't just shoot your big money at a wench right away!"

Reginald echoed Fatman's groan. "What would you suggest I do?"

"Don't worry, I'll think I something. I told you that I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you, but let's see if we can't get Elisa to make a liar out of me. Hmm...." Reginald looked around the tavern for his barmaid, but she had apparently escaped back into the kitchen.

"I do not even see her. Perhaps she will reappear if I finish my ale."

"Couldn't hurt. Drink up, Reggie. And when she comes back with another, let's see if we can get her to give it to you on the house. You can't follow your talon with a few measly kips. So just lean back, look rich, flash her a smile, and don't say a single word."

After a moment, Reginald nodded, uncertain of his unseen companion's motives but willing to try anything. He lifted the mug to his mouth and gulped the foul brew, his desire to see Elisa greatly outweighing the vehement objections of his tongue.

As he thudded the mug back to the table, she reappeared, refill in hand, summoned by the magic of the empty tankard. She headed right for the young dandy.

"Oh, and make sure you don't burp," Fatman added helpfully as the woman approached.

She set the mug down on the table. "This one is on me, doll" she said. Reginald smiled as she lingered for a moment. Her smile faded a fraction before she left.

"This is going so well!" exclaimed Reginald, bouncing in his chair with excitement and impending inebriation.

"Oh you poor kid," sighed Fatman.

"What's wrong?" asked Reginald, his voice suddenly panicked.

"That's the last free drink you're getting, kid. She was reeeeeally hoping for another talon."

Reginald frowned, his disappointment quickly shifting to anger. "How could you say that? She likes me, Fatman."

"Trust me, kid. I'm rooting for you, but I'd nurse that drink, because once it's gone, the jig's up."

Reginald started to object, then paused, considering. "Fair enough, sword. What would you suggest I do?"

"All right, kid. Try this. Take me out and balance me on the table."

Reginald scooted back in his chair and drew Fatman. "Balance you? Do you mean on your hilt? On your blade?"

"Sure, fine. Either."

Reginald stood and placed the sword point down on the table. The blade, of undeniably fine craftsmanship despite its crude denizen and its extreme girth, balanced with ease. Reginald hovered nearby, ready to catch the blade if it started to fall. He soon realized that his attentiveness was unnecessary, and, he noted as he took a small step to steady himself, potentially counterproductive given his tipsy state. He sat back down and admired his handiwork, a broad grin on his face.

"Well done, Fatman" he said. "What next?"

Silence answered, its empty space soon filled by comprehension. His eyes shot open.

Of course he couldn't communicate with Fatman, separated as he was from the sword!

He moved to grab the blade, but a dulcet voice halted him. "Nice trick," said Elisa, appearing from over his shoulder and taking a seat next to him. Her leg brushed against his, and not even Reginald was naïve enough to think the contact was accidental.

His mind raced, trying to come up with something suave, something Fatman would suggest. He grinned and leaned back, interlocking his fingers behind his head. "So, you like my sword?" he asked, his voice deep but casual.

Elisa's large eyes flicked down towards his lap before meeting his own. He felt his cheeks bloom a fiery red under her bewitching gaze. She broke the enchantment with a snort of laughter. "Sorry, doll, but it doesn't much look like you know how to use it," she said. Still chuckling to herself, she spun and favored a nattily attired, silver-haired man at a nearby table. Reginald sprang out of his chair to follow her, knocking into the table and sending Fatman toppling towards him. He grabbed the falling sword's hilt. Howls of wild laughter materialized in his head, destroying any notions of pursuit.

"'...like my sword!' Bwahahahaha! Oh that's classic!"

Reginald slammed Fatman into his scabbard, but the shrieking cackles continued. "And you sounded like such a lech, too. 'So, you like my sword?' I didn't know you had it in you, kid!"

The young man sank into his chair. "I was trying to think of something you'd say," he sighed, his voice bereft of hope.

"Reggie, in a million years, I couldn't have come up with something so genius," the sword replied with true admiration.

Reginald moped, forlornly sipping his ale while waiting for Fatman to laugh himself hoarse. The mug was empty before the sword calmed and, of course, Elisa did not hustle over with a replacement.

"All right, Reginald, stop pouting. The situation's not good, I admit. But I'm telling you, she's a saucy wench. Her prim-and-proper outrage is an act. Hard to get, the oldest trick in the book. Trust me, you can still win her over. You just gotta do something to really impress her."

"Impress her? Like balance you again? Maybe on my nose this time?" Reginald asked, his tone bitter.

"Hey, my balance did impress her, didn't it?"

Reginald paused, then brightened. Slightly. "I suppose it did."

"Damn right it did. Now walk around and find something you can do that will wow her!"

Reginald shot to his feet and instantly teetered. He made sure to focus his blurred vision before moving about the room, a man on a mission.

The drunk young man weaved among the tables and bodies, occasionally lurching into the former but thankfully not the latter. He saw Elisa and her wry smile in front of him, chatting with a large clump of patrons, but he changed direction as the group started to laugh. His new destination turned out to be another knot of laughter, but he soon recognized that this time he was not the source of amusement.

The origin of the merriment was, instead, the strangest man Reginald had ever seen. Audaciously long moustaches, the scarlet color of dragonfire, erupted below cavernous nostrils. The rest of the smiling face was covered in coarse, tar-black hair extending right up to sunken eye sockets. The eyes were a deep, navy blue, twinkling from beneath twin ash-colored eyebrows. His head was criss-crossed with innumerable scars, each puckered and ragged but nonetheless unique. The man's face exhibited more colors than most people's entire wardrobe, but, for some reason, Reginald did not think that any of the coloring was artificial. As if embarrassed by his distinctive face, the man wore a plain white robe, little more than a bedsheet with holes for neck and arms. Despite its loose fit, Reginald could discern that the man was once thin but had gone to fat, especially around his midsection.

The man leaned against a wall, nonchalant even though food, tankards, gloves, knives, chairs, and a hundred other items were being hurled at him in an endless procession. He dodged every missile with ease, his movements minimal and compact, a slight shifting of weight here or an almost imperceptible change in his lean there. Occasionally his hand would shoot out to grab a flying mug, which he would drain with quick gulps while continuing to evade the barrage. Upon finishing an impromptu drink, he would drop the tankard and belch, his grand moustaches dappled with foam.

"No one can hit Tretiak!" the man boomed. "No one ever has, and no one ever will!"

"What about dem scars on your head?" yelled one patron as he tossed a knife at the boasting Tretiak. The man swatted it away without looking.

"Cut myself shaving!" he roared back, rewarded with cheers of laughter.

"A hundred times?" asked the same man.

"A thousand times!" he answered, as a wooden platter sailed over his ducking head. "Never did get the knack of it."

Fatman interrupted Reginald's unabashed gawking. "Here's your chance, kid. If you hit him, you'll be a hero!"

Reginald nodded, then patted himself to find something to throw. "What should I toss?"

Fatman laughed. "Me, of course. I'll sting that nutty bastard."

Reginald put his hand on Fatman's hilt, then paused. "But you might--"

"Aren't you a doll?" interrupted Fatman, his fat voice a surprisingly decent impersonation of Elisa's. "Don't worry about me, kid. I'll be fine, and you'll get me back, no problem. Trust me."

"I worry every time you say that," said Reginald.

"I know. Why do you think I say it so much?" countered the sword.

Reginald sighed, then withdrew Fatman, trying to keep the motion from alerting Tretiak. He shifted his grip and his stance, then inched the blade up until the hilt was almost level with his ear. He exhaled and launched Fatman through the air.

His throw was off, sailing in front of Tretiak by at least two sword lengths. Reginald began to pray that Elisa was not in Fatman's path, but he was interrupted by the loud crash of Fatman's crosspiece striking an airborne chair. The blade's trajectory changed, and the broad blade sunk into the wall just above Tretiak's scar-crossed pate.

The clatter of the room fell into an astonished hush. A thin streak of crimson seeped forth from beneath a still quivering Fatman. It trickled down between Tretiak's eyebrows and off his nose, staining his blank robe with a lurid, scarlet spatter.

Tretiak ducked away from Fatman and rubbed his head. He studied the sticky mess on his hand, the crowd still holding its breath. He whirled towards Reginald. "Looks like I've got another scar!" he roared. His bellowing was soon drowned out by the cheers of the crowd. Men swarmed around an unsteady Reginald, smacking his back, rubbing his hair, complimenting him on his sword work, and ordering him endless tankards of ale. Overwhelmed, Reginald could only offer a blank, frozen stare in response. He wormed through the press towards Fatman,withdrew the blade and re-sheathed it, then turned to search the crowd.

"She's gone," said Fatman.

"She's gone," said Tretiak, his jovial tone matching the sword's unheard words. "But don't worry, Reginald. She's trouble. Come here," he said as he escorted the confused young man to an isolated corner of the thankfully quieting tavern.

"How... how did you know my name?" asked Reginald as he sat down across from the odd stranger.

Tretiak smirked. "How would I not know your name? How's Fatman?"

Reginald straightened. "Did he just say what I think he said?" the sword asked mentally.

"What's going on here?" demanded Reginald in his most impressive tone.

"What do you mean? You nicked me with Fatman - when I wasn't looking, you cheater - and now you're being weird," said Tretiak.

"How do you know about Fatman?" asked the young man, his anger giving way to panic.

Tretiak's dark blue eyes drilled into Reginald. "I've talked to Fatman hundreds of times. Here, let me say hello," he said as he reached for Reginald's hip.

The young man squirmed away. "You might have once owned Fatman, sir, but I purchased him this morning. He is mine, and if you have--"

Tretiak interrupted him. "This morning? Today?"

Reginald peered at the man. "Yes, today. This morning. What business is--"

Tretiak's jolly laugh interrupted him again. "Oh lad, no wonder you're confused. Calm yourself. We've met before. In fact, I know you quite well, Reginald."

"We most certainly have not met, sir. I would remember you."

"That's for damned sure," agreed Fatman.

"Aye, I don't doubt you, lad," responded Tretiak. "Except, to you, we haven't met yet, so there's nothing to remember."

Reginald stared at the loon, his patience exhausted by the asinine conversation, but he could not simply dismiss Tretiak. Even if the peddler had told Tretiak about selling a possessed sword to a young man, Reginald knew he had not given his name to either man - and he had certainly not revealed Fatman's identity. No one knew that name except Reginald and Fatman.

He sighed. "Explain."

To his surprise, Tretiak sighed in response. "You won't believe me."

Reginald's face darkened. "You know about my sword. You owe me some explanation. So share it, or else Fatman might have to nick you again."

Tretiak leaned back and spread his hands. "Calm yourself, lad. No need for threats. I'll explain, but I'm telling you. You're not going to believe me. No one I've told ever has." He paused, looked around, and licked his lips. Reginald continued his unwavering stare.

"Lad, I knew you yesterday, and the day before, but not the day before that. But I do remember knowing you last week, and a few times last month, and...." He trailed off, silenced by Reginald's expression

"What game is this, sir?" he demanded.

"Calm, lad, I'm trying to explain. What day is today?"

Reginald rolled his eyes. "Starsday, but--"

"Starsday the what?"

"The ninth."

"So yesterday was the eighth, aye?" asked Tretiak.

Reginald answered with his icy stare.

"For you, yesterday was the eighth, and before that the seventh." He paused and exhaled. "For me, yesterday was the second of Harvest, in the twelfth year of King Harkin. The day before was the nineteenth of Wintersdepth, in the second year of King Leitel. The day before was... some day in Wintersend, in the fourth year of King Harkin, and--"

"Stop!" yelled Reginald. He lowered his voice in response to the inquiring gazes of his fellow patrons. "What are you talking about? And who is King Leitel? Do you mean Prince Leitel?"

Tretiak's exasperation was growing to match Reginald's. "Lad, that's what I'm trying to tell you. You, and everyone else, live your days one after another. First, second, third. My days are all jumbled up. My yesterday is in your future, and my tomorrow may be in your past. So I remember you. I remember saving your life in Temeria, I remember you saving my life in Urgin. I even vaguely remember you telling me about some wench you fell in love with on the day you bought Fatman. Even though she...." He stopped.

Reginald squinted at Tretiak. "You're mad. How drunk do you think I am? I've never been to Urgin."

"I know, lad. But you will go to Urgin in the future, and you'll save my life from my worshippers. In," he ticked off on his fingers, "about seven years."

"You're mad," repeated Reginald.

"You can say that again," added Fatman. "Or a third time, even."

"Maybe, lad," responded Tretiak. "I know sometimes I feel mad." His navy blue eyes locked with Reginald's. "But I'm not lying," he declared, the sincerity in his voice undeniable.

They both looked away at the same time. "Here's what I propose, Reginald. You're about to pass out." He chuckled. "You never could hold your ale, like when...." He sobered at Reginald's glare. "Er, yes. As I was saying, you're about to pass out. So let's get you a place to sleep. Think on what I've said, decide if maybe - maybe - there's a chance I'm telling the truth. If you decide there is, then... we'll see. If not, we'll part ways."

Reginald sat unmoving; Fatman, for once, did not offer his opinion. He sighed. "I cannot afford a room. I spent most of my money on... on Fatman," he lied.

Tretiak barked a laugh. "I cannot afford a room either. But the crowd is leaving. We can spread out here in the common room for a few kips each. My treat," he offered with a grin and a mock bow.

Reginald shook his head wearily, then regretted it as the room spun and his stomach churned. "Fine. Pay whoever. I am going to collapse in that corner there."

Tretiak nodded and stood. "I'll join you shortly. Think about what I've said. Talk it over with Fatman." He stared at Reginald, nodded again, and then headed for the kitchen.

Reginald lurched over towards the corner and slumped down to the floorboards, bumping his head in the process. As he rubbed it, Fatman said, "Kid, let the nutjob pay for your board, but don't listen to another word he says. Agreed?"

Reginald answered with a drunken snore.

#

He awoke to a dull whump, a sound like a catapulted boulder thudding into soft, loamy grass. He peered about the room, unable to pick out much despite the generous light of a full moon. A nearby form, sized and shaped like Tretiak, was sitting on the floor, one hand to its head. The silhouette groaned, confirming its identity to Reginald. Gingerly, Tretiak rose.

"Where are you going?" asked Reginald in a hoarse croak.

The man's head swung round to regard Reginald. "Where am I?" he asked.

Reginald rolled his eyes. "In the common room. You paid the tavern owner to let us sleep here - at least, I hope you did. I passed out before--"

"Tavern? Which tavern?"

Reginald frowned. "The Lucky Lord," provided Fatman.

"The Lucky Lord," relayed Reginald.

"What town?" asked Tretiak, his voice heavy with poorly contained excitement.

"Lithton!" barked Reginald.

The shape straightened. "At last!" exclaimed Tretiak. "There's treasure underneath this tavern! Lad, help me move these tables and I'll share what I find with you."

Reginald heaved himself to his feet as the man started to drag a table along the floor. "Stop that! You will wake the guests. Are you mad, Tretiak?"

"That must be the stupidest question I've ever heard," said Fatman.

"Lad, I'm telling you. There's treasure buried under Lithton, at the Lucky Lord. So help me get these floorboards up, and I'll share it with you."

"You'd better hurry and take his offer before he boosts the price, kid. Next, he won't share unless you dig a hole underneath the tavern," interjected Fatman.

"Quiet," whispered Reginald. To Tretiak, he said, "Tretiak, the treasure was at Lake Lord, and Balan Rahn found it over 10 years ago before he became Duke of Westford."

Tretiak snorted. "Balan Rahn? That cutthroat? Bah, he doesn't know the first thing about finding treasure." He knelt and withdrew something from beneath his robe. "Go move those tables over there while I start here."

"Start what? Tretiak, go back to--" His words were interrupted by the echoing thock of Tretiak chopping into the floorboard with, Reginald saw now, a hatchet. "What are you doing, you madman?" he shouted.

"I've got to get underneath these floorboards if I'm to dig. Unless you've got a better idea."

Before Reginald could reply, a voice sounded from a nearby stairwell. "What are you drunks doing down there?" The query was accompanied by the heavy thuds of men stomping above.

"Flee, Tretiak. Flee now!" shouted Reginald. The urgency in his voice halted Tretiak midswing. The man tilted his head, listening to the bootsteps above.

"Aye, lad," he breathed, springing to his feet. "Follow me. I've got a hideout just outside of town." Without turning to see if Reginald obeyed, the man leapt for the kitchen door.

Reginald stumbled. Because of his slip, he did not escape through the kitchen door before the first of the tavern's bouncers appeared in the stairwell.

"Oi! Stop, you!"

Reginald yelped and sprang after Tretiak. The kitchen door was lighter than he had anticipated, and as he crashed through it, his momentum caused him to tumble. He landed against a warm, black iron cauldron, thumping his shoulder. Grasping it with his good arm he studied the kitchen for exits. There were two, one directly across from him and one down the length of the kitchen. There was no immediate indication which one Tretiak had chosen, but then Reginald heard the soft slapping noises of Tretiak's sandals from behind the farther door. He grasped the top of the cauldron to lift himself to his feet. As he pulled his weight up, the cauldron toppled. He leapt back as warm, sudsy water poured forth, just as a bouncer burst through the door behind Reginald. The young man bolted for the far door, out of reach of the grasping hand of the bouncer who slid, face first, to the soapy floor.

As he approached the door he hoped was Tretiak's exit, he slowed to avoid a repeat performance of his last entrance. He turned the knob and pushed through to see....

Elisa. A sheen of sweat covered her face, glistening in the gentle moonlight. Her hair was unbound, falling across her glittering fairy eyes, hiding their luminosity behind an alluring curtain. She was biting her lower lip, her neck craned.

"I told you she was a saucy wench!" interrupted Fatman. "What a nice set of--"

"What in the hell?" shouted the silver-haired man beneath Elisa. He shoved her aside. She yelped as she toppled away from Reginald, landing on the mattress. The moonlight painted her breasts with a delicate interplay of light and shadow.

He spun away from the curses in front of him as cursing erupted behind him. A second and third bouncer entered the kitchen, stumbling over the sprawled form of the first bouncer. It was a mess, especially given the slippery dishwater, but he knew the men would soon sort themselves out. Over Fatman's screaming protestations, he dashed for the third door without sparing Elisa's shapely body another glance.

He erupted out of the tavern, the cool, fresh air searing his hungry lungs. Hands on his knees, he caught his breath while looking up and down the alley for Tretiak. He spied a lumbering form a street away on his right and trotted after it.

"Tretiak! Slow down!" he shouted between pants.

The distant shape turned to face Reginald. "Lad, you made it! Hurry up, we must get out of town!"

Reginald jogged to catch up. He muttered to himself, "Why do I get the feeling that, if I keep company with Tretiak, I will hear 'We must get out of town' more than once?"

"Maybe you're a seer. Or maybe you're a screwy mental time-traveler like Tretiak," answered Fatman.

"Oh, shut up," responded Reginald.

"Don't act like you don't like the adventure," said Fatman. "Besides, at least you got to see Elisa's big, soft, round--"

"Tretiak, wait for me!" shouted Reginald.

"Eyes," finished Fatman with a cackle.

Reginald smiled despite himself. "And weren't those the nicest breasts you've ever seen?" he asked his sword.

Fatman answered with renewed cackles. "I couldn't have said it better myself, kid."

As the pair caught up to Tretiak, he, too, joined in on the laughter.

"That was fun!" Tretiak exclaimed. His laughter faded. "But... who are you, exactly?"

Reginald could only sigh.